by Myers, Mia
“This,” he began, his voice rough from dehydration. He coughed to clear it. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Her mouth still agape, she surveyed the kitchen, then her gaze peered into the main part of the house.
“There’s no one else here,” Carter said before a thought struck him. “Fuck, no. There might be someone here. Was there a truck out front?”
Her eyes returned to him and she shook her head in uncertainty.
“Go check the drive. If there’s a moving truck, run as fast as you can for the neighbors and call the police. Okay, sweetheart?”
She nodded once, turned, and sprinted out the back door.
Damn, she was fast.
In the now-empty kitchen, Carter contemplated the ice cream that rested against his foot. The cold felt like heaven against his skin. Okay, so it was a bastard thing to do, eating some poor girl’s ice cream, like stealing candy from a baby and bilking retired veterans out of their pension—neither of which Carter had done.
Still, his throat ached. A wave of dizziness hit him. In a matter of moments, sirens would fill the air, the police would swarm the place, they’d haul him downtown to the station—none too gently, either, not this bunch.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said and picked up the container.
Carter pried the top from the pint, dug a finger into the nearly rock hard Cherry Garcia, and moaned from the taste of it.
“It’s easier with a spoon,” a voice said.
He jumped, the pint slipping in his grip before he caught it. The woman stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her gaze locked on him again. Carter considered: drop the ice cream and cover himself—however inadequately—or hang onto what was no doubt his taste of freedom?
He opted for freedom.
“What?” he said, voice strangled.
“It’s easier with a spoon.” She pointed to the pint in his hands. “Would you like a spoon?”
“I’d like a lot of things right now,” he said, “but, yeah, a spoon is on the list.”
She was no fool, Carter could see that. She kept her distance. Even so, she dug a spoon from a drawer, then leaned across the kitchen aisle to hand it to him.
The first spoonful melted against his tongue and Carter collapsed against the ovens, head thrown back. He might have groaned. In any event, he was completely undignified.
“Bad day?” the woman said.
“You don’t know the half of it.” He continued to shovel the ice cream into his mouth. Sweet as it was, it did little to quench his thirst. Maybe she’d toss him a bottle of water before she called the police. Maybe she’d let him finish the whole pint as well. Maybe ... he glanced up, narrowing his eyes at her.
Who was she? Her groceries covered the floor—most were small items, easily consumed, the sort you buy for a short stint of house sitting. So, the house sitter, not the owner. Still, why hadn’t she called the police? He replayed their meeting in his mind. She’d walked in on him, yes. But her first instinct was not to run back out. Or pull out her cell phone. Or even make a grab for the landline well out of his reach.
No, her first instinct, after the shock, was to take a long, close look at him. And offer him a spoon. Interesting.
Very interesting.
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Copyright Information
Fire and Ice
Copyright © 2014 by Mia Myers
Published by M M Productions
Cover and Layout copyright © 2014 by M M Productions
Cover design by M M Productions
Cover art copyright © conrado /Shutterstock
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
