Page 81 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

“Carmel?”

“I can go. Don’t worry about it.”

“By yourself? No. We’ll go together.”

“How? Can you—”

“Yeah. I’ll make it work.” He pinched my butt and kissed my forehead. “Go to sleep.”

I grazed my thumbs over his nipples. “Yes, sir.”

He moaned. “Say that again when I’m awake and can enjoy it, deal?”

“Deal.” I grinned, burrowing against his chest.

He reached for the duvet and covered my shoulders, then kissed my forehead and whispered that it was time to get some rest.

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that we both could use a shower and that the sheets really needed to be changed, but the spell was thicker than ever and I didn’t want to be the one to break it.

Not now.

* * *

The following weekend,Pierce rode his motorcycle to my apartment in the wee hours of the morning. He parked in my spot under a covered awning and used the key I’d given him to let himself in before joining me in bed. We woke up at the crack of dawn, filled thermoses with coffee, schlepped the groceries, the cooler, and our duffel bags to my car, and headed north on the 101.

It wasn’t the fastest route, but we weren’t in a hurry. I’d taken care of the morning’s entertainment with my favorite drag-queen podcast and a lovingly curated playlist of my top fifty road-trip jams. I’d also packed fruit and croissants and mapped out two possible rest stops, knowing there was no way in hell I’d last six hours on the road without a bathroom break.

After one brief stop at a public restroom in Pismo Beach, we continued our journey and arrived in Carmel around noon. The skies were gray and the marine layer was thick as pea soup as we followed the GPS to our destination down a narrow road lined with ginormous eucalyptus and pine trees. Tall hedges blocked our view, but the address on the white mailbox at the end of the lane matched the one Mr. Gowan had given us.

“This must be it,” Pierce said.

I continued along a driveway marked private and stopped my BMW in front of a charming one-story yellow bungalow. The red geraniums planted in flower boxes under the windows should have clashed with the paint job, but somehow, they worked. So did the old-fashioned birdbath and the faded welcome mat. I couldn’t help noticing that the porch was swept, the lawn was mowed, and there wasn’t so much as one tiny cobweb under the eaves.

Nonetheless, I stepped behind Pierce when he unlocked the door. If there were any vermin hiding in the shadows, he could take care of business. Or…at least warn me, so I could hightail it into town to find us a cute B and B.

“Well? How is it?” I asked, gnawing my bottom lip on the porch.

“Nice.”

I stepped inside and wow…itwasnice, albeit an extreme departure from Mr. Gowan’s elegant Beverly Hills home. This place was cottage chic, circa 1989.

The paneled walls in the living area and adjoining dining room were painted white, faded rugs floated under the khaki-colored slipcovered sofa and a generous armchair with a checked ottoman. Washed-out floral throw pillows were liberally strewn about, and a giant seascape oil painting hung above the brick fireplace. The built-in bookshelves were overflowing with paperbacks and picture frames.

I dropped my bag to the floor and crossed the room to investigate while Pierce propped the groceries on the cooler and carried them into the kitchen.

“Oh, my God.”

Pierce rejoined me in the living room. “What is it?”

I picked up the silver picture frame and pointed at the distinguished-looking gentleman standing next to a much younger Mr. Gowan. Based on fashion style alone, I’d guess it was taken in the eighties. Mr. Gowan would have been in his late forties or early fifties. His hair was darker, his skin was sun-kissed, and his posture was straight as an arrow. He looked healthy, happy, and very much in love.

The other man was tall and handsome with a slender build and a killer smile. His hand rested casually on Mr. Gowan’s shoulder. They could have been two buddies hanging out at a weekend barbecue, but there was something in the way they leaned into each other that told a bigger story.

This had to be David.

I ran my finger between the two men and swallowed hard. “Mr. Gowan was right. Youdolook like him.”

Pierce furrowed his brow intently. He studied the photo for a long moment before moving on to view the rest. There were dozens displayed in a medley of frame sizes spanning five decades.