Page 40 of Detective for the Debutante (SAFE Haven Security #3)

LEIGH

F riday night. In the last five days I’ve gone from confused to concerned to downright pissed.

“He won’t respond to my texts anymore. At least Monday he told me he wasn’t coming over. Something had ‘come up,’” I tell Sydney and reach my spoon back into the nearly empty half gallon of salted caramel ice cream I pulled from the freezer for tonight’s dinner.

Because why the fuck not?

I am feeding my feelings. The concern wanted salty, the anger wanted sweet, and the confusion decided ice cream would fix the problem.

“He told you he loved you, right? I’m not imagining that part?” Sydney asks.

I snort, nearly creating brain freeze. “I wish.”

“So he tells you he loves you, you tell it to him back, and he just what? Fucking ghosts you?”

I’ve just spent the last thirty minutes catching Sydney up on the Murphy situation—to include our bathtub confessional—and venting about him ignoring me for the better part of the week.

“Unless you count the two texts he sent me.” So not completely ghosted.

But close enough to count.

She huffs.

“No. So why don’t you go show up at his door? He can’t ghost you if you’re at his house.”

“I don’t want to be some creepy stalker. I swore I would never just show up at a guy’s house like that.” I take a deep breath and reach for another spoonful of ice cream. “Besides, I drove by after work a few days ago and he wasn’t there.”

And that galled.

I had finally bitten the bullet and swallowed my pride to show up at his house. I was going to ask him in person what the fuck was going on. Only to not see his car parked in front of his condo, and when I did knock on the door, there wasn’t an answer and there were no lights on.

“Want me to work my magic? I can tell you exactly where he is and you could show up,” she offers.

I shake my head. I am done with being that girl.

“No. If he reaches out, I’ll decide if I want to talk to him then.

I tried to be understanding but now I’m pissed.

At first, I do think something really came up.

I know he’s been working hard to try to figure out the errors in some of his reports popping up recently.

” At least, I had wanted to think there was a reason other than him getting cold feet after calling me his soulmate.

But the more time passes and he doesn’t reach out, the more I am starting to think I am right.

He regrets telling me he loves me.

And shit, that hurts. Whoever coined the term heartache definitely figured out the best way to describe the constant hum of pain in my chest. But mixed in with the hurt is a building anger.

If and when Murphy O’Connell decides to reach out, he has a massive apology to issue.

“Errors?” Her voice perks up.

Leave it to Sydney to pick up on that one word. But at least I’m smiling for the first time in a week.

“Yeah. Several of his reports. After he submits them, these random errors show up meaning his arrests are getting off on technicalities. And so far it’s just his cases. Nobody else’s.”

The crack of her knuckles is audible through the phone.

“You know, I could do some digging…”

Sydney is the best hacker I know—she’s the only hacker I know, but even if I knew more, I know she’d still be the best.

“I’d make that offer, but he’s not really responding to any of my texts.”

And while I understand the drive to clear his name before leaving, I don’t understand the radio silence from him. He isn’t letting me in and I have zero clue as to why. It’s like we are back to square one which has created a knot of frustration between my shoulder blades as the week has progressed.

“So you think he’s just focused on these cases?” she asks.

I shake my head even though she can’t see me.

“No. At least I don’t think that was it on Monday.

A police officer was killed in the line of duty.

Kind of like his dad was. So I texted him as soon as I found out.

Well, first I tried to call him but when he didn’t answer, I texted.

I figured there would probably be some sort of emotions since his dad was killed when he was sixteen.

I wanted to let him know I was here for him. ”

“You love the idiot,” she adds.

“Exactly!” Blowing out a breath, I reach for another scoop of ice cream. “But how do I tell him that?”

The fact she can understand me around the mouthful of sweet, salty, cold goodness is impressive.

“I’m sure you’ve already tried.”

“Mm-hmm,” I hum, mouth too full to respond.

Because I had.

When he hadn’t answered his phone, when he hadn’t responded to the original texts or the one just asking for him to respond, I typed out a long text. One where I told him how I understood why he wasn’t answering, but I was there whenever he was ready to talk.

That was Wednesday.

His response?

“He did send a response to that one. A whopping two words. Thank you. Thank you ? I fucking pour my heart out to you in a damn book of a text message and I get two words back? Are you fucking kidding me? Thank you. Thank you. Ugh.” I stuff another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth to stop the rant.

Because I am done ranting.

And if I didn’t love him as much as I do, I wouldn’t be this upset.

And all of it is creating a massive stomachache that has nothing to do with the massive amount of ice cream I’ve just eaten.

“What can I say? Most men are only good for one thing. And they can be substituted by the much better battery-operated version.”

I snort with a laugh, inhaling some ice cream and coughing.

“What? It’s what I tell Jessie too,” she says as I wheeze for several more breaths until the burning sensation fades.

“Did she really break up with her boyfriend?” I ask, hoping by focusing on someone else’s lackluster love life it will help me avoid the train wreck of mine.

“I wish she had broken up with him. That would mean she actually saw the problem. But no. He broke up with her. With his dick hanging out and some groupie on her knees in front of him. Jessie walked in on them.”

Disgust is a bitter flavor and I reach for another spoonful, drowning out the taste.

At least that hadn’t been me.

“Poor Jessie,” I say.

“He was only using her to get to her brother. Bowie only wanted a record deal and thought dating Jessie would be his golden ticket to get signed by Jax’s label,” she mutters.

Jax Bryant.

Famous musician.

Label co-owner of Arrhythmic Records.

“What a creep,” I spit the words.

Maybe Sydney is right and battery operated is the only way to go.

“I kept trying to tell Jessie. Especially after he hit on me when she was asleep the last time he was over. It’s the exact reason I vetoed his presence in our apartment.

Asshole. I can’t believe she’s been dragging around here for the last few weeks because of him.

But no more. Nice Sydney is gone. Naughty Sydney is coming out to play.

Tonight, I’m taking her out. The goal is to get her laid, to show her there are plenty more fish in the sea.

Nicer fish. Hotter fish. Any fish not a fucking musician. ”

“Tell me how you really feel,” I tease.

She barks out a laugh.

“Jessie has sworn off musicians. Forever. Fine by me. I don’t think highly of them myself.

The only thing that would make tonight better is if you were with us.

I know you were looking at transferring to DC, but come here.

We can find a bigger apartment. It’ll be the three of us against LA. This city will never be the same!”

I laugh, but there’s an undercurrent of sadness too.

The combination of feeling like an idiot because I had actually been considering transferring to a law school in DC and because the thought of walking away from Murphy—even if he has decided to walk away from me first—creates an ache that makes me feel like I’m missing part of myself.

And I guess I am.

My heart.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell her.

But she and I both know I won’t. At least not right now.

Done with the ice cream, I put the carton back in the freezer and drop the spoon into the sink before heading into the living room to flop on the couch. But while normally I would put on Searching for Love , my finger hesitates to scroll to the recorded shows.

I just can’t.

Instead, I scroll the guide mindlessly, not interested in watching someone else’s happily ever after. The movies have it wrong.

And I don’t want to pretend tonight.

I’m too pissed. My happily ever after is falling apart.

“If you don’t want to transfer, you could always come out for a weekend? You could see Hannah Grace and we could team up against Cole and give him a bunch of shit,” Sydney offers.

Scrolling forgotten, I sit up. The idea has some merit. It’s not running away, it’s…taking a break. Recharging my batteries.

“My internship ends two weeks before school starts back up. What if I come out there for a whole week before I head back to Knoxville for school? You could show me around the city.” The words start slowly, picking up steam the more detail I add.

Hopefully the last weeks of my internship will go just as well as this week had. Because the best part about this week? There was no sign of Kenneth Scott.

Hanging out with Sydney? And Jessie? The three of us together? And add in seeing my sister and Cole?

All of which sounds amazing.

“Can we hit up a beach?” I ask, already feeling the warm beat of sun against my skin.

“Duh.”

“I’ll start looking at flights and let you know for sure once I get a ticket bought,” I tell her, getting more excited about this idea.

Sun. Sand. And Sydney.

Every S I need.

“Okay, babes. I gotta go. Sawyer and Cole scheduled a meeting and I need to log on.”

“Yuck? On Friday night?”

“It’s still working hours here, and you know me.”

I do. Her working hours are whenever she’s at her computer.

“Okay.”

“Try not to stress over Murphy. If he’s going to ghost you, he’s not the man I thought he was.”

“I’m not stressed; I’m pissed,” I correct.

But am I pissed enough to give up? Or am I only regrouping?

Only time is going to tell.

“Yeah, yeah. Tell it to somebody who doesn’t know you as well. Maybe they’ll believe you.”

“I am pissed.”

“Well, whatever you are, don’t be that way because of a boy. They’re not worth it.”

I would love to have Sydney’s blasé attitude about guys.

Instead you fell head over heels for an emotionally unavailable, smoking hot, tattooed detective.

Just my luck.

“Turn on some terrible horror movie and veg out on the couch tonight. No rom-coms allowed. And no texting Murphy either. Let him stew in being ignored,” she says.

I stick my tongue out even though she can’t see me.

“That’s what I’m already doing. The movie. But not horror. Something with explosions. I don’t want nightmares for the night.”

And I’m a big fat chicken when it comes to being scared.

“Okay, action it is. Love you! Bye!”

“Have fun tonight with Jessie!”

My phone beeps and I drop it on the couch and continue my scroll until I find an action movie almost entirely made up of explosions. No love story in sight.

“Perfect.”

Getting comfortable on the couch, I tug the soft blanket up to my chin, my eyes drifting shut during a commercial for some medication.

Waking up hours later, I confuse the phone ringing on the TV with mine, and reach for my phone.

All it does is show me two things I don’t want to see.

It’s not even six in the morning on a weekend.

And there’s still nothing from Murphy.

“Stop wishing there would be. Face the facts. Your time has come to an end,” I tell the TV.

I’m resigned to the fact, but there’s an itch under my skin I can’t scratch. An unsettled, restless feeling. It drives me to stand and I pace the small living room, running my hands up and down my arms.

But I’m not cold.

It’s like there’s an electrical charge buzzing next to my skin, like the way lightning feels before a storm.

As if on cue, thunder rolls through the house.

Summer storms are my favorite.

But this one matches the one on the inside. I just hope the sun comes out soon in more ways than one.