Cough, cough, Wake Westfield, cough, cough.
Speaking of Wake Westfield… I was nervous as fuck to meet him.
I’d only ever heard about him through the grapevine.
Moving to Accident, Florida had been very enlightening. All the way up until everyone told me his entire life story, such as his ex-wife, Amber.
Amber, however, had zero love for him.
Not that I knew why, because apparently everything wrong in their marriage had been his fault, but I definitely wasn’t short on information about the man.
Obviously, being a licensed therapist meant that people talked to you about their troubles, whether you wanted them to or not.
I mean, Jesus Christ. Today I went to grab a latte from the local coffee shop, Ground Me, and the owner of the shop, Morrigan St. Pete, had given me her every complaint about every single customer that’d shown that day.
I loved Morrigan and all, and even though I’d only known her a very short time, I knew that one day she would be a very good friend. However, it would be nice to go in and get coffee without hearing who pissed who off that day.
“When they get you Westfield,” Tomas said, “for the love of God, don’t tell him anything about me. How or why you were able to get a meeting with him. Okay?”
I rolled my eyes. “I already told you in the parking lot that I wouldn’t say anything! Okay?”
Tomas covertly flipped me off, then he pointed to another guard that was standing beside a door that likely led farther into the prison.
“Go see him. And don’t come cryin’ to me when he doesn’t give you shit for your book, okay?” Tomas grumbled.
I gave him a thumbs up, then said, “Bye, Tomas.”
I didn’t wait for his reply, instead, heading straight to the man that I’d seen a time or two in town.
He never spoke to anyone, but I had seen him with his wife at the grocery store following behind her patiently.
I smiled at him when I arrived in front of him.
“Mick?” I asked curiously as I held out my hand. “I’m Dutch.”
“Dutch,” he said as he took my hand. “That’s a weird name for a girl.”
“It is,” I confirmed. “But my mother knew two things about my father. One, that he was an asshole, and two, that he was Dutch.”
“So she named you after someone she didn’t like?” Mick asked curiously.
“Tomas got the Dutchman’s first name. I got the Dutchman’s nationality. I don’t think she liked either one of us all that much and wanted to give us a name to prove it,” I told him bluntly.
Which was true.
If there was anyone in this world that deserved to never have children, it was Mary Lou Carpenter. Even the ones that she’d had were practically taken away from her.
Though, Mary Lou had done one good thing for me. She’d instilled a drive in me that encouraged me to get a very good job and get the hell away from her while doing that job.
The moment that I graduated from Texas Tech, I’d moved away, and hadn’t looked back since.
And hell, had college not been practically free due to my mother’s working at said college, I certainly wouldn’t have gone there. I’d have been gone the day I turned eighteen and could legally move out of her house.
“We got you a room set up where lawyers usually meet with the inmates. Once I have you there, I’ll go get Westfield. Okay?” Mick asked.
I gave him a thumbs up, then he was gone, leaving me alone in a stark room that had all the furniture bolted down to the floor.
I sat, then studied my outfit.
I’d gone with a pencil skirt that left very little to the imagination, and a sleeveless white top that hugged every single curve and fat roll.
After situating myself, and making sure that my stomach was hidden by my bag—even though I’d lost weight, years and years of covering up the extra girth around my belly never quite went away—I waited patiently with my eyes on the door.
I heard the murmuring and the thudding steps before I saw anyone.
“I’m not interested in giving anyone an interview,” Wake snapped from the hallway.
“Dutch has done a lot for this community. You will talk to her, even if it is to give her the bare minimum,” Mick growled.
That was a stretch.
I’d donated a lot of time to the community, sure. Right when I’d moved here, they’d had a hurricane. I’d been a “big help” according to the mayor with children and adults that were traumatized by the storm. I’m sure my brother made it out to be bigger than it actually was. Only someone that was heartless would not lend that listening shoulder out when needed.
There was a long moment of silence and then, “Did you say her name was Dutch?”
My heart started to beat a thousand miles an hour, then my breath left me when the man first appeared.
Holy.
Shit.
Wake Westfield’s mugshots and photos that were plastered in the newspaper didn’t do him any justice.
In fact, if I had to admit to anything ever being wrong with Wake’s appearance, it was that he was too hot.
Holy hell, was he sexy.
He was tall, about six foot three or four, and had the broadest shoulders I’d ever seen.
Those shoulders were muscular, too.
As in, I could curl my fingers around the tops of both shoulder caps, and only get my fingers partially around them.
His traps were excellent, too.
If he were to come to my gym, he would be the one everyone watched.
He prowled toward me, and even in chains, it was evident that he owned the room he was walking into.
“You Dutch?” he asked as he sat down.
A shiver danced down my spine at how intimate him saying my name felt.
“Yes,” I answered, amazed that I hadn’t stuttered.
Thank God for speech classes that forced me out of my comfort zones.
He gestured toward Mick with a flick of his hand and said, “Give us the room. I’m not saying shit to her with you hovering over my shoulder.”
While his face was turned toward Mick, I was studying all the tattoos on his body. The way his jawline looked like it was carved from granite.
He had a nice, close-cropped brownish-red beard, bordering a set of fantastic lips.
“Be good,” Mick said. “I was supposed to handcuff you to the table.”
Supposed to? And he didn’t?
That was a surprise.
Not that I minded.
But still.
When or if my brother walked in, he’d have a shit fit to end all shit fits.
Those beautiful brown eyes rolled my way as he processed Mick’s words, and I felt my stomach drop at the sight of all his attention solely focused on me.
His brown hair that was shaved on the sides and longer on top fell into those eyes, momentarily breaking our stare off, and I felt relief flow through me.
He waited until Mick’s footsteps could no longer be heard before he said, “How the hell did you make this happen?”
He was wondering how the hell I’d managed to get in here and talk to him. How I’d managed to get a letter to him without getting it read first.
I could really get him in trouble, sure.
But… I was banking on the fact that he was willing to risk it.
CHAPTER 5
Finally realized that I wasn’t asking too much. I was just asking the wrong person.