Chapter 2
“Pete,” I mutter to him. “People call me Pete.”
He extends one of his plate-size palms for a shake. “I’m Waverly…Wave Yorkshire.”
I shake his hand, stare into his eyes, and become somewhat lost. What I see isn’t proper: our bodies twisting around on a king-size bed in one of The Hoffstetter’s upstairs rooms; Wave drawing his tonguealong my chest, his teeth nipping at my nipples; his cock inside me, separating me into two equal halvesand.
Politely, he asks, “May I sit down?”
I love a man with manners.
He…he looks at me and studies my six-foot frame, one hundred seventy-five pounds, and Tom Brady smile,hair, eyes—the works—before he sits to my right. I become his prey, or at least I feel like his prey. It doesn’t bother me. On the contrary, it turns me on.
“Of course.” I don’t offer men drinks. Never. It’s not in my character. But I do offer to buy Wave one, maybe because I’m attracted to his hulking frame and easy smile. “What will you have?”
“Ginger ale over ice. Sorry. I don’t drink.”
“Never apologize for saintly behavior.”
“I’m not a saint.” He chuckles. “I just don’t like the taste of alcohol.”
“I respect that. Would you rather continue this in the restaurant? We can move there where it’s quieter.”
He shakes his head. “I’m good. Here’s fine. It’s better lighting. I’ve always thought the restaurant a little dark. Thanks for the offer, though.”
Frankie prepares Wave his ginger ale. He discreetly winks at me and grins. The grin says: Have fun with the stud. Even straight guys like me think he’s beautiful.
I ignore Frankie and ask Wave, “How do you know my name?”
“You’re the lawyer, Peter Find.”
“You’ve got the wrong Peter Find. There are two of us. You do know this, right?”
He turns in his swivel chair and faces me. “What do you mean?”
I tell him what I know about the attorney, Peter Find. “He’s been in business for the last seventeen years. He’s older than me. He’s married to Lillian Daye, the artist. They have a cottage-like house in Brentwood. I’m nothing like him.”
He scratches his chin, perplexed. “There are two of you?”
“Yes. If you want the defense attorney, you’ve got the wrong Peter Find.”
“Is there any relation between the two of you?”
I shake my head. “None whatsoever. I’m quite boring and work for a puzzle company. I wrap puzzles in plastic for a living.”
“You work at Robinchex Puzzle Company?”
“For what feels like forever. What do you do?”
He takes a sip of his ginger ale, swallows it down, and chuckles. “If I told you that, I’d have to killyou.”
“So, you’re a bounty sniper, right? Wealthy people pay you big bucks to take out their enemies.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “I’m afraid not. I’m a professor.”
“Over at Car-Mell?”
He nods, keeping his stare glued to my face, perhaps liking what he sees.
“With robots?”
“Close but no cigar.”
“Bigger things, I’m sure,” I tell him, knowing the college works to create biological bombs, aggressive computer viruses, and houses poisonous swamp creatures.
Rumor has it there’s is a nuclear bomb facility hidden under the university. Everyone who lives in Pittsburgh hears about the secret facility but doesn’t know if it really exists. Maybe Wave works there.
He says, “Huge things.”
“Dangerous things?”
“Of course,” he tells me: confident, alluring, and sexy as hell. He smiles, winks.
Is he flirting with me? I’m not sure. I’m so bad at such man games. Shame on me. “You can’t talk about your job then?”
“I’d like to, but then I would have to be killed.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sure you have some amazing things to tell me.”
“Secrets are dangerous, Mr. Find. Some are so gruesome, you don’t want to hear.”
I sigh and take a drink of my cocktail: soothing, pleasant, just right. “I’m sorry I’m not the Peter Find you’re looking for.”
“Me, too.” He winks again.
He is flirting with me. I can’t remember the last time a guy played such a game with me. Three months? Maybe four? It’s a comforting emotion that folds around me.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Pete. Even if you’re the wrong Pete.”
I’m about to ask him to have dinner with me, just the two of us, either here or elsewhere. It doesn’t happen, though. Wave stands, nods, and ends our conversation and brief meeting.
He tells me, “My search continues for the attorney, Peter Find.”
I stand, shake his hand, and steady my gaze on his. “Until we meet again, Waverly Yorkshire.”
His grip is tight on my own, so very much like Thor’s. I slightly lower my head and finally see his hammer between his thick legs. It’s outlined in his khakis, six inches soft, cut; a massive tool that interests me to the fullest. Overpowered by the mass, I’m weak in the knees. Maybe he is a superhero from another planet. Can be. Possible. I can only hope.