“I know,” I say cockily, but I soften the pseudo-arrogance with a smile. “Now, we wait,” I continue as we reach my car and I open the back for Chunky, who promptly hops in. I know he’s going to give Zoey the full-on puppy dog eyes treatment, but safety is always first. “I figure at least a day or two before calling.”

“Why?” Zoey asks, standing in the door I’ve opened for her. “I don’t understand.”

I crowd into her space, loving the way her breath hitches as she looks up at me. “It’s how it’s done. If you really want the biggest sale, you don’t pressure, you don’t push. You draw them to you so that everything’s smooth as butter when the deal’s closed.”

Zoey gives me a questioning look, sure we’re not talking about Sebastian anymore. After a moment where I swear I can see her mind processing—contemplating me, us, and an amalgamation of possibilities—she gets in and I close the door.

We should get going, but I pause, needing a breath myself. Because yeah, she’s my biggest sale. Selling myself to her by making her wonder how she ever lived without me and ensuring that she never wants to again.

Because this woman? Even after I’ve been chasing her for weeks, telling her flat out that I want her and want to date her, she’s not sure I’m being honest. People have really done a number on her. But I can undo it. I’ll keep trying.

Chapter 17

Zoey

We’re all born with virtues. Intelligence, kindness, creativity . . . they vary from person to person. Patience is not a virtue I was gifted with.

Waiting for Sebastian for days, waiting for Blake for weeks, waiting for sex for . . . well, let’s just say way too long . . . and I’m done with all of it.

I came to Blake’s after we left the dog park, ready to research some more, but we haven’t found the smoking gun of a possible poison and the proof we need. But if I’m honest with myself, the bigger mystery isn’t how Richard Horne died but why in the world a man like Blake Hale wants me.

But he does.

I can feel it as we talk about stupid factoids, play a game we’ve dubbed ‘Did You Know?’ that allows us to show off our useless trivia knowledge, consider and reject murderous methodologies Yvette might’ve used, and simply exist . . . together.

It feels right. I don’t trust it, or I don’t want to trust it because the one sure thing about trust is that it’s always broken, but somehow, Blake makes me . . . believe.