Page 18 of Criminally Yours

“Nothing with pineapple or kiwi in. She’s allergic,” Strike added, taking a corner so sharply that she fell into him.

Her cheeks heated from the proximity.

“And she’s a size ten.”

“Not anymore.” She pulled away. “My body has changed since… I’m a twelve now.”

Strike stared at her out of the corner of his eyes, and more blood rushed to her face, trying to turn her into a beacon for passing motorists.

She fumbled with the seams of her jeans, the material stretching around her thighs.

Headlights danced across Strike’s face, revealing his sly smile.

“See you in four hours, Bear,” Strike said, ending the call. “I’m not good at guessing women’s sizes. I don’t understand women’s clothes.”

“Because your women are always naked?” she teased, although her voice wavered at the memory of his rejection.

“No,” he stuttered. “It was a joke. I don’t… They don’t… I don’t talk about the women I spend time with.”

So there were women.

He probably had girlfriends in every country. She was catastrophising, which she always warned her clients not to do.

For ten years, she’d not trusted anyone, had frozen if any man touched her, and barely lived because Strike had rejected her. Yet he’d carried on as normal.

Grief rushed through her, thickening her throat.

“So suddenly, you’re joking,” she said with a fake laugh. “I didn’t know you did that.” She gritted her teeth. Passive aggressive wasn’t her style.

“I thought humour might help, like you did, like the old days, Mixie.”

“Please don’t call me that. I’m not that person anymore. We’ve both changed.” Sadness brimmed in her eyes.

A flat mutter replaced the humour in his voice. “Sorry. I won’t say it again. You might as well sleep. We’ll be there in less than four hours.”

Millie twisted to face the window.

Her shoulders ached from the tension threading through the car.

She swiped away the tears in her eyes, unsure if they were from revisiting his past affection or learning he’d moved on when she hadn’t.

He’d remained her first and only.

CHAPTER 8

Strike

Anew day meant it was no longer the anniversary of his friend’s death, but Strike still forced himself to focus on his breathing as he drove to Bear’s because the woman sleeping beside him was another mistake he couldn’t make right.

He focused on the box breathing technique. His chest lifted as he breathed in for four counts and then held his breath for another four. It relaxed as he breathed out for four and paused for four. He repeated the action again and envisaged following the outline of a box.

But his stomach still clenched as he considered what his therapist said about letting go of the past and how he’d punished himself enough.

What if he let someone in and couldn’t save them? His therapist had suggested that control wasn’t bad and was a useful part of his work, but it didn’t need to extend to keeping people out of his life.

And there was the other thing. Telling Millie what to do the previous night had reignited his interest in power play. He may have only fantasised about it after reading her bookrecommendations, rather than acting it out with someone, but it still filled his thoughts, especially when he couldn’t control the things around him.

Millie stirred beside him. His shoulders tightened. He’d never wanted anyone but her, and she was too pure and perfect for who he was now.