Cybil kisses her uncle on the cheek. “Need anything else at the store while I’m gone?”
“I’m good, honey.” Buddy and the ranch hand head over to his truck.
“Wait—I need someone to help me get this rooster out of my truck. Gran’s gotten herself in trouble again.”
Buddy squints. “She safe?”
“She’s... in a dumpster, sir. With a flare gun.”
He just nods. “You’d better get that rooster outta your truck, son. You don’t want Dorothy Bradley on the evening news.”
“That’s the last thing I want,” I mutter, then call out louder, “Yes, sir.”
“Good luck, Craig,” Cybil says as she walks past me toward her car.
I step into her path. “I need your help.”
“I’m not going anywhere near that rooster.”
“Just take me into town. Let me get to Gran before she causes a literal dumpster fire. She’s old. And feeble.”
Cybil glances at my truck. Kentucky Fried pecks at the window like a dementor. She sighs. “Fine.”
I give the rooster one last look, unsure if I should thank him for giving me the perfect excuse to spend more time with Cybil or worry that he’s going to turn the interior of my truck into shredded cheese.
I climb into the passenger seat of her car and force myself not to examine everything too closely. At the academy, they taught us a vehicle can tell you a lot about a person. And being in hers feels... personal.
An air freshener shaped like a chocolate bar is attached to her vent.
“I thought you didn’t like chocolate.”
She snatches it and tosses it into the door pocket. “It was a gift.” Then, side-eyeing me, adds, “Stop assessing my car.”
“I’m not,” I lie, hands raised.
Glancing over my shoulder at the back seat, I fight a grin. Imagining Seth knocked out back there... It’s not funny, I know. But the look on her face when she discovered him must’ve been priceless.
“Nice back seat space. Looks roomy.”
Her eyes flash to mine. “How about we don’t talk.”
I let a few seconds pass and then turn in my seat. “Don’t you want to ask me a question? You did best me—even if it was a hustle.”
“It wasn’t a hustle.”
“You didn’t shoot like that when we were kids.”
“We’re not kids anymore.”
“No, we’re not,” I say quietly.
Cybil’s gaze slides to me and then back to the country road leading us into town.
“Come on, Billy. Don’t you want to know something? Curious about my souvenir spoon collection? Where I get my Bond tuxedos? What shampoo brand I use to keep my hair so shiny?” I run a hand through my hair. “My dating life?”
“What?” She jerks her head toward me. “No. I don’t care about your dating life.”
I grin. “Good. Because I don’t have one.”
