“What the hell, Brady? Do you know how many people have texted me and, if that wasn’t bad enough, called me on the damn phone to ask if I was the one who vandalized the Apple House? I did not paintball your family’s property! Did you seriously post this ridiculous mug shot in the Kirby Falls Facebook group accusing me of vandalism?”
Yes. I had done that.
My buddy Jase’s little sister was a freshman at Kirby Falls High School and a very talented artist. She’d whipped up this drawing of Mac, and I’d posted it in the town’s Facebook group, asking if anyone had seen any suspicious individuals fitting the description purchasing paintball rounds.
I peered around the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet to meet Mac’s blazing gray gaze. “I actually think it’s a flattering likeness.”
“I am going to murder you,” she snarled.
I patted my pockets for effect. “Damn. I should have recorded this conversation. That sounded like a threat the sheriff would be interested in.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you already have a letter stashed among your things that says if anything happens to you, MacKenzie Clark is the likely suspect.”
I grinned. “That was a good one.”
“And really”—she flipped the page around so she could read it—“this description is grossly inaccurate. I do not have a ‘prominent forehead,’ and I’m five six not four eleven, and you know it.”
“Huh,” I mused, stroking my chin. “I could have sworn you were shorter than that.”
Mac growled, and I tallied another point in my column.
But then her attention dropped to my mouth, and my hand abruptly fell away. She took a step closer, and I straightened to my full height.
“What—what are you doing?” I asked as she leaned closer, a searching look on her face.
She ignored me. “What’s on your face?”
Her finger extended out and up like she was going to poke me, and I raised a hand to ward her off.
“Hands to yourself, Big Mac.”
“No, seriously.” She squinted. “There’s something above your lip.”
I crossed my arms and gave her my best unaffected stare.
“Oh my God,” she wheezed. “Are you trying to grow a mustache?”
“No,” I denied automatically. Damn it.
She grinned, her blood-red lips stretching wide to reveal straight white teeth.
I swallowed, momentarily distracted by the bright splash of color she nearly always wore.
“You really are.” She was flat-out laughing now, and I’d had enough.
“Well now, why would I try to grow a mustache when it could never hope to compete with yours,” I said, deadpan.
She gasped and covered her mouth with the hand not holding the mug shot. “I do not.”
It was my turn to grin. “It’s even there in your portrait.” That had been an extra special request.
Mac’s attention snapped to the paper in her grasp. Angry heat flared, and color bloomed in her pale cheeks.
I raised a hand to my ear and cocked my head.
Her brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”
“Just listening for a fire alarm for that wicked burn.”
