He leaned back, pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, and said, “I need forty-eight hours.”
“To do what?” Becca asked.
“To talk to the PI. To identify who’s behind Pacifica Valley Holdings, if it’s even relevant. To learn what the planning commission actually knows and from whom. To check for similar inquiries on other parcels.” He paused. “If this is what it looks like, going public too soon—especially naming the LLC or the study—could do more harm than good. We’d be sounding an alarm without knowing what we’re warning against.”
Becca was quiet. “Forty-eight hours,” she repeated.
“Maybe seventy-two,” he hedged. “Just to be safe.”
She met his eyes. “And then we discuss the next episode. What I can say, when I can say it.”
He held her gaze, then nodded. “And then we discuss it, and everything will be okay. I will make it so.”
Gram set her cup down with a small click. “Good.” She looked at Becca steadily. “You built something real with your podcast. Use it wisely.” A pause. “Timing is everything.”
Becca nodded once.
Matt said goodbye, promising an evening update. At the door, he gave me the long, assessing look of an older brother and a cop in one. “Take care of Becca,” he said, then left.
Gram gathered her walking stick, kissed Becca’s cheek—drawing only slight surprise—and caught my eye on her way out. “Walk me to my car.” I took her elbow and guided her across the gravel and opened her door. She said without preamble, “She’s good for you.”
“Gram.”
She adjusted her grip on her cane. “You’ve arranged yourself around that girl for fifteen years. It’s good to see you stand beside her instead.”
I said nothing.
“You also have your grandfather’s timing,” she added. This time, I understood it carried a warning. “He waited so long to tell me he loved me, I nearly married someone else out of sheer impatience.” She glanced sideways. “Don’t do that.”
“I won’t,” I said.
She patted my arm once, then got into her car.
When I turned back, Becca was waiting on her porch, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. She gave me a small, tired-but-content smile and held out her hand.
“Come inside with me,” she said softly.
I took her hand without hesitation, and we walked together back into her trailer.
Inside, the morning light slanted through the small windows, catching on the rumpled sheets from the night before. Becca closed the door behind us, then turned and rested her forehead against my chest for a moment.
“I should grab some clean clothes from my trailer real quick,” I said.
She nodded, smiling softly. “Hurry back. We can get ready together.”
I jogged the short distance to my own trailer, grabbed some fresh clothes, stuffed them into a bag, and was back in under two minutes. When I stepped inside again, Becca was already waiting by the bathroom door with a playful look in her eyes.
“Come on,” she said softly, taking my hand and leading me toward the tiny bathroom. “Shower with me.”
The shower stall was barely big enough for one, let alone two, but we didn’t care. She reached in and turned the water on, letting it warm while we undressed each other with unhurried hands. Clothes dropped to the floor one piece at a time—my shirt, her sweatshirt, the quiet slide of denim.
When we stepped under the spray, the hot water cascaded over us, steam rising around our bodies. Becca tilted her face up into the stream first, eyes closed, letting it wash over her. I picked up the soap and lathered it between my palms, then began washing her back in slow, gentle circles—over the curve of her spine, the slope of her shoulders, the nape of her neck. She leaned into my touch with a quiet sigh.
I reached for her shampoo, squeezed some into my hand, and worked it into her hair. My fingers moved through the wet strands, massaging her scalp with firm, careful strokes. She let out a soft sound of pleasure and tilted her head back, eyes drifting shut as I worked the lather from root to tip. The simple act felt impossibly intimate, my hands in her hair, the warm water rinsing away the suds, her body relaxed and trusting against mine. I rinsed her thoroughly, then kissed the top of her damp head while the last of the soap swirled down the drain.
She turned to face me, water streaming down her cheeks, and reached up with a playful grin. “My turn.” She squeezed shampoo into her palm and tried to work it into my hair, but even on her tiptoes, she couldn’t quite reach. Her fingers kept sliding down the back of my neck instead, and she let out a frustrated little laugh.
“Damn it, you’re too tall,” she complained, bouncing once for emphasis.
