Page 44 of The Bartender Special

The smirk—the closeness—changed into one fluid movement of obvious annoyance.

“Because there's no way in hell I'm doing any of this bullshit by myself,” Jack decided. “As far as I'm concerned? You, Benny De Carlo, are not leaving my side for the next two weeks.”

EIGHT

Peggy Parker-Calhoun was absolutely the woman you talked to when the art supplies in the county ran out. But every Arbor Bay local worth their salt knew it was Marzipan Parker-Calhoun Junior, her Siberian Husky, who you really had to win over before getting near any of the goods.

Benny had only met Marzipan Junior once; he had been an avid fan of his father when he was younger. He just hoped that the two shared the same love for peanut butter biscuits from Paws & Tails.

Benny had one in his pocket and two in a baggy in his tote bag.

Jack had none.

The bartender had refused to hold them and, more annoyingly, had kicked up a fuss like some kind of child over going to Ms. Peggy's in the first place. Even now, standing on her front porch in the morning heat, he was straight-backed, arms-crossed, and frowning.

It was an intimidating look.

Also an admittedly stimulating one.

His five o'clock shadow had grown a bit more, and the effect paired nicely with his rough and tumble outfit of a worn tee and jeans.

Good looks or not, because of the disaster of a lunch the day before, Benny wasn't about to trust the man fully anymore. Even if his nipples—and other things—had hardened during the shower replay of the event the night before.

No.

Now things were serious.

Now they needed art supplies.

“She's a hoarder,” Jack complained. He leaned over and whispered just above Benny's ear—something that was seeming dangerously close to a habit—and he had to fight his eyes from fluttering.

“She's prepared,” Benny defended.

Jack scoffed.

“For what? The apocalypse of crêpe paper and chicken wire?”

Benny tilted his head at that. He gave the doorbell another press.

“I'm impressed you know what crêpe paper is.”

“Clearly you've never come to the bar around Valentine's Day,” Jack muttered. “It's the one holiday my Aunt Clara dives in deep with crêpe paper-everything. Streamers, random circles, twisted monstrosities, giant flowers. You name it, she's forced us to crêpe paper it.”

“And, clearly, it's scarred you.”

“It sure didn't enlighten me.”

Shuffling feet on the other side of the door preceded the sound of the deadbolt sliding. Benny put his hand in his pocket, fingers around the first biscuit, as the door opened.

Coiffed silver hair, cat-eye framed glasses, and a heaping dose of skepticism came into view. Benny readied to throw the biscuit as a peace offering to her, the dog, and God, when the woman’s expression went from get off my lawn to let me bake you a pie.

“Benny! Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes!”

“Hey, Ms. Peggy.” Benny was enveloped in an invisible cloud of cinnamon and coffee, Ms. Peggy's long-standing, trademark scent, the biscuit in his pocket momentarily abandoned with a sigh of relief. “It's been a while.”

Ms. Peggy was no Missy Robertson. In fact, her existence acted like a countermeasure.

Where there was an affluent socialite who carried her perfect standing with poise and grace, there was a woman who loved her living room couch and who didn’t mind throwing a shoe at you for interrupting the experience.