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“I am not focused on your sex life. That’s ridiculous. And creepy. And I’m not… That is…” He shook his head. “Never mind.”
“What?” she pressed, curious now, despite her teasing.
A heartbeat passed in silence, then two. “Let’s go,” he said abruptly, pushing the bill and some cash closer to the edge of the table. “The brewery won’t run itself.”
Their father had said that. Not often, only on the rare days when he’d been too tired to be excited about hi
s business. That place won’t run itself, he’d say with a wink and hard stretch. Now she couldn’t believe he hadn’t been dead tired all the time. There were three of them running the place now. He’d had only himself and the ghost of his brother.
Then again, after the accident, Eric had only had himself and ghosts, too. She’d been amazed by him as a teenager. Now she was in awe.
She bumped her shoulder against his arm as they walked out of the restaurant. “Why don’t you take some time off next month?”
“We’ve got the brew show in Santa Fe next month, then the Denver one after that.”
“So? That’s two long weekends.”
“Plus all the prep work.”
Tessa sighed, wondering when he’d last taken a vacation. She couldn’t remember. Hell, she couldn’t remember when she’d last taken one. A few days here and there. A few side trips during brew shows.
She slid into Eric’s car. “Maybe I should go to the beach.”
Eric got in and closed the door. “Did you say something?”
“No,” she answered without hesitation. “But you know what? You should go to the beach. Florida.”
“Florida? Me?”
A sudden image flashed in her head of Eric strolling the beach in a black Speedo. “Okay, maybe Oregon. Or Maine.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.” But his tone said there was no chance. He was already back to worrying about the brewery.
Weren’t they all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SIX HOURS. THAT WAS how long it had taken them to track down one measly thief. Six hours of knocking on every damn door of every place he’d been rumored to hang out. Finally, Luke and Simone had doubled back to his grandmother’s house and found him eating macaroni and cheese and homemade corn bread.
The grandmother had seemed neither surprised nor dismayed to see them again. She’d just shrugged one shoulder and shouted, “Frankie, the cops are back!”
He’d bolted. They’d chased. And now he was slumped over the table of the interview room, one hand pressed to his skinned forehead.
“I think you’re going to live, Frankie.”
“Why’d you have to throw me into that stupid fence, man?”
“You made my partner run. Not cool.”
“I didn’t know she was pregnant! What am I under arrest for?”
“You’re not under arrest. Yet.”
Frank Valowski looked up and met Luke’s eyes. “I’m not?”
“Not yet. But you’re on probation, so this could all go south for you real quick.”
“Look,” Simone said, her voice understanding and soft, “you can call your lawyer and clam up. That’s your right. But we know you’re not the brains behind this operation.”
