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Her logic instantly clicks.
It’s a stretch, yeah, but it might be why Hudson went over to Aunt Faye’s in the first place. It could even be the reason some asshole broke in, if Marty rules out Muddy Boots as the perp.
Did Hudson think he had a rare meteorite on his hands and not just a dumb rock?
Did somebody else get the same idea and go to greater extremes?
“I’ll tell Drake and let him decide if it’s worth following up on. Doubt he’d have probable cause to pull the weirdo in for questioning, but we should put it on his radar.”
I don’t mention how likely it is that I’ll be doing my own follow-up, the law be damned.
She shuts down the computer and rolls her eyes in frustration.
“It just seems weird that he talked up meteorites and your aunt had a fake one sitting there in the ad listing,” she says, flicking at her hair. “I don’t like it.”
“Good catch,” I tell her as we walk back to the kitchen where I’ll make my escape.
After this morning’s insanity, I need air.
I need space, oxygen, and an ice-cold shower.
Between wondering what slick-dick’s up to, or the oil guy who barked shit at my aunt, I can’t stop thinking about kissing her. Touching her. Driving home what we started at my place.
Fuck.
Aunt Faye’s in the kitchen when we return, loading the dishwasher. Thelma sits on a stool at the island, leafing through an old cookbook and muttering to herself about recipes.
Shelly rushes in to take over for Faye.
“Ah-ah, no, you don’t, girl!” Aunt Faye says, gently slapping her hands away. “I’m not staying here for free and refusing to do my fair share. For your information, I’ll also be doing the cooking and cleaning today. Miss Thelma here wants a big batch of fresh cookie dough in the freezer soon. I’ll be helping her with that too as a polite guest and—well, who could ever say no to her chocolate chips?”
That gets a smile from us both. My eyes could devour Shelly whole.
“You heard the lady, Shelly Bean?” Thelma says, pointing at her. “You’ve got the day off. We’re light on customers anyway.”
“Oh, you guys. I don’t need a day off,” Shelly says.
“Yes, you do. Everybody needs a breather once in a while and you’ve been working far too hard catering to empty rooms ever since you showed up.” Thelma flips another page in her cookbook down as decisively as a judge pounding her gavel. “If there’s nothing else you want to do today, go help Weston fix up Faye’s place so she doesn’t invite any more strange men over. Not unless they tell the weather on Channel Six, of course.”
They cluck like hens over Andrew the Weatherman for the next five minutes.
“Oh, and while you’re there, could you put food out for Mr. Whiskers?” Faye asks. “There’s a bag of cat food under the sink. And if you have a chance, I’ve got a pair of brand-new white tennis shoes upstairs in the closet. Could you be a gentle bear and bring them home with you?”
I bite back a smile.
It’s too obvious they’ve both planned this out. I’m not even sure whether to be ashamed or utterly pissed that we’ve got two dastardly old ladies scheming to play cupid.
The look on Shelly’s face says she knows it, too, and thinks it’s pretty funny.
Is it? Or is it just kerosene for a screaming fire I never should’ve started?
“That poor kitty cat must be starving to death!” Faye says dramatically, throwing her hands up over her head. “And I’d really like to have those shoes. Once Thelma’s moving better, we’ll be getting in our walks before winter, and I want that pair broken in.”
Shelly rolls her eyes and asks, “Do you need help, West?”
An awful, single-minded part of me wants to rise up in agreement like a rude fucking hand.
Guess what part—it’s not a hand.
