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She looked pointedly at me. “You’re self-sufficient in the family business. You’re not exactly the next Sam Jobs.”
“Steve Jobs.”
“What?”
“It was Steve Jobs.”
“Who the devil is that? I’m talking about Sam Jobs, the guy who runs the taco place at the end of Main Street.”
Right.
Of course.
Why would she be talking about the co-founder of Apple?
Small town tacos and innovative worldwide technology. Totally the same thing.
“Anyway.” Aunt Bethel heaved a sigh and grabbed her oversized, fluffy purse from the sofa and headed for the door. Seriously, that purse was like a giant cat. “I have to go. I have a place to be.”
“If it’s Creek Community, I’m calling the police.” I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine.
She looked at it. “It’s Tuesday. Are you drinking already?”
“Yesterday, I woke up to an unexpected dick pic and tonight, you’re in my kitchen. Yes, I’m drinking.”
“You could have offered me one.”
“And be responsible for when you and Margaret strip off in the middle of the park? Absolutely not.”
She huffed and opened the door.
“Do you need a ride anywhere, Aunt Bethel?”
“No. I can walk.” She stopped in the doorway. “Your brother is picking me up and taking me to the grocery store. Toodles.”
Toodles?
Better Preston than me, I’ll tell you that. The one and only time I took her shopping two years ago, they had wine samples at the liquor store next door.
That was my mistake, but I swear she’d been in the car when I’d gone in to get the fixings for margaritas for girls’ night.
I’d even locked her in. I had no idea how she got out.
I removed the cork from the bottle and poured myself a glass, stopping halfway down.
A whole glass seemed appropriate.
I poured again and then set the bottle back in the fridge door. Closing it, I paused, glancing at my phone.
Didn’t she say I had a text?
I cradled the glass as I picked my phone back up. Of course the notification didn’t show now, so I closed all the apps with two taps on the screen and opened my messages app.
Yep.
There was a new message from Dick Guy.
Did I want to open this? There was no reason for him to message me. We’d ended the conversation well earlier this afternoon, and I really was going to delete the thread until someone came into the store.
Shit. I still had to email the girl who called earlier.
Taking a big slurp of wine, I acted like the responsible adult I was and sent the pictures over via the email that was sitting in my draft box in my Gmail app.
All done, I turned my attention back to the unread message from Dick Guy.
I really needed his name.
No, I didn’t. If I had his name, that made him a real person.
Right now, he was whoever I wanted him to be. He was the tall, hot, tattooed firefighter with a rescue chihuahua that I had occasional dream-sex with. That was my fantasy and I was sticking to it.
I didn’t want to find out he was a balding man in his forties who lived in his mom’s basement.
Not to judge those guys. They were great people, I was sure, but they just weren’t my kind of people.
I didn’t like basements. Ever since my brother had played a Halloween prank on me when I was nine, I’d avoided them at all costs.
I stared at my phone.
I couldn’t open it and read it. That was insane. I needed to delete the entire conversation and block his number.
How did I know it was an accident? Had he somehow gotten my number and deliberately sent me a photograph of his genitals?
Oh, my God.
What if he had?
Was he stalking me?
What was I thinking, having a full-blown conversation with him earlier?
Sure, he’d been nice. Charming. Lovely. Funny. But you know what? So were serial killers.
It’s how they lured you in.
My fire alarm beeped, sending my thought train crashing into the station. I glared at it, but it didn’t stop. Hauling a chair over beneath it, I climbed up and hit the button to make it be quiet.
It didn’t work.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Fucking.
Beep.
Oh, my God. It was the goddamn batteries. The guy who’d been here a few weeks ago checking them all said I’d need to replace them within weeks and I’d totally forgotten.
It was still beeping.
I had no choice. I had to take the batteries out. I’d replace them tomorrow after work—the stores would all be shut now, and there was no way I had any in the apartment.
I supposed I could ask my neighbor… But as a rule, I tried not to ask Arthur Jennings anything. A simple request for a battery would turn into a half-hour story about them.
Once, I’d asked if he had any milk since mine had gone sour after a weekend trip with the girls. He’d launched into three stories about various grocery trips, and by the time I’d finally gotten the mug full of milk back to my apartment, my coffee was cold, and I had to get to work.
