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When she’d told Bianca about Grayson, her daughter’s face had clouded briefly. “I heard. Lana’s mom said something and Michelle called. It’s too bad.” Then she’d gone to her room.
Too bad?
It was a helluva lot more than that.
Irritated, Pescoli tapped the edge of her phone on the table then slid it into her pocket.
“You think she’s lying,” Santana stated.
“Not think. Know. Just don’t know why.”
“Maybe you’re being too much of a detective.”
Pescoli gave him a look. “I was a teenager once, you know. Not that long ago. So were you.”
His mouth quirked and his eyes glittered. “I remember.”
“So.”
“Maybe you should have a beer.”
“Not tonight. I need to be clearheaded.”
“To deal with your daughter?”
“Amen. She’s sharp. And then, unfortunately, I have to catch up on some work. At home.”
“Then you definitely need a beer.”
“Rain check,” she said and he lifted a shoulder, cool with whatever she wanted. God, she loved him. She did want to spend the rest of her life with him though she hadn’t yet slipped the engagement ring back on her finger. Santana had asked her about that, too, and she’d answered truthfully that she hadn’t wanted to deal with all of the questions at the department, or the ribbing from her coworkers, especially after Grayson had been attacked. Those who had noticed her engagement ring had been few, and no one seemed aware that she wasn’t wearing it anymore, or at least they weren’t saying anything. She’d assured Santana that she wasn’t backing out. She wanted to marry him. She just needed to do things her way.
He asked, “What about Jeremy? He coming?”
“Legitimate excuse. He’s working.”
“Then I guess it’s just you and me.” Santana’s smile stretched wider and the twinkle in his eye turned a little wicked as the waitress brought a loaf of sourdough bread to their table and asked for their orders. “Ladies first.”
“The stew and a house salad,” Pescoli said, then Santana ordered the special—chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes with country gravy. All of it sounded like heaven.
“You could come to my place after this,” he suggested once they were alone again.
?
??You mean ‘our’ place?” She sliced off a chunk of the bread.
“Not really ours until you move in.”
“I don’t think I’ll do that until you, er, we have heat and running water. Furniture, too.”
“Fair enough.”
As she slathered the bread with butter and held it up to him, a peace offering of sorts, he shook his head and said, “I thought you were going to cut back on your hours.”
“I was, but now we’ve got this new case.”
“There’s always going to be one, you know.”
“Yeah.” She bit into the bread.
