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“I do.”
“Good.” Her grin tightens my chest and sends blood flooding south. “That’s all I need.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
PAIGE
“You are acceptable cookies. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Looks aren’t everything.” I comfort my misshapen blobs of dough and chocolate as I gently slide them off the baking sheet onto a cooling rack. When it comes to cookies, taste is my priority. Presentation be damned.
Also, fat content is high on my list. The amount of butter in this batch is enough to grease an entire pig. I’m guessing. I have no frame of reference.
Tilting my head, I glance over at Pumpkin, curled in her plush doggy bed. Every so often she lets out a gentle snore. I measure her with my eyes.
“Enough to grease Pumpkin at least.”
Her ear twitches, but she doesn’t open her eyes.
Most people these days are looking for ways to turn their desserts into kale chips that somehow magically taste like chocolate. If anyone ever perfects that recipe, I’d be happy to try it, but those wouldn’t serve my current goal.
Dash and Cole are too skinny. They both look like they’ve fallen behind on a few meals.
A lot of meals.
My guess is it’s something to do with money.
I feel an unfortunate mixture of relief and guilt that I’ve never truly had to worry about my finances. I’m not a trust fund baby or anything, and all the money in my savings account I earned on my own. But I’ve always had Mom and Dad as a safety net. One I’ve fallen into more times than I’d like to admit.
So, here’s me, comfortable, financially stable, and well-fed.
I want that for Dash and his roommate. The only solution I’ve brainstormed so far is to make them a feast of high-fat food.
“Paige, honey. I need to talk to you about something.” My mom’s voice, low and serious, clears away all thoughts of cooking. She strolls into the kitchen, my dad as close as her shadow, his face grim.
“What is it?”
“I’ve just finished putting a new tire on the Impala. And I got a good look at the flat…honey, did you see anyone hanging around your car? As you were walking up to it?”
I set down my spatula and wipe my hands on a dishtowel. “No. I mean, there could’ve been. Parking was packed and there were a whole lot of tourists around. Why?”
Mom glances over her shoulder at my dad, the two of them sharing a grimace. “The puncture in your tire doesn’t seem to be from wear or a stray nail. There’s a cut. On the side. As if someone slashed it.”
Slashed my tire?
“That’s ridiculous. Why would someone do that? Makes much more sense to smash my window and steal whatever I’ve got in the glove compartment. If someone slashed my tire, they’re an idiot.” I turn to place the baking sheet in the sink and check to make sure the oven is off.
“What cases are you sitting on? Have you gotten any threats lately?” My mom asks my dad.
“None for at least a year now, but they don’t have to make a threat to do something dangerous.”
“I think we should call Jerry. Have him stop by.”
My parents converse with each other, effectively leaving me out of the exchange. The minute they mention the U.S. Marshall who used to be tasked with my safety, I know I can’t let them spiral any further.
“Stop it. The two of you. So maybe my tire got slashed. We live in New Orleans. This stuff happens sometimes. If you haven’t realized, Penelope kind of stands out. If a stupid kid is looking to cause some mischief, they’d probably lock onto my car like they’ve got a laser targeting system. You need to stop seeing murders around every corner.”
“Paige, you know your father has a dangerous profession.”
“Of course I know! It’s why I barely had a social life growing up.”
