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If he thought a relationship with Wilson was worth the risk, then maybe I’d have to take that plunge. Test the waters. Pull off that adult conversation I’d been avoiding.
But first, the good news. Wilson was buying a slice of Texas paradise. As his real estate agent, I had to let him know.
I gathered my scattered wits and pulled up Wilson’s contact on my phone. I corrected three awful nervous-finger-related typos before I could click send.
Cameron: The seller accepted your offer. Congratulations!
Wilson: Awesome!!!
The small dots indicating he was typing appeared and disappeared. I waited and waited. Jude gave me awhat the helllook from his seat behind his desk.
“He must be writing a novel.” I shrugged.
Wilson: I am drunk with your grandmaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Oh, hell’s bells, this wasn’t good.
Chapter 23
Wilson
“Shots!Shots!Shots!”Thethree older ladies pounded their gnarled fists on the card table, causing the dice in the middle to dance. The battered folding table trembled and threatened to collapse to the polished concrete floor of the Elmer VFW Hall at any moment.
It was all my fault. Not knowing the rules of bunco, I’d accrued a record number of penalty shots. Nothing like the ones you get in a hockey game. These were all the liberally poured fireball variety. Vacation Dream Home’s production budget better have a line item for my liver transplant.
I scooped up the overflowing shot glass of whiskey. The stench of cinnamon burned my few remaining nose hairs like a blowtorch. After today, I would never drink this foul liquor again.
Obviously, these senior citizens were trying to kill me. Elmer’s retribution for the stupid stuff I said at the courthouse was swift and brutal. The ladies’ bunco game provided a convenient cover for the murder of an outsider who’d insulted their town.
I’d run my mouth like an angry kid, wanting the whole town to feel as shitty as I did. Not my finest moment. My rash behavior landed me here. And the leader of my death squad was Cameron’s own grandmother.
I lifted my glass toward the mayor and tried to hold her gaze. But couldn’t. She slid out of view, listing to port. Or rather, I listed to starboard. My plastic folding chair, besides being uncomfortable, was slippery as hell, my ass might end up on the ground at any moment.
A member of the opposing team, whose name I’d lost to my drunkenness but who was memorable for her sleeveless red spangled western blouse with matching cowboy boots, sat next to me. As I leaned to the left, she shot out a hand to catch me. No osteoporosis for this gal. Toned muscle roped her spindly arms. I was thankful for her considerable strength as she saved my sorry butt, shoving me back into my seat.
“Bottoms up! That’s how we play in Elmer,” she said, a taut arm still holding me in my chair as she jutted her chin at my shot glass.
Before today, I’d had no idea bunco was a drinking game. My mom played with a group of neighbor women back in Peoria. The pastor’s wife from the Methodist church was in Mom’s game. I couldn’t see them tossing back shots the first Thursday of every month at the suburban community clubhouse.
But what did I know? Women confused the hell out of me. Exhibit one: Cameron Morgan.
I tossed back my shot, much to the glee of the golden girls at the table who elbowed each other and giggled. My eyes watered, and it burned all the way down my gullet.
This was community humiliation—er, outreach—at its finest. I owed the sheriff and Kate a big thank you for getting me invited to the mayor’s biweekly game. If I survived the hangover, my public humiliation should repair some of the damage I’d done with my future neighbors.
I suppressed a shudder at the thought of how bad I’d feel tomorrow.
“Only two more rounds, teammate.” The mayor, glowing with enthusiasm, held up her hand to high-five me.
I missed it.
The sparkly shirt lady threw an arm across me like a 1980s mom protecting her kid from flying through the windshield at a red light.
“It’s a good thing I’ve been going to the sit and be fit class at the library, or you’d be on the floor, Mr. Phillips.” She held up her arm, showing me her guns... impressive for someone who likely started collecting social security before I earned my Ph.D.
I gave Workout Granny the best charming grin I could manage with my numb lips and my esophagus burning red hot from the shots of fireball.
I hadn’t been this drunk since college. The night at the pub drinking jalapeno martinis was tame, even sensible, in comparison.
