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No. I cannot let my heart run amuck. Blaze is definitely not the right man for me. My libido has just got to get a grip and shut up because I still need to know what Blaze is up to when he goes on his night-time missions. If he’s looking for the games, I have to let Big Mike know. I owe him that much.
I pull out the freezer drawer and look for something I can bake as an excuse to go talk to Blaze. There are no fruit pies, but I do find a single-serving Pot Pie. That will have to do. I pull it out and set my oven to the temperature on the box.
Forty minutes later, I have the pie wrapped in one of the half dozen identical tea towels and matching oven mittens on my hands. I carry the stupid gift to his front door and ring the doorbell with my elbow. Of course, I am panting from the trip down my stairs and wish I had given myself another five minutes to catch my breath.
When he jerks open the door, he looks flustered. My confidence stumbles backward and begs me to go back home. But I’m already here, and I have this pot pie… so—
“Hi.” I blurt stupidly. I swallow hard, still breathing too hard to actually have a conversation. “I just… wanted… to bring… you a little something…, to say… thank you… for stopping me from doing something stupid… with Jason.”
Thankfully my breathing is resuming normality.
He stares at me like I have just spoken in Klingon. “That’s not necessary,” he says at last.
“It wasn’t necessary for you to come over this morning and stop Jason, either, but you did.” I try to smile, but my nerves have the better of me. He doesn’t look happy to see me, and I’m not sure why, other than he knows I go to the undergroundgames… or he was just about to leave and I’m now holding him up.
“Well, anyway.” I say awkwardly. “Here. I baked you this. Maybe you can take it with you tonight and have something to eat while—”
My eyes rove over him from head to toe. He has on those wranglers that I so enjoy watching him walk away in, and a green tabbed t-shirt. I honestly think he could make sack-cloth look good. The green in his eyes is vibrant with the shirt just inches below his face. I know he is anxious to get going, but I need to know something about what he’s doing. I’ve got to find a way to delay his leaving.
I step closer to him, with my mittened hands holding the towel-wrapped pot pie closer to his nose.
“It’s chicken pot pie.” I say in a voice that would rival Lauren Bacall inviting Humphrey Bogart to whistle if he needs her. I hold the line on wiggling my eyebrows, knowing that would be too much.
“It smells great, but—”
“It’s just a little something to thank you. I’m really grateful that you’re a nosey neighbor.” I grin. “It turns out that I actually appreciate your butting in, this time.”
His frenzied façade fades. A smile curls on his lips. A guffaw escapes his mouth. “Well, you’re welcome.”
“I cannot ignore the fact that if you hadn’t showed up at my door with that lame excuse to borrow sugar, things would have gone very differently, and God only knows how or when I would have ever been able to get Jason out of my hair.” I smile.
“It wasn’t so lame. Neighbors borrow sugar all the time.”
“Sure, and neighbors bring a pie as a thank you.” I shove the bundle toward him.
“True.” He eyes the towel. “But it’s usually an apple or peach pie.” His voice tumbles into a chuckle. “Not a chicken potpie.” He steps back from me and my gift, bending at the waist and slaps his knee. “Is that the only thing Frank had left in his freezer?” His words are difficult to comprehend through the laughter.
I glare at him. It’s not funny. This really was the only thing I could find to bake. Okay, it was a little funny. The humor of it all bubbles up my throat. I start to giggle, too. “How rude.” I blurt between giggles. “And, yes, it was the only thing I could find, unless you want a steak? You want me to bring you a steak next time?”
We double over out-of-control laughing. I’m hanging on the pot pie bundle with clumsy oven mittens, concerned I’ll drop it on his entry floor. “Here, take this.” I shove it toward him. “Before I drop it.”
His laughter wanes as he takes the towel and unwraps the pie, inhaling the aroma. “It does smell good.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty tasty actually.” I glance between the gold crust and his grass green eyes.
“Well, thank you. You didn’t have to.”
“I know. Neither did you.” I sober. “You said you knew something was up because your instincts as a detective alerted you to the trouble.”
He shrugs in reply.
“Is that what you’re doing at night? Following your instincts?” It’s a long shot, but I’m hoping it will open him up to give me at least a hint at what he’s after.
His eyes squeeze together as he looks at me through veiled lashes. Is he using those instincts to decipher my meaning. Can I fool his instincts into thinking I’m just making conversation, out of idle concern for his well being?
“I just ask, because… I mean, youaremy neighbor, and that comes in handy, it turns out, so I’d hate for anything terrible to happen to you.” I do my best to look as sincere aspossible. Can I fool him? I maintain my expression of utter innocence like I do when I have a great hand.
“I’ve told you before, what I do isn’t dangerous, not really.”
