“Oh, Pixie.” I moan as I gingerly place my palm to my forehead. “Pain.” A horrible sound emits from my throat and ricochets right through my skull. “This is exactly why I shouldn’t drink.”
The room glows peach as if the sun just crested the horizon, and the shadow of a man walks into my bedroom. My eyes work overtime to quickly assess the situation. If I were back in Hastings, I’d grab my baseball bat. Note to self: buy a baseball bat.
Instead, I clasp my hands together and point my fingers over at the perp as if I were holding a gun.
“I’m gonna shoot!”
“Hold your fire,” an all too familiar deep voice sounds as Shep comes into view with his dark hair, a body built for a football field, and a smile that I’m not sure is genuine or manufactured. And if I’m not mistaken, he seems to be holding a tray with breakfast offerings on it.
A horrible pain rockets through my head, as if someone just shot off a bottle rocket through my skull, and I moan like someone who’s having her toes sawed off with a butter knife.
Shep lets out a breath as if my agony exasperated him.
“This, Bowie, is exactly why you shouldn’t insert yourself into a homicide investigation.”
I grunt as he lands the tray full of pancakes, orange juice, and coffee before me.
“Wow”—I muse, breaking off a piece of a pancake and popping it into my mouth—“On the contrary, if you’re going to roll out the culinary red carpet, I might just sign up for the part of town lush.”
He takes a seat next to me and touches his finger over my nose, and just like that, the vision I had at the wine festival comes true.
A swell of relief fills me.
It was something simple for a change. I like that.
“So do you always make breakfast in bed for your boarders?” I take a careful sip of my coffee, my eyes never leaving his.
“Nope. You’re my first.” He tips his head flirtatiously before getting right back to frowning. “Bowie, you were pretty wasted last night. You couldn’t walk. I had to carry you in here. You were moaning and talking in your sleep all night.”
“All night?” My voice hikes a notch at what this might mean.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t take advantage of you.” His pale blue eyes bear into mine and a spike of heat bites through me. Judging by my visceral reaction, my body was rooting for the former option. “I spent the night on the sofa in case you needed help, or felt the sudden urge to stagger out the door. Jackson wanted to take you home.”
I gasp as I lean back against my headboard.
“That could have been disastrous,” I muse.
“Yes.” He gives a curt nod, and I can’t help but note how comely he looks when he’s good and upset. Come to think of it, that’s a rather natural disposition of his. “That’s why I took it upon myself to help you out. In the event you haven’t noticed, you can’t hold your liquor.”
“You got that right, buddy. And that’s exactly why I don’t drink. It was all Sophia Hathaway’s fault. But on the bright side, she basically told me that she thinks her boyfriend is involved in Madeline’s murder. How strange is that?”
“Not strange at all. She hinted at that with me as well when I questioned her.” He presses his tongue against his upper lip, and, oh my wow, I think I just drooled.
He nods as if he heard me. “She made it clear she doesn’t think Parker is responsible, but that something went awry with a project the two of them were working on. Don’t dig into this, Bowie. Nora and I have handled tougher cases. You make a mean lasagna. Stay in your lane. Your stint as a llama jockey could have resulted in a broken neck. I’ve got control over this. I promise.”
“Stay in my lane?” My lips twitch from side to side. “I’m not sure how I feel about you telling me to stay in my mean lasagna lane.”
“It’s not me talking. It’s the law.” His chest expands with his next breath. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
“You’re changing the subject.” A smile curls on my lips as I pull the tray forward and pour a river of syrup over those light and fluffy pancakes. “It’s nice to know if I’m short-staffed at the café, I can call in a culinary expert. So tell me something about yourself. Start with your family.” I wince because I happen to know that Shep’s father is doing time just like mine. But unlike the RICO charges my father is in for, his is in for murder one for killing Shep’s stepmother. Fun fact: our fathers are both serving time at the same correctional facility. And in a cosmic twist of fate, here we are—their offspring chitchatting in bed over a plate of pancakes.
“Dad’s still in prison.” He shrugs. “Mom lives in Sterling Lake now.”
My mouth falls open with delight. “Was she at that fancy party yesterday?”
“No.” He glowers. “And I’m thankful for it, too.”
“You and me both,” I say as I indulge in a syrup-drenched bite. “Mmm, wow, Detective. You’ve got the right moves in the kitchen. I bet you’re pretty good in other rooms of the house, too.” I give a cheeky wink and his lids hood a notch. “Never mind. Keeping talking. I’m starting to feel human again. So how does your mother pass the time?”
“She’s active in the community. She was a librarian, so she reads a lot.”
“Aww—a librarian?” I coo at the thought. “It’s no wonder you grew up to
