“Uh, everyone.” The red flush deepened as Sam averted her eyes. She looked guilty. “Heff made copies of the good parts and sent them to everyone. And ... there’s more.”
She looked around the dining room before she met his gaze and lifted her chin slightly in a defiant tilt. “The guys don’t think you’ll ask her out, but Sandy, Kate, and I disagree. We saw the way you looked at her, too, so ... we kind of bet that you would. Girls versus boys.”
Cage sighed. He should have known. He’d been involved in a few wagers himself. “What’s the bet?”
“If the guys win, there’s a list,” she said, her cheeks burning brightly. “It differs for each of us.”
“And if you win?”
“We have a list too,” she said with a wicked glint in her eye. “Suffice it to say, we really want to win.”
At that moment, he wanted the women to win, too. It would serve his sneaky, mated brethren well for sticking their noses where they didn’t belong. “All I have to do is call and ask Bree out?”
“Yep. She doesn’t even have to accept, though of course, she will. Kate and I have already decided that we’ll make all your favorites, including authentic New York–style pizza, whenever you want.”
He did like pizza. “All right, I’ll call.”
Sam grinned, too. “Don’t tell them I told you.”
“My lips are sealed.”
Sam went back toward the kitchen, and Cage pulled out his phone before he lost his nerve. He typed out a text message to the number Bree had given him. Hopefully, it wasn’t too early.
Cage: Still want to get together?
Within seconds, he received a reply.
Bree: That depends. Who is this?
He felt a stab of disappointment and then remembered that not only was he texting from his private cell, for which she couldn’t possibly have the number, but he had also blocked the number from appearing on caller ID.
Cage: Sorry. It’s Nick.
He held his breath, waiting several seconds for a reply that didn’t come. Had she forgotten him already?
Cage: Roadside? Franco’s? Sanctuary?
Finally, he saw three dots appear.
Bree: I know exactly who you are.
He started to tap out a message and then erased it. Then did it twice more. He was beginning to think Sam’s confidence in him was overrated when a text came through.
Bree: And, yes, I would like to see you again. Dinner tonight?
Cage: Sounds great. Where and when?
Bree: Six o’clock. Surprise me.
Cage: Challenge accepted. I’ll text later with details.
Bree: Looking forward to it.
“Well?”
Cage looked up to find Sam, Kate, and Sandy peeking expectantly around the corner.
“We’re having dinner tonight.”
The women grinned and bumped fists.
“Where?” Sandy asked.
He frowned. The only local place he knew of was Franco’s. “She said to surprise her.”
“No worries,” Sam said with a grin. “We’ve got your six.”
Chapter Eighteen
Bree
“You really don’t have to go to so much trouble,” Bree said, slipping her phone back under her thigh and eyeing the plate of batter-dipped French toast topped with fresh berries and plump, juicy sausage links. “Coffee and fruit are fine.”
“I don’t mind,” Martha told her. “It’s nice to have someone to cook for.”
Bree felt a pang of sympathy for the older woman. The only pictures displayed in the house were old ones, presumably of relatives and ancestors, no hint of anything more recent. It was sad because Martha seemed like the type of woman who liked being around others more so than being alone.
“How long have you lived here, Martha?”
“All my life. I grew up in this house, as did my mother before me. At one time, we had four generations of McGillicuddy women living under this roof. Can you imagine that?” She laughed softly, but the look in her eyes was wistful.
“Just women? No men?”
“Sadly, the men in the family don’t enjoy the same longevity. Not one has made it past the age of sixty.”
Bree considered the combination of deep-fried dough, butter, and maple syrup in front of her and couldn’t help but wonder how much of a role diet played in the abbreviated life spans of McGillicuddy men.
“Heart disease?”
“Yes. How did you know?” Without giving Bree a chance to answer, Martha tacked on, “Now, dig in, dear, before it gets cold.”
Bree dutifully cut off a small piece and lifted it to her mouth under Martha’s watchful gaze. The bite was tasty but overwhelmingly rich. There was no way she could finish off an entire plate, not if she still wanted to be able to move. The problem was conveying that to Martha without hurting her feelings.
“Delicious.” Bree speared some blueberries and sliced strawberries. If she rationed two or three mouthfuls of fresh fruit to each bite of French toast or sausage, she should be able to eat enough to claim fullness while not offending Martha.
Satisfied, Martha went back to hulling strawberries. Bearing the name Obermacher’s, large containers of the plump, ripe berries sat next to neatly stacked empty ones. Dozens of jelly and jam jars were lined up on the counter, ready to be filled. It looked like a lot of work. Bree couldn’t fathom going to all that trouble when it was so easy to pick up a jar of preserves at the store.
“I saw you having dinner with Lenny in the fire hall last night,” Martha said, interrupting her thoughts. “I thought you were coming back here to get work done.”
Having dinner with Lenny was work, as far as Bree was concerned.
“Slight change in plans,” Bree replied. “An opportunity arose to interview one of Sumneyville’s finest and I took it.”
Martha offered a knowing smile. The problem was, Martha was way off base. “He’s a good catch.”
To someone who planned on spending the rest of their life in Sumneyville, baking cookies and making babies, he probably was. Not Bree though. She wanted more. And even if she were inclined, Officer Lenny didn’t do it for her.
A vision of green eyes and auburn hair flashed in her mind’s eye. She pushed it away.
“I’m not fishing, Martha.”
Martha shot a skeptical look
