“Thank you,” I said, my voice catching with relief.
She dipped her head.
“Shall I call you or Breeze when she’s ready?”
“Either. But let me pay now, so Breeze doesn’t.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The phonebehind the counter at Steamy Sips rang as Dave and Arie dismantled their spinning poles from the ceiling. Breeze was still out walking Taco, who was surprisingly sprightly after her close call two nights ago. Breeze had been unsurprisingly forgiving, even trying to convince me to let her pay me back—which I of course declined. And also knew she couldn’t. I begrudgingly answered the coiled receiver attached to the wall.
“Riley,” Dax’s voice vibrated through the phone, causing my breath to hitch. Anyone would have thought I’d swallowed a live bird. Get a grip, Riley. So you saw him with his shirt off? Big deal.
“Dax?” I replied, grateful the phone at least hid the way my hand gripped the counter.
He is boring. He is arrogant. He pays in perfect change. He is gross.
Okay, he’s not gross. He’s as steamy as my morning coffee—but no. Just no.
“There’s been another break-in,” he said, just as Dave dropped his end of the pole he and Arie were carrying. They’d been taking them horizontally towards the exit, and my eyes spat daggers at him. The floors weren’t new concrete; they wereoriginal wood, painstakingly polished by me. Several times. I was more attached to them than I was to my own sister. Dave rubbed at a mark and grimaced before lifting his end again.
“Can you repeat that? Someone was signing their death wish, and I couldn’t hear you through it,” I said, leaning my hip against the counter.
“There was a break-in reported at your house last night.”
“It’s not my house,” I said automatically, then processed his words and sighed. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish I were. For some reason it didn’t get checked by an officer last night, so I’m only getting to it now. I’m going anyway and wondered if you wanted to come.”
I bit my bottom lip, weighing it up. Any excuse not to go there I would gladly take. On the other hand, something inside me didn’t mind my going when he was there. On the other, other hand, what if they found something this time, and it was something I didn’t want him to see? His calming words echoed in my mind again and caused a familiar warmth to pool somewhere low.
Nope, I wasn’t going just so that I could perve on Dax.
“You go and then report back. I trust you.” The traitorous words spilled from my mouth before my brain could filter them, and I froze. I do not trust him.
Dax cleared his throat. “I’ll call you back with an update.”
Where the hell had that come from?
I sat at a small table beside the coffee machine, reading the newspaper when he ducked his head through the door a couple of hours later. His expression was neutral, and since there had been no frantic call, I didn’t feel the urge to leap up.
I’d never been a newspaper fan before coming to Glades Bay; I couldn’t stand the hysterics of mainstream media. The world was always ending or divided over something, and I couldn't help but feel they didn't always declare the honest end of thestick. Ignorance was the stance I’d adopted. ButSquirrel Newswas something else altogether.
On the first day I discovered Steamy Sips, I'd read it ironically, after finding it on a table inside. Everything about it tickled me, from Glenda and Phil’s front page 50th wedding anniversary—the talk of the town—to the list of burglaries, apprehensions and arrests. They tried to get an interview from Glades Bay's newest resident when I first arrived, but I declined. I’m not a resident after all.
Last night’s break-in at Bellamy House hadn’t made it into this issue, thank the universe. But that was only because of a printing delay. I was re-reading last week’s issue. In typical small-town fashion, they were sporadic with distribution. Sometimes two issues in a week if there was enough excitement, sometimes none.
I’d read the "What’s On" section to Rick over the phone, outlining the town’s schedule like I was reciting the sacred calendar of weird.
My favourites: the Coffin Crew (build your own deathbed), Scottish line dancing (no partner required), and of course, the Balls Club cardio strip fitness.
“Age group of the Balls Club?” Rick asked, likely already halfway through booking a ride-share.
“Too old for you.”
“You know I don’t mind a daddy,” he purred.
“Ew.”
