“One condition,” he said.
“What?”
“Phones off. If we’re pretending to be normal, we’re committing to it. No case calls, no Silver Sleuths dropping by, no investigating.”
I reached for my phone and powered it down, the screen going dark with finality. “Done.”
He pulled his out, hesitated for just a moment—the sheriff in him warring with the man—then turned it off too.
“So,” I said, suddenly aware that we were alone in my house with no murder to investigate, no evidence to examine, no excuse for the proximity we’d been dancing around for weeks. “Nicolas Cage?”
“God help me,” he said, but he was smiling. “Yes. Nicolas Cage.”
We ended up on my couch, watching Con Air because it was the perfect combination of ridiculous and distracting. Dash had removed his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing forearms that I tried very hard not to stare at. I’d kicked off my heels and tucked my feet under me, the skirt of my church dress spreading across the couch between us like a fence made of fabric and good intentions.
“This movie makes no sense,” I said, stealing a piece of sesame chicken from his container. “Why would they put all these dangerous criminals on the same plane?”
“Because Nicolas Cage needed something to do,” he replied, his arm stretched across the back of the couch, not quite touching my shoulders but close enough that I could feel the heat of him. “Also, stop analyzing. You promised unsexy car chases and explosions.”
“There haven’t been any car chases yet. Just plane…hijacking.”
“Patience.”
On screen, Nicolas Cage was saying something about putting the bunny back in the box, and I found myself laughing at the absurdity of it all—the movie, this afternoon, the way Dash’s fingers had somehow found their way to playing with the ends of my hair, so gently I might have been imagining it.
“Your hair smells like vanilla,” he murmured, and when I turned to look at him, his face was closer than I’d expected.
“It’s the shampoo,” I said stupidly, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Mabel.” The way he said my name made it sound like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Very unsexy movie,” I reminded him, though my eyes had dropped to his mouth. “Nicolas Cage. Explosions.”
“Right,” he agreed, but neither of us looked back at the screen.
The afternoon stretched between us like taffy, sweet and pulling tighter with each passing moment. The sun had shifted to that golden hour light that made everything look like a painting. We’d migrated closer somehow, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, both of us pretending this was casual, normal, not a careful negotiation of boundaries we weren’t quite ready to cross.
By the time the credits rolled, I’d somehow ended up tucked against his side, his arm around me, both of us pretending this was casual. Normal. Just two people watching a movie.
Except my heart was racing, and I was acutely aware of every place our bodies touched, and this didn’t feel casual at all.
“I should go,” he said quietly, but neither of us moved.
“Probably,” I agreed.
When he finally stood, the absence of his warmth felt like loss. At the door, he kissed me good night—warm, lingering, familiar. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise without specifying what was being promised.
“Lock your doors,” he said against my hair.
“Always do.”
After he left, I stood there for a moment, my lips still tingling, my heart doing complicated things in my chest. Then I picked up my phone and turned it back on to find six missed calls from Dottie.
I called her back immediately.
“We need to meet,” I said. “All of us. Tomorrow morning, before the shop opens. We have new information about the case.”
“What kind of information? And why haven’t you been answering your phone? I was about to send Walt over there.”
