And he brings popcorn.
We’re both splayed out in the little living room area, our feet propped on the coffee table, legs touching, not saying much as we eat. Peggy sprawls half on my thighs and half on Davis’s.
Like she wants us both.
Relatable, kitty.
The man’s growing on me in all of the wrong ways for a fake fiancé to grow on a girl.
I leave half my hamburger untouched so I can dig into the popcorn instead.
Salt and butter.
Classic.
Delicious.
“For all that it’s frustrating that we didn’t find what we were looking for, today was fun,” I tell him. “Thank you for letting me borrow your family for a day.”
He swings his head around to look at me, and I realize he’s just as exhausted as I am. “They’re yours whenever you want them.”
“Ellie told me she’ll be insulted if I don’t call her for lunch the next time I’m in Copper Valley.”
A smile flirts with his lips. “Good.”
“I didn’t realize that was still bothering me.” I yawn and shift lower on the couch, getting a look from my cat, who clearly doesn’t like that I just moved her butt. “It’s good to keep letting things go.”
He casts a long glance my way, and just when I think he’s about to say something profound, he flips on the TV. We watch part of a Thrusters hockey game while being lumps on a log.
“Where did the real Thorny Rock live when he was alive?” I ask.
“His house, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“The real Thorny Rock. The one who founded Sarcasm.”
“Yes.”
“The real Walter Bombeck—the one who founded Shipwreck—lived at the base of Thorny Rock Mountain. Old cabin that was torn down and replaced with the parking fields at the end of Blackbeard Avenue. Why’d they name it Blackbeard Avenue? You’d think it would be Thorny Rock Street.”
Is he distracting me? “It was originally Thorny Rock Street. One of his grandkids got pissed at him and changed it, and nobody ever changed it back. And I know he lived on what’s now the parking fields. There’s an old photo of his house in the museum. But where did the real Thorny Rock—the guy posing as Walter Bombeck—where did he live?”
He frowns at the television as it cuts to a commercial break. “No record. Roger might know.”
I debate picking up my phone and texting Annika, and I decide I’m too tired.
And that’s the last conscious thought I have until I realize I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch, because it’s suddenly dark in the living room, no television, no cat, but a blanket covering me while I drool all over Davis’s arm.
He’s flipping through the journal we got from the freaky man in the museum last night, and I can only imagine his eyes have to hurt given that the pages are only illuminated by the outdoor lights filtering in through the gauzy curtains.
I straighten and wipe my chin. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to…” I gesture at the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sleep’s important.”
“You’re not sleeping.”
“Mind over body.”
