“Oh, that’s not good for you, Otis.” Her brow crinkles. “You need to get a decent eight hours.”
I grunt. “Lucky if I get five.”
“You stay awake worrying, huh?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“What do you do to relax?” she asks.
Ah shit. Glancing at her, I know what I’dliketo do…
Shut that thought down, man.
“Not much. Work out at our local Labyrinth gym—um—bake, I guess.”
“Do you bake at your desk too?” I follow her gaze to one corner of my desk, frowning.
“Is that why there’s a bag of sugar in here?” She grins. “Or do you snack on sugar while you’re working late into the night?”
I look at her, affronted. “Sometimes I just forget to put the groceries away.”
She picks up a book from among the papers. “Baking for Beasts. Love the title.”
“Yeah, I was checking through recipes. I need to bake a cake for my mom tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s nice, is it her birthday?”
“Not yet. I bake her a cake every week,” I explain. “And we share it with the other residents in the care home. It gets her to socialize. She tends to isolate in her room otherwise.” I smile, a little sadly. “When Dad was alive, we were a very social family. There were so many parties here when we were kids, and Mom was at the heart of that, feeding everyone. So y’know, anything I can do to get her to smile, and remember the good times.”
“That’s so kind of you.” She looks wistful, and I remember that she doesn’t have a mom of her own. Even though my mom is in care, and I’m sad every time I visit, it’s better than having no mom at all.
“You do what you gotta do,” I say gruffly.
“You are really sweet. She’s lucky to have you.”
“Aw, psshaw,” I snort. But even so, I feel a warm glow at her words. I’m not used to compliments. And no-one, to my knowledge, has ever considered me even remotely sweet. I find myself opening my mouth, about to suggest she comes with me to visit Mom next time I go.
There’s a knock on the door and I swallow the words. Which is probably for the best.
“That will be Tippy,” I say. “You go and let her in, while I find you those sticky notes.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLEM.
“Good morning, Clem.” Tippy beams at me when I open the front door.
“Hi Tippy,” I say, and lead the way into my bedroom. She sashays over to the bed and plonks a small suitcase on the coverlet.
“How are you settling in?” she asks.
“Very well, thank you,” I reply primly, deciding not to mention that I jumped wet and naked into the sheriff’s arms last night.
Tippy turns to Otis, who has just appeared at the bedroom door, big hands looped on his hips.
“Okay, Otis, you can go. This is private girls’ time.”
He blinks, turns a darker shade of green, then with a grunted assent, pivots on his heels and is gone.
