My mouth goes dry. “He’s asking for a do-over.”
Answer him,Chip commands.But play it cool. Don’t seem too eager.
I type.
Josie: Made it safely, thanks to my feline security detail. And yes, to that rain check—I’d like that.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately panic. “Was that too casual? Not casual enough? Should I have been more specific?”
My phone buzzes again almost immediately.
Detective Dreamboat: Tomorrow night? I promise not to get called away this time.
I stare at the message, a ridiculous smile spreading across my face. I type back instantly.
Josie: Tomorrow night sounds perfect
And hit send before I can change my mind.
His response is immediate.
Detective Dreamboat: Looking forward to it. Sweet dreams, Josie.
You’ve got that goofy expression again,Chipmewls with a sigh.The one that suggests higher brain functions have been temporarily suspended.
“I’m afraid that happened the day I met him,” I say, but I’m still smiling as I stare at my phone.
I gaze into the fire as it pops and sends sparks up the chimney, Chip purring in my lap like a furry engine of contentment.
“Tomorrow, I have a do-over date with Detective Dreamboat, the girls are taking over parade planning, and we still have a killer to catch. Just your normal stuff to do on a Friday.”
Nothing about our life is normal,Chip observes with satisfaction.But it’s certainly never boring.
“Stick around,” I tell him, settling deeper into my chair. “Something tells me this is just the beginning.”
CHAPTER 16
You know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and theme park owners? They usually involve finding yourself in a saloon the very next afternoon, getting schooled on gourmet cuisine by a Southern belle with a circus poodle.
It’s barely past two o’clock, and I’m already questioning my life choices. Again.
The Prospector’s Table sits smack in the middle of Gold Rush Hollow, all weathered wood and brass fixtures that gleam in the autumn sunlight streaming through dusty windows. The scent of barbecue sauce mingles with woodsmoke from the outdoor grills, while a player piano in the corner cranks out what sounds like “Oh! Susanna” played at half-speed. Maple leaves drift past the windows in lazy spirals, and somewhere nearby a mechanical cowboy keeps shouting, “Yeehaw!” every thirty seconds.
Very atmospheric. Very authentic. Very likely to give me a migraine.
I’m seated at a scarred wooden table that’s probably seen more drama than a high school cafeteria, with Fish and Chipclaiming prime real estate on the bench beside me. The lunch crowd is mostly families with sticky-fingered children and the occasional tourist wearing enough denim to outfit a small ranch.
This place smells like grease and broken dreams,Fish points out, her nose wrinkling with distaste.Also, that mechanical cowboy is deeply offensive to my sensibilities.
I like it,Chip announces with glee.Very authentic frontier spirit. Plus, someone dropped a French fry under that table over there.
Focus, you big orange oaf,Fish sighs.We’re here for a peaceful meal, not scavenging.
“Well, if it isn’t the Empress of Huckleberry Hollow!”
I look up to see Savvy Sparrow approaching with Cupcake prancing beside her, both looking perfectly put together despite the rustic surroundings. Savvy’s platinum hair catches the light, and her smile could probably charm a cat into taking a bath.
“Savvy! What brings you to the Wild West?” I gesture to the empty chair across from me. “Want to join us for some authentic frontier cuisine?”
