She gives me a sweet, pitying look. “I am sorry about your clothes.”
Yes. Because while I was generously taking one for the team, someone stole my jeans and flannel shirt. My favorite flannel shirt. And what kind of deranged lunatic steals boots?
I wouldn’t put it past Zac and Brian, though they swear they didn’t. And I’d hate to sugar their gas tanks if they’re actually innocent.
It is also entirely possible that Hannah did it, which is worse. My ultra-reliable babysitter is untouchable. And she knows it.
I need an exit strategy. Now.
“Look, sis,” I say casually, scanning for the nearest exit, “since mystery woman will be a while, I’ll just run home and change. Twenty minutes. Tops.”
Both her hands clamp around my arm. “We both know if you leave, you’re not coming back.”
True. “Yes, I will,” I say as convincingly as I can.
“Ten minutes,” she begs.
“Not a second longer.” I make an exaggerated spitting noise into my palm and hold it out. “Deal?”
She laughs, then fake-spits, too. “Deal. And you’re disgusting.”
So, I stand there.
And stand there.
And stand there.
Forty-five minutes later, after numerous bribes from Hannah, which involved kid-watching, dinners, and her dangerously good cakes, the last reporter finally wraps his interview and packs up his cameras.
Finally.
I’m also secretly wondering if all this time, the elusive Pix was behind it. I’m not sure if that’s wishful thinking or a small piece of my brain finally snapping, but when Hannah finishes a text and gestures toward the door, my pulse kicks up.
“Your lady awaits.”
Does she? Is that why everyone’s been acting so weird?
“And be polite,” Hannah whispers. “This incredible benefactor paid fifty thousand dollars for just a few hours of your time.”
I straighten my tie, suddenly confident Pix came through. “She can have all the time in the world.”
Hannah exhales in relief. “I’m so glad to hear you say that.” She leads the way.
I follow.
We slip through the door, and she turns back with a smile that is entirely too pleased with herself.
“Harrison,” she says sweetly, “may I present Ms. Bernadette Chowderly.”
Dear God.
My face falls as the much older woman steps closer, her big gray eyes shining.
Her sweater is a rainbow of knitted cats.
Kittens climbing, kittens pouncing, kittens doing yoga. An entire sanctuary’s worth of them.
And judging by the amount of fuzz clinging to it, I’m not entirely convinced the sweater wasn’t spun directly from the fur of the eight or nine cats she probably owns.
