I couldn't let her do that, not when I had energy to burn and a million questions. "Nope. I've got one better. You talk.I'llbake."
She objected.
I insisted.
In the end, I won out – a good thing, too, since Maisie looked ready to drop. I didn't want her to drop – and not only because I cared. I hadn't even gotten to the hit man part, and I was dying to hear what she'd say.
When I suggested she take a shower while I pulled out bread-making supplies, Maisie didn't even argue. To my infinite relief, she didn't mention taking a bath instead – a good thing, since I'd failed miserably in replacing her bubble bath.
But I wasn't done trying. Somehow, Iwouldfind it.
And if I failed? Well, then I'd just have to admit I was a klutz and offer to buy Maisie something else.
I just hoped it wouldn't come to that.
Yes, I realized that bubble bath shouldn't be a big deal. But Maisie and I were finally hitting it off, and I hated the idea of another speed bump – even such a little one – derailing our budding friendship when it still felt so fragile.
The logic made sense. And I was feeling pretty good about it – until a half-hour later, when Maisie started talking about her mystery man who was working for free.
And let's just say, it didn't take long before alarm bells started ringing.
30
Yacht Club Confidential
Ryder
This wasn't snooping. It was recon.
I slowed my pace in front of a certain bike shop, with my hands in my pockets, playing it cool while silently kicking myself that I hadn't come sooner, under the cover of crowds.
Earlier today, the street had been packed.Now, not so much.
The time was only nine-thirty, but Main Street was fading fast. The shops were mostly dark, and even the restaurants looked ready to tap out, with their patio chairs flipped and stacked, like they were thinking of tomorrow, not today.
Here and there, a few scattered tourists lingered, strolling alone or drifting in packs.
But it was nothing like the commotion of earlier, when horses and bikes competed for space. Now, there wasn't a single horse in sight.Hell, even the manure was gone.
As far as bikes, I saw plenty, except most of them weren't moving. Instead, they were parked along the curb – unlocked and unattended like theft here wasn't a thing.
Weird.
But this wasn't half as weird as what I saw at Pickett's Pedals behind the decorative fence – some custom bikes that stood out like clowns at a crime scene.
There were maybe a dozen, parked in a tidy row just past the standard fleet. The regular bikes, I'd expected. But those custom bikes? They had me stopping to stare.
Silently, I took them in. A bicycle bumblebee, complete with black-and-yellow stripes and insect antennas, wasovershadowed by something even wilder.Thisone looked like a cross between a Harley motorcycle and a dominatrix's dream, all leather and studs like its favorite catchphrase wasRide me harder.
A different bike had oversized donut tires and hot pink tassels, while another was wrapped in – what the hell – snakeskin?
I squinted across the distance.Fakesnakeskin?
I sure as hell hoped so, because unless the bike had mated with an Anaconda, the dimensions didn't add up.
I was still staring when a male voice off to my left said, "Pretty whacked, huh?"
I turned to look and spotted a guy in his twenties sporting a yacht club jacket and Fortune 500 hair.
