“I’d say she’s set up camp under there.” I tap a finger on his chest.
He rolls his eyes. “She hasn’t. But”—he stops and leans in—“I found out who she’s been working with.”
“Who?”
His eyes flash, devilish. “Torres.”
I gasp, followed by a splutter as too much of my Guinness ends up in my windpipe. “What the hell?”
A smirk I’m very familiar with creeps on his face. The beginnings of a plan. “Yup.”
“Miles, don’t do anything stupid. He nearly killed you before?—”
“I’m aware, Hen.” A muscle twitches in his jaw, the one that shows up in me when I’m under stress.
“Milo—”
“Don’t worry,” he says, like it’s that simple. Because I know that no matter what, I’ll go along with whatever plot he cooks up. No questions asked.
We stare at each other, silently conversing. Me begging him to be careful, him laughing until aninterruption comes along, and we both peer down to find Mrs. Winston.
“Hendricks, I must say again, thank you so much for rescuing my Churchy.”
“You’re welcome. I’m happy he’s on the mend. And thank you for all the shortbread you dropped off this week. But it was Story who found him, Mrs. Winston.”
“I know, and Churchill’s thanked her too.” She sips at a pint of Guinness, leaving an inch of foam on her top lip as she smiles. “I must say, it’s nice to see you two together again. I remember the pair of you running around the village?—”
Miles’s arm slings around my shoulder, stopping one of the worst village gossips mid-sentence. “We’re all happy Churchill’s still with us, Mrs. W. And we shall look forward to a long summer of him stealing everyone’s apples.”
“Ah, yes. He is a naughty boy.” Her head falls back in amusement, and her eyes dart. “Oh, there’s Agatha. Must have a word . . .”
“Thanks.” I grin once she’s out of earshot.
“You’re welcome.” He knocks the rest of his drink back, places the glass on the bar, and slaps his stomach. “Let’s get out of here. I’m starving.”
“Right behind you.”
We try to be quick, but it takes a couple of minutes of pushing through the crowds, saying goodbye, listening and smiling to “Something I must tell you,” all the while I’m looking around for Story in case she decided to come back in. When we finally get outside, I wish we hadn’t.
“Hey! Miles, Hendricks. How’re you doing? Long time no see.”
We both turn to find a man walking toward us, hand outstretched, vaguely familiar. It’s not until he steps under the streetlights that his face fully comes into view.
“Pelling,” Miles greets, taking his hand and grinning at me so wide I’m tempted to punch him. “Shit, haven’t seen you in?—”
“Nine years.”
“Must be. How are you?”
“Good, good. Can’t complain. Working in the city, small hedge fund, you know how it is.” He grins, and I refrain from telling him I don’t.
I’m a vet. I hate the city.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to keep the horror from my voice. Horror and suspicion. Like he says, nine years. In nine years, I have never once seen Sam Pelling in Valentine Nook, but now Story has returned . . .
“My parents still live in the area, so I pop down regularly. Usually catch up with some of the old VP crew while I’m here. Anyone who’s around?—”
“Really?”
