“That’s too bad,” Mrs. Fontaine says. “Oh, well. You can listen in to our discussion. You might learn something.” And then, to my horror, she winks at Donovan, too.
The Sinsters settle down in the corner booth, and Mrs. Grant bustles around, getting everybody coffee and pie. Then she sits down, and all of them whip out copies ofBy a Thread, whereupon they promptly begin critiquing a certain salacious workplace bathroom scene, starring the book’sbrooding hero, Dominic Russo.
When I turn my attention back to Donovan, he looks stricken. “What fresh hell is this?” he hisses.
“The Sinster Romance Book Club.” I shrug. It speaks for itself, especially right now, when he’s got a front-row seat.
“Thewhat?”
“They get together every month and read the smuttiest books they can find. Sort of an up-yours to the stereotype of prim and proper, older women. Since Mrs. Grant started it, they meet here. Although to be honest, I don’t think they’re supposed to get together until next week. I guess you could consider this a special session.”
I didn’t think it was possible for Donovan to look more horrified, but he manages it. “There is something very wrong with this town.”
“You’re telling me.” I slurp up the remains of my milkshake. “It could be worse. You should’ve been here the time they read an erotic romance and decided to demo all of the sex toys right on the counter. Nowthatwas an eyeful.”
Donovan’s eyes dart from Mrs. Grant to Mrs. Fontaine to Hot Yoga Grandma, who’s pulled out her knitting. Her needles click, a hat for her newest grandson taking shape while she enthusiastically offers her opinion on the size of Dominic Russo’s equipment and his skill at wielding it. “You’re joking.”
“I mean…”
His eyes scan my face, disbelief clear in their depths. “Wait, youarejoking, right? Tell me they didn’t really?—”
“You want the truth, Frost?” I give him a wicked grin. It’s nice to see someone else suffering for a change. “Or do you just want me to say something that’ll make you feel better?”
Donovan buries his head in his hands, as Mrs. Grant utters a stage whisper in which the wordsthongandI’d drop to my knees for him if I didn’t have arthritisare undeniably audible. “Christ Jesus,” he says to the Formica. “So in this little bathroom scenario that I can’t help but hear them describing, am I?—”
“Dominic Russo? Yes, unfortunately.”
“Oh my God. This is not—I—” At a loss for words, he rummages in his pocket and comes up with his wallet, dropping a handful of bills onto the table.
“We haven’t even gotten the check yet! Plus, I can buy my own milkshake.”
“You were the one who wanted to leave,” he growls at me. “Besides, we were in a wreck. With me driving. I’ll buy your damn milkshake. And…crap, I’ve only got hundreds.”
Now it’s my turn to gape at him. Sure enough, he’s rained Benjamin Franklins all over the Formica. “Why do you—ugh, never mind.”
He grunts, scooping up the bills and ferreting through his wallet with a desperation I haven’t seen since Charlotte ate a bad corn dog at the fair last year and had to make a mad dash for the Porta Potty. Mrs. Grant, who, it occurs to me, has probably not brought the check in an effort to prolong our agony, leans out of the booth and mouths at me, “Sugar daddy, yes!”
I want to die.
Triumphantly, Donovan locates a twenty and plunks it in the middle of the table just as my phone dings with a text.
Charlotte
Are you okay, Rune? What the hell is happening?
Me
I wish I knew.
Charlotte
You’re having milkshakes with…spreadsheet sex guy? Whose car you were in when it wrecked?
My face heats, and I glance over at Donovan, to make sure he hasn’t seen. Luckily for me, he’s poking around in his wallet, organizing the bills by denomination.
Me
How did you know any of that?
