“Be serious,” Havisham said.
“Has one brown eye and one blue eye,” I said just to tick her off.
Salcedo turned to Havisham. “What about you?”
“I don’t believe any of that mess.”
“But if you did,” Salcedo prodded.
“He would be a cowboy billionaire philanthropist.”
“What?”
“Exactly. This whole exercise is silly, but you started it, Salcedo, so what are your requirements?”
“Oh, I don’t have any,” she said with a smile. “I’m currently open to whoever the universe wants to send me. I wanted to see what you two would do. That said, you can check back in a decade or so to see if I’ve narrowed down my requirements.”
Havisham and I shared a look of mutual disgust. The youngster had gotten the better of us. Chalk one up for hope?
“Oh, look at the time,” Salcedo said with a faux yawn that turned into a real one. “Night, y’all.”
She was in her car and gone so fast, we didn’t know what to do.
“Cowboy billionaire philanthropist?”
Havisham snorted as she opened the door to her pickup. “More useful than flipping pancakes in the air.”
Chapter 9
A week and some later, I was ready to implement phase one of my big assignment for Trista. I’d called in a favor with a former client, and he’d set up the perfect comeuppance for a less-than-generous person who hated manual labor.
I was prepared for multiple scenarios. One way or another, I would capture photo and video evidence of Blake Malone hopefully having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Out in the parking lot, a van door slid open. I checked my phone to make sure the app for the doorbell cam was capturing the apartment across the way and, more importantly, recording.
Showtime.
Two men in work clothes crowded my view of Malone’s door. The shorter one hesitated before using the door knocker.
When no one answered, they looked at each other. I bit my lip, while drumming my fingers on the upholstered arm beside me. The only outcome I hadn’t planned for was that he would refuse to open his door.
The taller man checked his phone. His short buddy gave the door knocker a more vigorous workout. We all waited. The men shifted their weight from side to side or front to back. My fingers drummed even faster.
C’mon, Malone. Open up.
The two men looked at each other, shrugged, and took a couple of steps toward the parking lot. I bit back a groan and scooted to the edgeof my seat with a sigh of frustration and a fervent wish that I’d brewed more coffee.
But then Malone tried to open his door, only the chain was still attached, so it banged when it hit its limit. Malone cursed, closed the door, and then reopened it with a yawn. “Can I help you?”
At least that’s what I thought he’d said. The door muffled his voice, and I had the sound on the recording muted so my eavesdropping wouldn’t be given away. Blessedly, the workers had moved to the side, so I had a clear view of Malone leaning against the door, shirtless and wearing only boxers. He yawned while absently scratching the back of his head. Was that a hint of a tattoo? A thin line of writing on the inside of his right bicep, maybe? Definitely broad shoulders. Toned, but not to the point where he looked susceptible to roid rage or prone to giving a lecture on the evils of sugar.
My mouth went Death Valley dry.
Trista had said her husband worked out. I had even seen him working out, but ...
Stella, you can’t drool over your client’s soon-to-be ex-husband. Highly unprofessional. Also, there’s a reason why you’re doing what she hired you to do. As Nana likes to say, pretty is as pretty does.
With that thought, I waited for him to wake up enough to cuss these guys out and slam the door in their faces. Then he wouldn’t be so gorgeous.
