She crossed her arms. “I did notharassher. It was all aboveboard, I promise. Besides, the girl never leaves her house. I had to steal her number from your phone in order to reach her.”
My brows pressed together. “When did you get ahold of my phone?”
She didn’t bother answering. One of her other grand skills was pick-pocketing; often useful in our ventures together.
She swiped the tumbler from me, drinking it down in one gulp. She coughed once; it was barrel strength. “I’ve eliminated her from the suspect list, though. At least for now.”
“Yeah, I did too.”
“You did? How?” She scoffed. “You’re such a hypocrite; you’ve harassed her too.”
I dropped my hand from my chin to the arm of the chair, grinning. “Not on purpose. She always thanks me for the red and yellow roses I give her. A colorblind person wouldn’t. I don’t even have to ask; she just raves about the colors and how well they go together, day after day.”
Bee’s mouth fell open, and she placed her hands on her hips. “Wait,roses?”She snorted. “She didn’t mentionrosesto me, you sly son of a bitch. That’s oddly sweet of you.”
My glare challenged her to risk teasing me further.
“But you’re right, Nash, it’s not her. I asked her opinion of the coat I bought recently, and she commented on the gold piping and color.”
“Told you so.”
Her eyes rolled. “I got her to warm up to me quite a bit. Her personality is amazing. She has a nice, dry sense of humor, and I love that. Apparently, she’s not opposed to having a glass of wine on her stoop with me. I think we’ve chatted so much she’s willing to take a chance. She opened up to me and said she’s a little nervous sometimes and not used to having many friends. I told her I totally understood introverts, and there was no pressure; we could just make it a casual thing.”
My brows rose. “Wow, sounds like you guys talked a lot.”
“Jealous?” Bee looked annoyingly triumphant before her face fell. “I haven’t really figured out why she was at the PERL show, though.”
I let a smug look cross my face. “I found out why.”
Bee looked annoyed at that.“And?”
“She said her friend makes her go, but it’s not really her thing. I mean, she didn’t look excited drying champagne glasses in the corner when we saw her, so it makes sense. I’m wondering who this friend is, though; maybe they’re the one we’re looking for?”
Bee pursed her lips. “Maybe.” She grumbled. “This is tricky. The pictures don’t show the staff interacting. It’s tough to link her to anyone else on the list—they all act oblivious to each other. PERL did a good job of that. I honestly thought this would be easier.”
She sighed, settling onto my desk as though giving up thetopic for now. “Alright, tell me more about thoseroses,”she said with a playful tone. “I can’t recall a single time in recent memory that you bought roses for a woman. Does this mean you have actual feelings for this girl?”
Hating to agree, I shrugged because she was right. “I barely know her, but I can’t help it,” I confessed. “There’s just something about her that ignites every part of me.”
“Ignitesevery part of you?” she repeated, niggling.
We both watched Sybil swing her knee from side to side as she read.
Bee hummed. “She is sweet, not your typical New Yorker. I get it. She has an aura that makes you want to know more about her, and she isn’t socially defensive like so many women are.” She toyed with the ends of her hair. “Sybil reminds me so much of Mom. They have the same gentle mannerisms and whimsical way of thinking. I like that Sybil actually seems tolistento what I have to say and respond.
I miss Mom so much because she was the only person willing to put up with all the things I had to say. Don’t you remember all the fun things the three of us did as kids? It makes me want to invite Sybil over, cook an enormous meal, make a mess, and build tents for a movie like we did with Mom. I bet you anything she’d love it. She’s like, our missing piece.”
Her statement made me visualize it for myself. I could feel it. Mom was great at making everything special, warm, and exciting. She was crafty, always finding something new to do at home on the couch. It was the piece that was missing from our lives.
Bee squeezed my shoulder. “I’m going to head down andget comfy, likely end up in the same position as our Sybil there.” She was backing away.
“No date tonight?” I asked.
My sister was a notorious Friday-night dater, taking full advantage of all the men the Bumble app offered.
“This week was too long.” She paused her retreat and sighed. “Restoring a Degas is—nerve-wracking. I’m tired from leaning over the table all day with magnifying goggles.”
I grunted. “For sure.”
