Jerry draws himself up, shoulders straightening. “I didn’t arrest you. Does this look like a police station? Have you been fingerprinted and booked? No. I brought you to the person you said you were in town to see. I’m a good Samaritan.”
Before I can argue, masculine laughter erupts behind us.
I twist around.
A guy with dark hair and glasses smothers his laughter. He’s cute, in a nerdy way.
A little person in a parrot costume taps him on the arm. “Mr. Carter? Why is this lady in cuffs? Is she a criminal?”
Jerry answers. “She definitely is, Benji. A liar at the very least.”
“I am not!”
Jerry turns to me, his white mustache quivering. “Listen, lady, I know a hardened criminal when I see one. I’ve been on the neighborhood watch for twenty years now.”
This is getting out of hand. I pull on my Hollywood persona and address the attorney speaking with as much authority as I can muster on limited sleep and little patience. “Listen, Mr. Montgomery, I had an appointment with you tonight. Regarding Beverly Kemper’s estate.”
His brow creases. “You weren’t in my calendar.”
“You sent me a certified letter. Then I talked to someone named Quinn last week on Tuesday, and she set it up.”
His eyes fall shut and he pinches the top of his nose. “Dammit. We have a new scheduling system. We’ll get it sorted, I’m real sorry about all this. Jerry, can you uncuff her now?”
Jerry straightens. “I don’t know, Spence. You sure you can trust her? She seemed pretty good with breaking down doors. Are you sure the appointment stuff isn’t a ruse?”
I release a groan of frustration. “A ruse to what? I was trying to get into the inn’s office. What would I be breaking in to steal? The free continental breakfast?”
Spencer chuckles. “I’ll take it from here. We’ll go back to my office and sort it out.”
Jerry’s brow is creased with suspicion, but he reaches over and clicks something on my cuffs and they fall off. He didn’t even need keys.
Embarrassment flushes through me. I could have gotten out of those this whole time?
Jerry shoots me one more glare before exiting.
Spencer moves closer to me. “Hey. I’m really sorry about all this. Why don’t you have a seat?” He gestures to a bench in front of a row of cubbies. “I’ll get dressed, and we can get out of here.
What other options do I have?
“Fine. Thanks.”
Thirty minutes later, after Spencer has changed out of the cherub clothes and donned dark jeans and a winter coat, we’re walking through the front doors of the law offices of Montgomery & Son.
I spent the drive over explaining the events of the evening to Spencer, who couldn’t hide his amusement even though he was very apologetic.
I’m not at the laughing phase, not quite yet, but maybe it’s because my fingers are still numb and my ego is still bruised.
In the entrance of his office, I stomp and wipe my snow-covered shoes on the mat and glance around as he flicks on the lights.
“Go ahead and have a seat in there,” he gestures to the left of the small, tiled entrance.
There’s a brown leather sofa in the center of the room, flanked by two armchairs. A fireplace sits empty and dark against one wall, and across from that, a narrow table has been set up with a coffee maker, kettle, thick ceramic mugs, packets of sugars and creamer cups, and a filtered water tower.
“Help yourself to whatever you want. I’ll be right back.” He disappears through an open doorway into a darkened office. Another light clicks on, illuminating the desk. He shuffles through paperwork. The glow of the lamp throws highlights and shadows onto his neck, firm jawline, and full lips.
He is really good-looking.
I force my gaze away. No ogling the attorney.
