Page 58 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

"You got it.” He scratched Roscoe’s ears. “Anything for our four-legged friend here?"

"He's fine. I should probably run him out front for a bit. He's usually had a long walk by this time."

"Meet you back here in ten?" he asked.

She stepped back into her shoes. "Deal."

While Kate tended to the dog, Dash fired up his espresso machine. From the pantry, he grabbed a box of his favorite Trader Joe's cookies. As he arranged everything, Kate’s phone buzzed on the island. The caller ID showed a young girl in a green sparkly leotard.

Party Girl.

Probably her neighbor.

He answered. "Kate Fitzpatrick's answering service.”

"Is Kate there?" a woman shouted over a pounding baseline.

He hollered back, "She's out walking her dog. Hold on.”

"Is this the boyfriend? The famous Dash Benning?" she yelled.

He blinked.

Famous? Boyfriend?

He stepped out onto the front porch, hoping for better reception. “Are the firemen having a party out there?”

“What?” she yelled again.

“A party! On your street?” Dash hollered.

“What? No, we’re having a party!”

Kate rounded the corner. Dash waved her over. “Kate’s back now. Hold one second.”

He handed over the phone and returned to the kitchen, though something tugged at him. Her voice sounded … weirdly familiar. Kate was laughing to herself when she joined him back on the chaise, so he let the thought go.

"I guess you're back in business," he said.

Kate shot him a confused look. “What?”

"The gas line? That was your neighbor, right?” He motioned to the tray. “Dessert?"

"That was my sister. She’s at a karaoke bar with the guy she’s been seeing.”

Ah. That explains the shouting.

Dash nodded as he wrestled the cookie package open. “I wasn’t sure if I should answer. Your caller ID said Party Girl.”

“She’s an event planner, remember? Hence the name, which is ironic since she’s definitely the more subdued of the two of us when it comes to legit partying—except tonight. She’s had a few."

“That’s good though, right? You said she’s been working twenty-four-seven.”

“One would think, but this call was work-related too. Even tipsy, she’s still in event-planning mode. She wanted to get permission to ask this guy to the party. And to update me on her mini gifts.”

“Mini guffs?” he mumbled, cookie crumbs dotting his lip.

“We’re giving Dad seventy mini gifts—a bunch of random shit. Today, she bought camo-printed Band Aids and a beer-can pop socket. Yesterday, I got him some liquor bottle golf tees and a dashboard hula girl.”