Page 19 of Big Bad Wolfe

Too bad Jack Daniels didn’t make ice cream, because he could use a belt. Every survival instinct he possessed shrilled at him to leave. He checked his watch, willing the hands to move faster.

The second he got this situation wrapped, he was bugging out.

Right about now, Afghanistan was looking a helluva lot safer than Cape Hope, Oregon.

Chapter 4

Jillian directed Zane to an old-fashioned ice cream parlor on a quiet ocean-front street, where they chose an outdoor table shaded by a red-and-white umbrella. Sunshine glinted off rolling blue-green waves, a gentle salty breeze wafted over them and squawking gulls dove in the air currents.

Before long, the server returned with the tall root beer float Zane had ordered for himself, a banana split for Jillian, and bubblegum blue, candy-sprinkled ice cream in a fragrant waffle-cone for the kid. Enjoying their treats, they chuckled at the raucous birds darting for snacks amid the people playing on the beach.

“Aunt Jelly?” Casey bit off a huge chunk of ice cream, then crammed the rest of the cone into his mouth.

Watching him made Zane’s teeth hurt.

“Wait until your mouth is empty, sweetie,” Jillian patiently reminded.

Casey obediently chewed, gulped noisily. “Zane’s a secret agent, just like in those ‘Spy Kids’ movies.”

“Is that right?” Jillian gave Zane a conspiratorial wink.

“I’m an FBI agent. Not quite the same thing.” He took another drink, savoring his float. He hadn’t had one since he was a kid, had forgotten how tasty they were.

Casey wiped his blue-smeared mouth with the back of his hand. “Aunt Jelly, Zane said he has tossed-around hormones and wouldn’t mind looking at your hooters.”

Zane choked, spit root beer. “I never,” he wheezed. “I didn’t—”

Jillian frowned. “Casey Mihir Stuart, are you repeating Donnie Ray again?”

The little boy hung his head. “Yeah.”

“What did Zane really say?”

“Um. He said ... he has tossed-around hormones and didn’t mind looking at women’s chests. Why can’t I say ‘hooters?’”

“Because it’s rude.” She collected napkins, dunked them in her water glass and dabbed the little boy’s sticky chin and hands while Zane sopped up spilled root beer. “You don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings do you?”

Casey shook his head earnestly. “Nope.”

“Case, would you take these napkins to the trash can, please?” She pointed across the deck. “We’ll be done in a minute.”

As Casey trotted off, Zane watched the little boy, an odd emotion burning in his chest. “His middle name is Mihir?”

“Yes, the baby name directory said it’s derived from a Cherokee name meaning sunshine.”

“I know.” It had been his maternal grandfather’s name.

“Deb wanted to honor his ancestry.” Her face grew stern. “So, Secret Agent Man, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do. What’s this about liking hooters?”

Squirming, Zane set down his cup. He had zero experience with kids. Had he crossed the line by speaking so frankly to Casey? “This morning he rapid-fired a dozen questions about body hair and swimsuits and br-chests. I mentioned testosterone and something about how men didn’t mind looking, but I swear to God, the word ‘hooters’neverpassed my lips.”

To his relief, she grinned. “It’s okay, I was teasing you. I recognized Donnie Ray’s handiwork. Casey absorbs everything like a little sponge, even TV commercials, and tends to get things royally tangled. You should have seen my dad trying not to bust a gut when Casey told him he and Deb visited Viagra Falls last summer.”

Laughter burst from him. “I know a couple guys who wouldn’t mind vacationing there.”

Golden brows arched. “Yes?”

“Not me,” he added hastily.

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