Page 108 of Back in the Saddle

“We’ve got a plan. Let’s hit it,” Raye said. “Angels on the move.”

And then the Angels were on the move.

TWELVE

PASTITSIO

Islid into full freakout mode when I heard the garage door going up.

Eric had texted fifteen minutes ago to tell me he’d be home in fifteen, but that was already way sooner than I expected him, so I wasn’t done doing what I needed to get done in time for his arrival.

I did one final swipe of the counter, tossed the sponge in the sink, shoved the book I’d been using in the first drawer available, then raced across the room, threw myself over the back of his couch, crossed my legs under me and nabbed the remote.

I had just enough time to switch on the TV, but not enough time to change the channel, so it appeared I was kicked back, watching a monster truck rally, when Eric strolled in from the garage.

“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound breathless.

He looked from me, to the kitchen, to the TV, back to the kitchen, returned to the TV, his brow lifted as a monster truck crunched over a triple-deep pile of cars, and he ended on me.

He then walked to me, took my hand, pulled me out of the couch and to the sink in the kitchen.

Once there, he turned me to face him and then he used his thumb to swipe at something on my cheek.

He swiped twice.

After he did that, he threaded his fingers into the right side of my hair, and I thought we were going somewhere I very much wanted to be, only for him to shake his fingers through it.

I looked down at my shoulder.

Flour dusted my tee.

I looked back at him when he turned on the faucet at the sink, grabbed a dishtowel, wet the end of it, turned off the faucet, and rubbed at some sauce on my shirt.

Okay, so maybe I didn’t communicate my superpower of being a super sleuth by day, and a super bitch who could bring home the bacon (or in this case, ground beef) and fry it up in a pan by night, being able to do all this like it was sleight of hand.

Whatever.

He threw the towel by the sink and asked, “What’s for dinner?”

“I whipped up some pastitsio.”

“Youwhipped upsome pastitsio?”

I understood the emphasis.

The recipe had about five thousand ingredients, and making the béchamel produced a level of angst in me I never wanted to feel again.

But I thought I cracked it.

Only time would tell.

“Yeah,” I said breezily. “I put it in the oven when you texted. We have about an hour before we can eat. I’ll make the salad closer to.”

I read the look on his face and addressed it immediately.

“I’m not competing with her. And I could tell by your reaction to my assertion this morning that you don’t think I’m boring. But first, you and your boys were out dealing with my brother on a Sunday, and I can’t show my appreciation to all of them, but I’m damn well gonna show it to you. And second, I realized today thatIthink I’m boring. I need to shake shit up. Learn new things. Grow. And if what’s baking in the oven isn’t total crap after all the effort I put into it, I’m starting with cooking.”

“You’re a member of a group of women who have storage units full of cars and a mysterious benefactor to help you solve crimes. And you had lunch with a crew of informants today.”

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