Page 30 of Long Shot

“What is normal, anyway?”

“Right? My parents and my sister are all overachievers. They kind of looked down on me because . . .”

“Because you’re a waitress?”

Her lips thin. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“And yet . . .” I hesitate, not sure how to say this. “You don’t strike me as an under-achiever.”

She shoots me a startled glance, but says nothing, biting her lip again.

I don’t know why I think that about her . . . shedoeswork as a waitress, when she’s nearly thirty years old. Not that waitressing isn’t an honorable profession. I have tons of respect for the people who work for me in that capacity. But there’s something about her that seems to not quite fit with that.

We arrive at the Food Depot. I’ve been there a number of times with Danny and Sid, so it’s somewhat familiar to me, but I hope like hell Reese knows what she’s doing.

And apparently she does. She checks her phone frequently; I presume she’s looking at the texts Sid sent her, as she loads us up with cheeses and tortillas and produce.

I pause next to cases of cooking wine. “We need any of this?”

She eyes it, wrinkles her nose, and tilts it into the air. “God, no.”

“Isn’t there wine in the shrimp scampi?”

“Yes. But not that. You should never cook with a wine you wouldn’t drink.” Then she goes very still and her eyes go distant. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I just . . . nothing.” She continues down the aisle and grabs a sack of dried chick peas.

She doesn’t shy away from helping me load up the back of the SUV with our purchases, her slender arms revealing surprisingly strong biceps. Another turn-on.

Fuck, I’m weird. Why am I getting all horned up over a woman’s fingers and arms and scent? Apparently, not hooking up with anyone the past few weeks is making testosterone build up in my body or something. I need to jerk off more.

Christ, I shouldn’t have thought that. Now I’m getting hard and I’m stuck in the vehicle with Reese for another half an hour at least.

“Still no word on a home for Jack?” I ask, for something to talk about.

“Nope.” Her bottom lip pushes out. “And he’s such a good dog.”

“His looks might have something to do with it.”

“What?” She turns outraged eyes on me. “He’s adorable!”

“Uh . . . come on . . . have you looked at him?”

“I realize he’s not conventionally cute, but he has personality.”

“If you say so.”

“You don’t even know him!”

“We’re talking about a dog,” I say. “You don’t get to know a dog.”

“Yes, you do! You never had a dog?”

“Hell, no. As if my mom would’ve wanted something else to take care of.”

She slumps a little in her seat. “Yeah. I’m sorry. Okay, so not being a dog person you wouldn’t know, but dogs do have a personality. Jack is different than Peggy.”

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