Page 70 of Lemon Crush

She quietly bounced in place like she’d run into her favorite boy band in the grocery store but didn’t want to scare them away. “Youhave the crush now. How the worm has turned.”

“What worm?” I shook my head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

I needed someone to keep their head on straight, because I’d lost mine weeks ago.

Maybe this crush, as Bernie called it, was my midlife crisis. A constant hard-on and no common sense was not what I was expecting forty-nine to look like, but I supposed it could have been worse.

“Now if you’ll excuse me for a minute,” I said, holding up my phone, “I have to tell her Morgan isn’t happy about her entering the race.”

I didn’t expect my words to turn Bernie into an avenging angel right in front of my eyes.

“Are you talking aboutthe race?The 24 Hours of Lemons?” Her voice got progressively louder and I took a step back instinctively, out of poking range. “That thing I’ve been banned from participating in for years, in spite of the fact that I dated a stunt driver in my twenties who told me I should consider changing careers because I was that good? She’s enteringthatrace?”

“What are you talking about? No one’s banned except for that idiot Dave. I was planning on asking you to give August a few lessons in defensive driving. Did someonebanyou?”

What the fuck?

The front door opened and Gene stepped outside with a bucket of fried chicken cradled possessively in his arms. “What are you two plotting out here?”

How hard was it to get a minute of privacy in a house full of people? I went ahead and texted August while keeping a cautious eye on my volatile sibling.

Bernie crossed her arms, covering her ire with a thin-lipped smile. “Welcome back, Eugene. I bet I can guess what you brought to dinner.”

“You can’t bring me down, Bernadette.” He proved it by grinning in spite her use of the full name he hated. “I’ve been looking forward to this since we got off the plane. I bought an extra bucket so I don’t have to share. I haven’t had fried chicken in a month.”

I shook my head. “From what your wife told us, you found a place that served it in Rome and refused to get on the boat until you ordered some.”

“Fried chicken in Italy, Gene?” Bernie’s tone was all mock disappointment. “That feels like a tourist move.”

“Funny story,” he started, his back against the closed garage door as he settled in, still cuddling his treasure. “There was this old guy on the cruise who wouldnotstop complaining about the lack of Italian food in Italy. He kept saying, ‘Where’s the lasagna? Where’s a good deep-dish pizza? Why doesn’t this have any meatballs?’ It was hilarious. At least I’m notthatmuch of a tourist. I went native. I ate?—”

“Donkey,” Bernie and I said simultaneously. “We heard.”

He looked over at me with narrowed eyes. “Well, I heard we got Jiminy. And I’ve got five hundred in cash, ready to hand over as soon as that sweet sister of mine gets here.”

Bernie fumed silently beside me and I cradled my phone in my hand, hoping I’d sent the message out in time. “You know her terms?”

“Sure.” He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug, pulling out a chicken leg and pointing at us with it as he spoke. “She wants to drive a lap or two with the big dogs. I talked Morgan off the ledge about it, because I’m not seeing a downside. Her sister finally leaves the house, we make sure she knows what she’s doing, and we get the car. After what Dave did to us, I was expecting to settle for a barely-running garbage heap even you couldn’t fix, so this is a gift. The best gift I’ve had in years.”

He took a bite and wiggled his pale eyebrows.

I don’t think Morgan was as convinced as he thought she was. “You really want that VW, don’t you?”

“I can be a good brother-in-law and chew gum at the same time,” he said before his expression burst into absolute glee. “But yes. I’ve got so many ideas.”

Bernie was practically vibrating now. “Will you two boys excuse me for a minute? I’ve got to make a call.”

Who wasshecalling? I nodded to Gene before following her to the end of the driveway to talk her down.

“Bernie, hang—Gus?”

She’d parked on the curb and was holding a bag of what looked like sliders in one hand and glancing down at her phone in the other.

Her pajamas had been replaced with a sweet coral blouse and a pair of tan capris that hugged her round hips. Her hair was pulled back on the sides, her thick curls falling to her shoulders in bouncy spirals that begged to be tugged.

My fingers twitched with the compulsion to touch her, but when she looked up, her expression uncertain, I managed to restrain myself.

She’d gotten my message.

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