Page 81 of Need You
Delaney went upstairs and changed into her pajamas. Too late to work, she stretched out on her bed with a new book. Not five pages into it and her phone rang.
“Hello.”
“What are you doing?” Colt asked.
“Reading. Is there a problem?” Maybe she’d left a lamp on somewhere.
“Can’t sleep.”
“Colt, you’ve been home all of ten minutes.” He couldn’t seem to make up his mind about her. She wasn’t going to let him play this on-and-off thing he was doing. He needed to fish or cut bait as her father liked to say.
“I know, but I’m not tired.”
“You were the one who hurried to leave. We could’ve had a drink but I’m in my pajamas now.”
“Pajamas? What do they look like?”
“Seriously? You’re doing the what-are-you-wearing thing now? I’m starting to think you’re schizoid.”
“Me too,” he said, letting out a long, suffering sigh. “Against my better judgment, you make me want to break my own rules.”
“No worries. I’m going to do you a favor and save you from yourself,” she said as gently as possible, and hung up.
“You make me want to break my own rules,”she mimicked. As if it was her fault that he had a split personality.
A little while later she told herself she was thirsty and got out of bed. On the way downstairs, she stopped in her studio, pulled the shade back, and took a peek. Colt’s lights were out.
* * *
The next morning, Colt got called out on a GTA—grand theft auto. Morris Finkelstein, who was older than dirt, said someone had lifted his Buick right under his nose. This was not the first time he’d reported it stolen. The problem was Mr. Finkelstein had a penchant for leaving his car in places, walking home, and forgetting that he’d driven.
Colt didn’t think he had Alzheimer’s or any other kind of dementia, he was just absentminded. And stubborn as hell, because no matter how many times Colt suggested that he’d probably lost his car like he had the last time, Mr. Finkelstein insisted that no, it had been parked in his driveway before he went to bed.
Colt finally gave up trying to convince him otherwise, took a report, and put out a BOLO. As had happened in the past, one of his officers would eventually find the Buick in a parking lot or on Main Street, covered in bird shit. Then Colt would have to go and fetch Mr. Finkelstein’s car keys and deliver the heap home.
On his way back to the station, Colt swung by Tart Me Up. The morning called for a cherry turnover and coffee that wasn’t Jack’s sludge. As usual, a long line for breakfast snaked around the bakery and Colt took a number. Rachel must’ve been in the back because the kids from the Island of Misfit Toys were working the counter. When it came his turn, he got his Danish and a cup of joe and took it to go.
“You get me anything?” Carrie Jo asked when he came in the door and she spied his Tart Me Up bag.
“You’re always on a diet.”
“I’m starting on Monday.”
Colt tilted his head in confusion. “This is Monday.”
“I’m giving myself a week’s grace period, then I’m going on the Mediterranean diet. Studies say it’s the healthiest and, uh, this is California, land of fruits and nuts.”
“Okay, I’ll split this with you.” He pulled out the pastry and started to break it in half.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll walk over in a few minutes and get one for me and Jack.”
Colt’s brows winged up. “Jack, huh?”
“He likes their cheese Danish.”
Colt left it alone. He didn’t know what was going on between those two but he fervently hoped Jack didn’t get hurt. Carrie Jo went for stockbroker, banker types, like her dickhead ex-husband.
“Any calls?” He stood by her desk drinking his coffee and eating his turnover.
