Page 34 of Road Queens
“This place is great,” he replied absently. The stairs from the store led to what was mostly an open plan (save for the bed and bath in the back), complete with a reading nook in one of the turrets. The living area was filled with mismatched, comfortable furniture (Amanda prioritized comfort over looks just about every time), including the red velvet fainting couch in the left turret, which she’d practically stolen from a HOM Furniture we-lost-our-lease sale.
The nook also boasted a stack of magazines (RoadRUNNER,Motorcycle Classics,InStyle), books (The Book Lover’s Cookbook,Harley-Davidson Memories, andThe Women’s Guide to Motorcycling, which Amanda was editing for fun), a soon-to-be-devoured bag of Chex Mix, and a view of Prescott Beach.
The dark wooden floors gleamed from irregular waxing; the walls were cream colored and studded with framed photos and demotivational posters (“True love is when two people lower their standards just the right amount”). There were plush throw rugs in jewel colors of deep red and blue, and a working fireplace, which she’d scrubbed like Cinderella, then used to store her candles.
“Look at all the windows,” he marveled, eyeing her windowsill herb garden, which took up the opposite turret. She didn’t have a green thumb—she could never muster the patience—but mint, basil, andparsley were so hardy that they could probably thrive on the bottom of a lake. “From the outside, it seems like it’d be dark up here.”
As tense as she was, she had to smile to see he liked the building she loved best. “Okay, tour’s over. Now, d’you want red wine or white, and you’d better say red.”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“I’m having a chocolate malt.”
His face brightened, and at once, he looked young enough to be carded. “Really? That sounds great, I’d love one. You ever notice, malts are one of those things where you normally don’t think about them, but when you see one, you want it?”
“Malts and popcorn and ballet flats, yep.”
He followed her into the small galley kitchen, which wouldn’t have suited Martha Stewart but was perfect for her. She lovedfood. Cooking, not so much. The stove, microwave, oven, and dishwasher were small and well used but in good repair. Most of her money was tied up downstairs in the store, which meant when things needed repair (and in an old house, when didn’t they?), she was on deck. Thank God for YouTube videos.
She pulled out whole milk, Breyers chocolate ice cream, her homemade vanilla extract (once Iris Rivers had shown her how easy it was to make, she’d never looked back), and the malt powder. Her ancient blender sounded like a jet engine in distress, so conversation was impossible. It didn’t seem to matter to Beane; he stood close, clearly approved of the caliber of ingredients, and watched everything while practically drooling. She kept catching him staring at her; then his gaze would skitter away, and he’d pretend he’d been admiring the cupboard or the hideous throw rug or her penguin salt and pepper shakers.
In three minutes, they were both struggling to suck thick shakes up into not-quite-wide-enough straws.Mental note: pick up some of those fat metal straws Sidney’s always babbling about. Except she mostly uses hers to poke things. And people.
“God, this is wonderful. I love ice cream. Got a freezer full of the homemade stuff.”
“You make ice cream?”
He nodded and sucked.
“That explains the Cold Stone Creamery fetish,” she teased. “So how long did it take you to realize I hung on to your ID?”
“I’d tell you, but the answer is embarrassing.”
“Detective,” she snorted.
“Well, not anymore. Or at least, not on the force. Still a detective, though. I went private.”
“I figured.” Eventually. After missing a dozen clues. It irked her just to think about it. She pulled his driver’s license out of her back pocket. “Here.”
“Thank God. I was worried I’d have to wrestle you for it.”
“Wrestle? You and me? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” She coughed. “Ridiculous.”
“I noticed your ring the other day. But you’re single, right?”
“Right.” She raised a hand and spread her fingers, showing him the wide steel ring. “I bought this for myself; it’s not a gift and I’m not engaged. It’s got a concealed razor in it for box cutting. I use it in the store and also the dance floor.”
He laughed. “Oh, okay. Thanks for explaining.”
Okay, he’s displaying an astonishing level of relief right now. Why does he give a shit about my marital status?
“How about you? No flies on you, or a wedding ring either.”
He shook his head, managed to suck up a mighty slurp, then replied, “No. Single. I’m—it’s the job. And the hours. I don’t really have time for ... for activities that aren’t the job.”
“Those were several words when you could’ve just said, ‘I’m single and ready to mingle.’”
“But only one of those would be true,” he replied, and she had to laugh. She watched his cheeks hollow as he sucked in more malt, and itwas fucking absurd; the man could’ve been a model. That was probably the real reason he’d quit the force—to follow the shallow dreams of the perennially handsome. She could tell by looking at him that he’d never be ugly or even old, only “distinguished.” He’d go silver, not gray, first at his temples and then all over, and would retain his hotness, like Clooney or Selleck or Neeson.
