Page 9 of Hiss and Make Up
“Sorry.” She hid it behind her back.
The color returned to his cheeks. “Are you sure?”
“I’d be a lot surer if you hadn’t smashed the head.” She doubted he'd looked close enough to describe its pupils. Or that he'd paid attention to the size of the head relative to the neck. Besides, a banded water snake could flatten and widen itself when threatened. “When you found it, did it pull back or did it flash its mouth at you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, think. It makes a difference.”
It made a lot of difference. She and Denise had never been best buddies, true. But she didn’t like the idea of Marc’s nieces or nephews skipping around with potentially poisonous snakes. She needed him to remember.
Marc closed his eyes, and a shudder passed over his body. “Open mouth.”
“Keep your eyes closed and think again,” she said. “What color was the inside of its mouth?”
“I don’t remember what color—”
“Just think!”
He sighed and put his hand over his closed eyes. After another shudder, he said, “White.”
When he opened his eyes, she nodded. “Okay, I’m sure. That’s why they call them cottonmouths. Most people think they’re all fat and black, but they do come brown and banded, and when they’re young they aren’t so broad. Kind of hard to tell them apart except for the head and tail, which you made short work of. Nice, by the way.”
He frowned and gave a sarcastic, “Thanks.”
Problem solved.
Except it wasn’t. Not really. Identifying it still didn’t explain how it ended up in Denise’s deck box. But at least Sierra had done what she came out here to do.
She held the tail in front of her. “Mind if I keep this?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You can take the whole thing.”
* * *
Marc found an old shoebox from Denise’s closet and waited by the cars while Sierra scraped up what was left of the snake. She said they’d take photos of the tail for the Nature Station’s website. Her boss would be thrilled to have a young specimen on hand.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that she seemed excited by it. If it had been anyone else, he’d have been completely repulsed, but this was Sierra.
She strode over carrying the cardboard box in one arm while spinning her keys over the index finger of her other hand. Cool and confident and sexy as hell. He couldn't believe this was the same awkward tomboy who'd run through ditches with him as a kid.
Her hair was shorter. Dark waves grazed her shoulders instead of trailing, unbrushed, down her back. And no way did the Sierra he remembered fill out a pair of jeans like that. Then there was the edge of a colorful tattoo peeking out beneath the sleeve of her navy, v-neck T-shirt.
Her eyes gave her away though. And that mouth. She used to laugh so loud that her giggles gave her away in every game of hide-and-seek. Marc’s mom always kicked them outside so she didn’t have to hear that loud voice all afternoon.
But thiswomanwalking toward him. He could think of a lot of other ways to use that mouth of hers now.
“All done.” She smirked and patted the top of the box. “You can stop hiding in the corner now.”
It was her, all right. She winked and gave him that great big grin that reminded him of all the trouble she’d gotten them into.
“Thanks. Do I owe you anything for coming out here?”
“Nope. I’m on the clock.” She paused and looked as if she were debating something. “Unless you want to buy me lunch sometime. We could catch up?”
If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn he caught an edge of hope or fear in her voice. But Sierra had never been afraid of anything.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, trying not to sound too eager. “It’s the least I can do for you coming out here. I have something tomorrow. How about Sunday?”
