Page 13 of The Fine Art of Faking It
“Will do,” Bruce said, springing into action. He pulled Davis into a sitting position and grabbed him by the elbow. “Let’s get him to the car.”
Ellery tugged at Davis’s other arm and together they got him to his feet. “I think the smell is hurting my head,” Davis mumbled.
“He’s going to make my car smell like baby puke and Brussels sprouts,” Ellery hissed at Bruce.
“A small price to pay to help our neighbors,” Bruce said cheerfully, half-towing, half-pushing Davis toward Ellery’s funeral mobile.
“Where are your shoes?” Ellery asked in horror.
Davis looked down at his feet. There was a blue drip of paint across the top of his bare foot. He shrugged. “In there?” He pointed at the small, two-story farmhouse with black smoke pouring from the gaping hole.
Davis leaned against Ellery while Bruce wrestled the rear door open. The SUV was even taller than it had looked at a distance. Davis eyed the distance between the ground and the running board.
He closed one eye as his vision swam and picked up his foot. “Am I close?” he asked, feeling blindly with his foot.
“You might need another inch or twelve,” Ellery said.
“Let’s give him a boost,” Bruce suggested. Together, they interlaced their fingers and made a foothold for him. “Now just put your foot in here, and we’ll gently toss you onto the seat.”
Davis did as he was told and found himself hurtling through the air. He landed face-down on the black vinyl seat. “Ooof.” He thought about sitting up and then decided he was just better off here. He pulled the blanket over his head and closed his eyes and pretended that he was safely tucked into his own bed and this whole thing had been a terrible dream.
The roar of the engine cut off a minute later. “Where are we? Did I fall asleep?” he asked sitting up and peering through the window. Fanciful turrets in navy blue and purple rose toward the smoky sky. The front doors were painted canary yellow. It was three-stories of color and whimsy topped with a crescent moon weather vane.
“Oh, hell no,” he muttered. Even concussed and confused, Davis Gates knew he couldn’t cross that threshold.
8
The commotion from the lobby cut through Bruno Mars crooning in Eden’s earbuds. She plucked them out of her ears and covered the pie crust she’d been working with a tea towel. Wiping her hands on her apron, she headed in the direction of the noise. She wondered if it had anything to do with the weird jets of yellow smoke that were wafting over her backyard. Probably that pain in the ass at the winery trying to annoy her. She felt like Davis Gates went out of his way to ruffle her feathers just so she was forced to send him frosty, professional emails.
By the time she got to the lobby, her dogs—the big, fluffy monstrosities, Vader and Chewy—were alternately barking and hiding behind the settee near the Lunar Inn’s front desk.
Ellery Cozumopolaus-Smith and Bruce Oakleigh were holding up a third barefoot person wearing a blanket between them. “Eden!” Ellery said, with a big smile that immediately made Eden suspicious.
“What’s going on?”
“Is the smell following me?” the blanket asked.
Something was rotten in Blue Moon, and it was standing in her lobby. Eden put her hands on her hips. “Who is that?”
Ellery and Bruce were members of Blue Moon’s infamous Beautification Committee, a not-so-secret matchmaking society that tortured couples into falling in love. If they were both standing here in her lobby, someone was in a lot of trouble.
“We’re happy to announce that you have the golden opportunity to fulfill your civic duty as a Mooner,” Bruce announced grandly. He opened his arms with a flourish a beat too late.
The blanket-clad figure swayed, and Bruce steadied it.
“My what?” Eden asked. There was a smell in the lobby. One that was systematically strangling out the lovely scents of coffee and fresh biscuits she’d served only a few hours before.
“Your civic duty,” Bruce repeated. “It seems that one of our dear Blue Moon neighbors has suffered a small, insignificant mishap that requires a place to rest for a few hours until things are sorted out.”
“Uh-huh.” Eden didn’t like where this was going. Yes, she was the proprietress of an inn. Hospitality went bone deep in her. But she had a very bad feeling about this particular human blanket.
The blanket stumbled forward, and when it righted itself, Eden got her first good look at the face beneath it. A dazed Davis Gates squinted at her from beneath a layer of drying blood.
“Oh, hell no!” Eden shook her head so vehemently it made her dizzy. Blue Moon had just survived an astrological apocalypse during which nearly everyone had lost their damn minds. She, in the throes of said astrological insanity, had chopped off her long hair into a spunky, chin-length bob. Thankfully, she liked the look. The fallout was supposed to be over and done with as of yesterday, but with the Gates she despised more than pumpkin-flavored everything showing up in her sanctuary, she could only assume this was the result of apocalpytic machinations.
Vader barked at her human mommy’s reaction. Meanwhile, Chewy buried his nose in Davis’s crotch.
Bruce held up his hands. “Now, Eden, I know that you and Davis here have had a rocky relationship, but heisyour neighbor, and hedidsuffer a small accidental fire.”
