Page 110 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“In ears and a tail?”
She grins in response to my joke.
“I have a suit or two, bumble baby. When is this?”
“Two weeks on Thursday.”
The weekend after that is when Logan’s collaring Emily. He’s mentioned it several times while I’ve been gone and while he hasn’t specifically said he wants me there, I know he does. But an evening out on Thursday won’t prevent me from going to the collaring on Saturday, and if Cynnie hasn’t already been invited, she’s definitely going to be my plus one.
“I’ll be there.”
“My family be there,” she says.
“Yeah? Is it okay for me to meet your family?” She hasn’t invited me to her house and, understanding her strained relationship with her family, I haven’t pushed. This feels like a big step.
She nods. “I want you to. Just, for now, we say you’z my friend?”
That stings, but I understand she’ll want to take introducing me to her family slow.
“Of course, baby, whatever you want.”
“You’z dance with me?”
I’ll have to polish up my moves. Mac taught the whole unit to dance “like gentlemen” when we got into too much trouble on furlough. Hopefully, he’ll be around the week before the party to help me practice.
“I’d love to dance with you. Wait until you see my hustle, or my electric slide.”
She breaks into peals of giggles. “No, Oppa.”
“Oh, yeah. We’re going old school, my bumble baby.”
She rolls onto her back, holding the phone over her, and giggles until tears gloss her eyes. I wish I was there to kiss them away.
“You’z be bored. Stuffy party with old people.”
“As long as I’m with you, my bumble, I will never be bored. You put me down as your plus one, tell me where to be and when, and I’ll be there with my dancing shoes on.”
She ends the call not long after, when her stepmother and grandmother return from wherever they’ve been. She’s smiling, her eyes alight, no tension in her soft body. Even her fingers look better. She was biting her nails ragged while she ghosted me, but they’ve healed smoothly and are polished with those cute polka-dots.
My happy, healthy baby girl.
twenty-three
Some of Logan’sBritishism tickle me. Particularly now that I’m on this little island that spawned his odd way of speaking. One particular phrase, “does my napper in,” rings in my ears over and over for the next two days.
De Leon announced a “down day” when he slid into the room a few minutes after Cynnie hung up. I didn’t object. I thought I’d use the time to strategize with Logan and make a soft approach to Fred. This is a high-stakes interview. Possibly the only shot we’ll get at an eyewitness. I need to get the guy on Logan’s side.
But holing up with De Leon is literal hell. He crashes and sleeps for more than eighteen hours, which says everything I need to know about his psycho overwatch schedule. He’s worn himself out. And either his guts still haven’t recovered from that fucking Balti, or he’s eaten something since that disagreed with him, because he farts continually while he sleeps. It’s more regular than my metronome app. Instead of tick-tick-tick it’s pfft-pfft-pfft. And it stinks like rotten eggs.
Even worse, one day stretches into two. He vetoes my plans to go running, or even for a brisk walk around the b-and-b’s garden. He lets me out for breakfast, so Miz Skirmish doesn’t have to bring our food to our room, but the rest of the timeit’s delivery, and the Meat Lover’s pizza does not do anything to improve De Leon’s digestion.
I’m so restless by the afternoon of the second day that I find myself doing push-ups on the floor between our beds while on a video call with my bumble. She, of course, finds my display endlessly amusing and puts on music for a “Tikker challenge” that she records, giggling wildly.
Despite the seclusion doing my napper in, I come off the call with her grinning.
De Leon, who woke up when I started the call and put his headphones in, sits up in bed.
“That,” he says, pointing at me. “That’s what I want.”
