Page 15 of The Backup Groom
Dreaming that—
“I’ll get back to you with that proof,” the dream crusher said, pulling her hand away from mine. She took her mango-guava juice from Dean and pointed toward the corner. “Stella—let’s get that spot over there.”
“I’ll bring over the sandwiches when they’re ready,” Dean said. “We need to add the cheese and stick them in the panini press.”
“Thank you,” Stella said.
“My pleasure. Always,” he said happily. “It was great seeing you again, Stella.”
“You too, Dean.” She followed Amber to the corner. Not wasting any time, she opened her laptop as Amber scooted closer.
“What was that?” I asked.
“What?” Dean played it off.
“My pleasure. Always,” I said, trying to imitate him. “There was subtext there.”
“I have no idea what that word even means.”
“Google it.” I unwrapped the two prepared sandwiches and added cheese to both. After placing them on the panini press, I pulled the lever down to close it, and set the timer.
“What do you think they’re working on over there?” Dean asked, staring off into the corner. “Sounds mighty suspicious, if you ask me.”
“That’s their business, not mine,” I said, not being able to stop myself from glancing at the two of them as Stella pointed to her laptop.
Dean continued to watch them. “They’re hiding something. I can feel it. Stella was about to say something and Amber stopped her.”
“Settle down, Inspector Clouseau. They’re working and don’t want to bore us with the details.”
“I’m not so sure about that . . .” Dean waggled his brows and reached for the broom. “What a coincidence. I need to go clean that corner right behind their table.”
Before I could protest, he was gone.
A few seconds later, Dean was sweeping the floor directly behind Amber and Stella, glancing over at their laptop screen.
Could he be any more obvious?
I closed my eyes and shook my head, praying that he wouldn’t get caught.
Too bad my prayers weren’t answered.
Dean moved to get a closer look, but in the process, bumped into the life-size wax replica of Captain Kirk. Reaching out to settle the wobbling figure, he smacked a plastic smoothie cup off the table behind him with the broom. The cup bounced off the tile floor several times, the clatter echoing throughout the coffeehouse. Amber and Stella both jumped in their seats, frazzled, as the cup slid to a stop against Amber’s foot.
“Sorry about that,” Dean called out to everyone watching him. He lifted the cup off the floor, wiped off Amber’s shoe with a napkin, then stood back up. “I may have been a little too enthusiastic about sweeping today. That’s what I get for being a neat-freak.”
Dean quickly returned to my side. “That was a close one.”
I held out my hand. “Turn in your spy badge, James Bond. You’re finished in this town.”
He ignored my attempt at humor. “Dude—we might need to call the cops on them.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious—they’re plotting something devious. I’m pretty sure homicide is on the menu.”
“You have a vivid imagination,” I said. “Does this have anything to do with the story you’re writing?”
Dean was an aspiring mystery writer who hoped to be published one day. He was most likely testing out his material on me to see if I thought it was believable.
