Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
I blinked. “We haven’t really talked about that.”
“I don’t care,” he said simply. “Just no lacy pillows on the couch. It’s leather. Otherwise, knock yourself out.”
“I will. Thanks.”
He passed me a glass, his fingers brushing mine. “Of course.” Heat shot up my arm, quick and unsettling. “Do you need money?” he asked.
I met his eyes over the rim of my glass, always needing money. “No.”
He studied me for a beat, the way he did when he wanted to ask more but didn’t. The fire popped behind us, throwing shadows across the room. Outside, the storm raged, but in the cabin it was steady warmth and quiet.
We weren’t to the point where we shared funds. Money didn’t seem to matter much to Aiden, and it wasn’t like he’d grown up with any of it. Still, he’d bought this cabin outright, so I knew he’d saved far better than I ever had. I’d never been much of a saver. Keeping the law firm afloat sometimes took everything I had and then some.
“What are we eating?” I asked, steering the conversation away from finances.
“Baked rigatoni with spicy sausage.” He moved toward the stove, flicked off the flame, and drained the pasta in one smooth motion. Steam rose up, carrying the scent of tomato, basil, and heat. He tossed everything together in a big wooden bowl my Nana had given him as a housewarming gift, finishing with a generous snowfall of shaved Parmesan.
“Sometimes I forget you can cook,” I said.
He lifted one powerful shoulder in a shrug. “I can follow directions.”
“Show-off.”
“Sit.”
I sat at the small table we’d recently bought for the nook overlooking what would someday be the back deck. The windows glowed faintly from the reflection of the fire, and the rain outside had turned into a steady whisper against the glass.
He placed two steaming bowls down on the bare table, and I reminded myself, again, that we really needed placemats.
“I didn’t make a salad or anything,” he said.
“Nah, this looks great. No salad needed.” I took another sip of the wine he’d poured earlier. “This is good. What is it?”
He sat. “It’s a red blend from Walla Walla.”
“Yum.” I took a long swallow. Warmth slid into my stomach, meeting the heat from the fire and spreading all the way to my toes. I took a bite of the pasta and let out a small, involuntary hum.
He smirked. “Is it good?”
“It’s amazing. Is there anything you can’t do?”
He rolled his eyes and reached for his fork. “Keep you out of trouble.”
I laughed, because yeah, that was true.
When the laughter faded, I set my fork down and studied him across the table. The firelight threw a copper edge across his cheekbones, softening the hard lines of his jaw. His hair was getting a little long at the back, and his five o’clock shadow had drifted well past midnight. He looked dangerous. Irish dangerous. Like one of those old-time bandits.
“Could you do a deep dive on somebody for me?” I asked.
He looked up, brow lifting. “A deep dive? You’ve been watching too much television,” he said, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“There’s no such thing as too much television. But could you?”
He sat back, the chair creaking softly. “I suppose I could. I usually need a reason, though.”
“Yeah,” I said, twisting my fork through the noodles. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
He took another bite, slow and deliberate. “Go on.”
“This guy, Cormac Coretti, keeps popping up everywhere. He showed up in Silverville right after the theft at Nana’s shop, has been asking around town, and is trying to find the silver boxes. Seems suspicious and way too familiar. I’m wondering if that’s enough to start looking into him.”
Aiden’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “He says he’s looking for the boxes?”
“Yeah. But I don’t know.” I sighed. “He called us the Albertini trio when he was in the bar earlier.”
Aiden’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened. “He was at the Penguin?”
“Yeah,” I said, my pulse ticking faster. “He was.”
Aiden took another slow swallow of wine. “That’s an old nickname,” he said blandly.
“Right.” I tried to sound casual, but my skin prickled in the silence that followed. The fire popped behind us, and Brickhouse snored from his spot on the rug.
Aiden stared into the fire for a long moment, the glow shifting across his face, throwing sharp edges and soft shadows by turns. Then he reached for the serving spoon and added another scoop of pasta to both our bowls.
“If he’s been asking around Silverville,” he said finally, “somebody would’ve mentioned it. I’ll look into him.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He nodded, still thoughtful.
“He asked Donna to dance,” I added.
One of Aiden’s dark eyebrows lifted. “There’s no music at the Penguin.”
“There was,” I said, smiling a little. “The melody was just hard to hear over the crowd.”