Page 9 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Reese

"Nine point five," I hear Ruthie announce from the Garden Home porch as he passes.

"Too generous," Della responds. "Nine."

"I'd give it a ten," Marge argues. "Maybe eleven."

Massimo turns, catching them mid-evaluation.

"Don't mind us, dear," Ruthie calls. "Just rating what your mama gave you."

He grins, approaching the porch instead of the station. "And what exactly are you rating, signoras?"

"Your ass… your assets," Della says with a smile.

God. Only one man in Fairwick could get the Garden Home porch committee slash peanut gallery this riled up before eight in the morning. I resist the urge to roll my eyes… barely.

As soon as he enters my office, I point to the uniform hanging on my coat rack. “Try it on."

"Perfect." He takes it, disappearing into the bathroom. When he emerges, he's somehow transformed the boxy uniform into something that looks custom-made, sleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned.

The uniform shouldn’t look like that. Loose in all the wrong places, shapeless by design—yet somehow it clings in exactly the right ones. My mouth remembers how to work just in time.

"That's not regulation wear."

"It will be after I visit a tailor tonight."

"Why bother? It's temporary."

"I'm Italian, cara. We don't compromise on presentation." He drops into the chair across from my desk. "So, what exactly are we investigating?"

I push four files toward him. "Four incidents in three weeks.

The bakery on Elm had a pipe burst in their prep area.

The library had an electrical fire that triggered the sprinklers.

Jossie's coffee shop window was smashed, and Mrs. Abernathy's mail was delivered to Mr. Beemer a few blocks away for a week straight. "

"Could be coincidence," he says, flipping through the files.

"Three of them are businesses participating in the Summer Festival. Coincidence feels thin."

"The mail delivery seems different, though."

I nod, surprised he caught that. "I thought so too. Likely unrelated. But mail tampering is a crime."

"Any suspects?" He studies the bakery photos.

"No security footage, no fingerprints. But Marcus Shelby started making offers on downtown properties two months ago."

"Who's he?"

"Real estate developer. Wants to build a resort complex. Needs at least four Main Street properties to make it work."

"And all three affected businesses refused to sell?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Exactly. But I can't prove it. No evidence connecting him to the scenes."

"We should re-interview everyone involved. Sometimes people remember details later. Or tell different things to different people."

"I've already questioned them thoroughly."

"But I haven't." His smile is disarming. "People open up to me."

"Because you flirt instead of interrogate?"

"I create a comfortable atmosphere for honest conversation. And I flirt only with about fifty percent of people.”

“The fifty percent who are female?” I roll my eyes. "Fine. We'll start with Shelby, though."

As we exit, the grandmas wave Massimo back over. I wait, impatient, as he approaches them again.

"Ladies, I must apologize, but duty calls." He takes Ruthie's hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles. "Though I'd much rather stay and hear about how you spend your days."

"I volunteer at the library," Marge says, extending her hand for her kiss. "Romance section."

“Steamy romance,” Birdie explains.

"Of course you do," he says, obliging her. "I should have known by your excellent taste."

I wonder if that comment is related to Marge being the one who gave his ass an eleven.

"I cook," Della announces as he kisses her hand. "French, Mexican, Indian food… among other cuisines."

"My mother taught me Italian food recipes that would make you weep with joy," he tells her. "I could share them if you’d like to cook together some time."

Della’s eyes brighten. “You know… you should come on Saturday. We all have small apartment kitchens here, but mine’s well-equipped. We can make an exquisite meal together. Or, better yet, you cook while we observe you. For technique.”

“Five PM work?” he asks with a smile. “Sheriff Ramsey can supervise.”

“You’ve got it.” Della's eyes light up.

He turns to the last in line with a conspiratorial smile. "And you, signora?" he asks Birdie, taking her hand.

"I spend time with my grandson," she says. "He helps me get around town. Jax. Good boy. Works too hard."

"Family is everything," he agrees, kissing her hand with extra flourish. "Perhaps one day I'll meet him."

"Oh, I'm sure you will," Birdie says, with a smile.

"We need to go," I call.

"Until Saturday," he tells them. "I'll bring the ingredients."

As we walk toward Main Street, I shake my head. "You didn't need to offer them cooking lessons."

"Why not? I'm an excellent cook." He straightens his unbuttoned collar. "And they're lonely."

I study him, surprised by this glimpse beneath the flirtatious exterior.

"Did you notice how they all have alibis?" he asks suddenly.

"What? They weren't giving alibis."

"Library volunteer, maybe during the library fire? Spending time with her grandson when bakeries and coffee shops have their issues? All very convenient explanations for being near crime scenes."

I laugh. "You think four elderly women are vandalizing local businesses?"

"I think everyone's a suspect until proven otherwise." He winks. "Isn't that police work?"

"Yes, but—"

"But nothing. We interview everyone, even sweet grandmas with nice alibis."

"Fine. But we start with the developer. He has motive."

"What motive could the grandmas have?"

"None, which is why they're not suspects."

"Everyone might have a motive. We just don't know theirs yet.

" He grins, infuriatingly confident, then adds more seriously, "Okay, maybe grandmas don't run a crime ring from their knitting club.

But they've been watching this town from the same porch for years.

They see things, notice patterns. They might have pieces to this puzzle they don't even realize they're holding. "

I hate that he makes sense.

Before I can respond, he's already striding ahead, the department uniform somehow looking like designer wear on his frame. As irritating as his theories are, I have to admit—it's the first time in weeks I've felt excited about this investigation.

I tell myself I'm just glad for the fresh perspective. Not because I'm looking forward to spending the day with him. Definitely not that.