Page 3 of Always Murder (The Last Picks #9)
“I’m not made of stone,” I said.
Bobby didn’t respond. I decided to believe this was because he was brushing his teeth.
We’d come home to Hemlock House after that conversation with Paul. I was lying on our bed, in our bedroom, in my undershirt and trunks. The ugly sweater was on the floor, waiting to be burned so that I’d never have to wear it again. Bobby, of course, had folded his neatly.
“I had to say yes,” I said. “What if she started crying?”
Still nothing but the sound of splashing water.
“And it’s not like it’s anything serious,” I said. “I’ll ask a few questions. See if there’s anything to Paul’s theory about it being an inside job. Maybe if I threaten a lawsuit, they’ll give him his job back—I mean, I can’t imagine they have any proof he’s behind the thefts.”
Old pipes groaned. Then the water shut off. Hemlock House was awesome—damask wallpaper and canopy beds and secret passages and so many giant paintings of horses (I wanted to say they were geldings?) that sometimes seemed like they were watching you. Around the holiday season, it was even more magical, festooned inside and out with lights and garlands and stuffed with Christmas tree after Christmas tree. It was warm. It was safe. It was beautiful, and it was unique, and it was a treasure, and the fact that somehow I’d accidentally ended up owning it was one of the best things that had ever happened to me (except for the utility bills). I was planning on spending the rest of my life here. With Bobby, if he didn’t wise up before I could trap him into marriage. Hemlock House was, however, noisy. Apparently, most old houses were. Which was probably why Bobby still hadn’t said anything.
At that moment, he appeared in the doorway to the bathroom. He was naked. This was a thing with Bobby. He was super comfortable with his body, which, as an objective outside observer, I felt he had every right to be. See, Bobby is jacked. He’s ripped. He’s toned. He’s—what’s the non-objectifying word for beefcake? He also happens to be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. And right then, with his skin still flushed from his shower and his dark hair still damp and mussed, free from its usual precision part, he looked like a total snack.
“Of course it’s serious,” he said. “This is felony theft, Dash. We’re not talking about a slap on the wrist and some jail time. This is prison. Whoever’s doing this, they’re highly motivated to make sure no one catches them. That’s why the sheriff’s office is looking into this.”
“But it’s not a murder. It’s just some packages getting stolen.”
“It’s always murder with you.”
“How dare you!”
He smiled, but only for a moment. He padded over to the tallboy and opened a drawer. “I’m serious, Dash. People kill over less than this.”
“Do you want me to tell Millie no?”
He pulled out a pair of boxers, but then he stood there, holding them.
“If you want me to tell her no,” I said, “I will.”
That earned me the big, goofball grin.
“What?” I asked.
“That was very sweet.”
“Bobby, I can tell people no. I don’t have to investigate every single thing that happens. I’m perfectly happy to rot at home on the couch, dissolving into a slurry of video game soup.”
“Is there a middle ground between snooping and rotting on the couch?”
“Bobby!”
“We talked about a gym membership.”
“BOBBY!”
Somehow, that goofy grin got even bigger. He came over to the bed, sat, and put his hand on my chest. “I want you to be careful. And if this is more than a few packages disappearing, I want you to tell me so I can help you.”
I nodded.
Bobby has the most incredible eyes, in case I haven’t mentioned them before. They’re this rich, earthy bronze. And when he’s happy, they crinkle.
“Come here,” I whispered.
His eyebrows went up.
I yanked the boxers from his hand and threw them. “You aren’t going to need those.”
Laughing, he let me pull him onto the bed.
After, lying in the circle of Bobby’s arms, I was warm and limp, melting into the familiar strength of his body. I thought I could hear his heartbeat. Every so often, his lips would brush against me: my nape, my collarbone, my shoulder. Do you want to know one of the pluses of having a boyfriend who is serious and earnest and one hundred percent committed to doing the best job he possibly can at everything? (Aside from the fact that he does a killer job at mowing the lawn.)
The word, my friends, is attentive.
And enthusiastic.
And energetic.
Oh, and stamina. Did I mention Bobby does leg days?
His hand stroked my flank, moved upward, following my belly, then chafing lightly at my ribcage.
I fought the bone-melting happiness that was telling me to lie there and be a puddle of goo, because this—the energy I could feel behind his restless touching—meant Bobby wanted to talk about something.
Then I remembered.
“You’re going to be a detective.”
His hand stilled on my side. He left it there, solid and warm. Then his thumb moved again, scratching pleasantly across my ribs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I think that would be great.”
His “Yeah?” was warier than I anticipated.
“Yeah, of course.” I did some squirming-twisting-rolling to face him. “Bobby, you’re such a good deputy. You’re smart. You’re hardworking. You’re good with people.” I nuzzled into him. “You’re amazing. You’ll make a fantastic detective. Oh my God, Bobby, you could tell me all the stuff detectives really do—I’d have an inside source!”
He did a funny laugh. “I’d have to apply.”
“You haven’t applied?” When he didn’t say anything, I asked, “Why not?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to talk to you first.”
And maybe that was true. Maybe . In fact, it probably was, because Bobby Mai wasn’t a liar.
But it wasn’t the whole truth.
He started to speak again, stopped, and then said, “I’ve got to work a double tomorrow.”
Fighting the urge to ask, Again?, somehow I managed to nod.
“It won’t be like this forever,” Bobby said.
“I know.”
“It’s going to get better.”
“I know.”
He hitched me closer. “I love you.”
“I know.”
When he pinched me, I squealed.
“I love you too,” I said, somewhere between outrage and laughter.
And then everything felt all right again, and we slept.