Page 60 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man
No, that was just…weird.
* * *
“Your girlfriend wasin my store today.”
Pierce fixed me with a blank stare. “Who?”
“Tall, blond, beautiful, blue eyes, perfect figure…ring any bells?” I asked casually, feigning interest in the trees lining Mr. Gowan’s street from the back seat of Pierce’s luxury SUV.
He furrowed his brow as if deep in thought. “Nope. I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Interesting, because Daphne McAdams said her hairdresser noticed me in the background of some rando social media post. She put two and two together, and oh so subtly warned me to stay away from you. And you know, it kind of shook me. I haven’t been in a secret war over a man since high school when Cindy Fisher accused me of stalking the leader of the football people,” I huffed. “It was so…awkward. I’m officially resigning from my unofficial role as assistant. I love drama…until I’m the focus. No, thank you.”
“Hang on a sec. I’m still stuck on the leader of the football people.”
I gestured irritably. “You know, the guy who holds the ball and throws it to the other players.”
“You mean the quarterback.”
“Maybe? And yes, Jeremy and I exchanged hand jobs, buthewas the one who stalked me.”
“Good to know,” Pierce replied in amusement. “Hey, relax, and don’t worry about Daphne. She’s harmless. I haven’t spoken to her in over a month. So no, I don’t have a girlfriend. I have a short Latino dude who wants me to play a kid game with my fake cousin.”
Oh, I liked his possessive tone even if every other word was plain wrong. “Oh, honey, let’s get a couple of things straight. Scrabble is not a kids’ game, Mr. Gowan is your cousin-in-law, and while I may be vertically challenged, I prefer the term ‘fun-sized.’ Short makes me sound…close to the ground.”
Pierce barked a laugh. “Youareclose to the ground.”
I flipped him off with an imperious tilt of my chin and deadpanned, “Screw you, Mr. Allen.”
He waggled his brows lasciviously. “I like that. You can call me that in bed tonight. Sir works too.”
“You’re hilarious,” I grumbled without heat while Pierce chuckled merrily at his own joke.
He sobered when Raul pulled into Mr. G’s driveway and nudged my elbow on the console. “Can we make this quick? I was serious earlier. I’m not great at games, and I don’t know if I really want to talk about the past, you know?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.” I put my hand over his. “Just let me crush you at one game of Scrabble, and then we can go.”
Mr. Gowan was thrilled to see Pierce. His eyes lit up and welled. “Well, I never—hello.”
“Hi, Mr. G,” I said, patting his shoulder. “I told you I’d stop by today, remember?”
“Yes, but it’s especially nice to see you. I’ve had one of those days.” He sat forward and dug his cane into the Persian rug as he attempted to stand to greet us.
“No, no, don’t get up.” Pierce bowed to shake the older man’s hand, carefully stepping around the oxygen tank beside his wheelchair. “I can’t stay long, but Lo mentioned he was coming to visit you and I…just wanted to see how you were doing.”
Enid let out a happy squeal and insisted on making tea. She served it on the game table by the window with a plate of homemade cookies, gave strict instructions to call her if needed, and retired into the kitchen.
We inquired after Mr. Gowan’s health, commiserating over his sudden albeit short hospital stay while sipping tea and nibbling cookies like obnoxiously polite acquaintances. Mr. G hadn’t called me dah-ling once, I hadn’t shared a single tidbit of store gossip, and Pierce was sitting so tall in his chair he looked like he had a stick up his ass.
When I thought I might OD on civility and deferential cordiality, I pushed my cup aside and hopped to my feet. “Where’s your Scrabble board?”
Twenty minutes later, Pierce and I pushed our teas aside and uncorked a bottle of Pinot at Mr. G’s insistence. We were in the midst of a three-way heated battle, liberally tossing F-bombs over the tile board, grumbling over too many vowels or too many consonants. Alcohol was required.
I sipped my wine as I studied the board. The best strategy was to utilize the double-and-triple letter and word slots. The player who drew letters worth more points and used them wisely usually did very well. I used to play all the time with my grandmother, and I played Words with Friends occasionally with Bran, so I considered myself a worthy opponent to someone like Mr. G, who’d been a Scrabble guru for decades.
Pierce, on the other hand…
“What the fuck kind of word is ‘quo’? No one walks around saying quo,” he argued, growling at the board.