Forty-four

I didn’t get my dream bubble bath or even that back rub from Mike. But at some point during my overwrought evening, that threat of body odor became a reality.

After greeting my disappointed fiancé with a blown kiss from five feet away and giving Java and Frothy a quick hello-cuddle, I hurried to the bathroom, stripped off my sweaty clothes, and stepped under a stream of warm water.

Since my early days of single motherhood, a long shower was a little vacation. Like waves tumbling a rough shell, the flowing rain would blunt the sharp edges of my rocky day, polishing it into a smoother, more manageable thing. The cleansing cascade almost always calmed my clanging nerves, relaxed my tense muscles, and washed away my cares (at least until the hot water ran out).

Now, as I lathered my sweaty skin with a suitably fragrant coconut-and-orchid soap, I tried to picture myself bathing under a tropical waterfall, beside an azure blue ocean, with a tall, fruity cocktail (and bare-chested Mike) waiting for me at the imaginary open-air bar when I finished.

But it didn’t work. Not tonight.

So much had happened in the past two days that my anxious thoughts wouldn’t stop churning. I rinsed off, toweled off, and squeezed the water out of my freshly shampooed hair, but I hadn’t been able to wash away my worries.

The least of them involved my ex-husband, who had yet to return my text messages. Given Matt’s secret lunch meeting with Cody “Drifter” Wood, the prolonged silence didn’t help my state of mind, which wasn’t in a good place to begin with.

Despite my success at helping Madame impress her friend and the glimmer of hope that our Writer’s Block Lounge relaunch would save our shop, I couldn’t shake the disturbing sense of futility over helping a crime victim who’d been attacked, right in our back alley.

I could still see the sparkle in Mr. Scrib’s eyes as he played his poetry game with Esther. The terror in his face when he’d lapsed into that disturbing episode in our lounge. And the horrible sight of his slight body slumped next to our dumpster, head bleeding.

Someone had hurt that poor old man so badly that he might not live to see another day, drink another cup of coffee, play another round with his young barista friend.

Many years ago, that alley had seen another crime, one that my mentor still believed she could have prevented.

I knew how she felt.

I’d been close to the attack on Mr. Scrib, yet I couldn’t stop it.

I’d chased his attacker, but I’d been unable to catch up.

I was an eyewitness, yet I was unable to provide a proper ID.

And while I’d taken in a lot of information about our sweet elderly customer, I didn’t know what—if anything—to make of it.

Fortunately, there was a seasoned detective waiting for me in the kitchen, a professional, albeit skeptical, listener. And while I didn’t always share Mike’s viewpoints, I did value his counsel.

After blow-drying my hair on autopilot, I wrapped a thick terry robe around me, stuffed my feet into slippers, and descended my duplex apartment’s short flight of steps.

The prince of patience, Mike was still calmly waiting for me in the kitchen. No, he wasn’t shirtless. But he had changed out of his work clothes and into a soft gray Police Athletic League T-shirt and sweatpants.

He had shaved and showered, too. I could see his sandy hair was still damp. But though his suit, gun, and gold shield were put away, his job was still clearly on his mind—and in his hands.

His brow was furrowed in concentration (or was it concern?) as he finished a text.

When he realized I was standing in the doorway, watching him, he set his phone aside, and we finally shared a proper kiss hello.

“You smell nice,” he whispered. “Hard day?”

“Yeah, which was why I needed the shower. To improve my mood and—shall we say—fragrance.”

Mike’s serious face cracked at that. “So it was a good shower?”

“I was doing my best to picture you on a white sand beach, half-naked.”

“Which half?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Promise?”

“I do.”

The strong embrace of my fiancé’s arms made me feel less alone in my troubles, and I hugged him in return. Then he sat me down in front of a picnic spread worthy of a Tuscan villa, poured me a glass of Chianti, and got right to the point—

“Now what exactly was Madame’s problem and why did she need your help?”

Answering Mike’s questions would require so much explanation that I couldn’t help reprising my three-fingered Girl Scout salute.

“On pain of losing my merit badges, Lieutenant, I promise to submit to your interrogation. But first, I have some questions for you. And I’m starving, so let’s eat.”