Twenty-seven
“CLARE, wake up!”
“What is it?!”
“You were thrashing around, calling out.”
My heart was still racing. “I was swimming, getting nowhere, starting to sink.”
“Yeah . . .” Mike rubbed his eyes. “I’ve had dreams like that. Your mind’s processing all the stress, trying to work things out.”
“I guess.”
He touched my cheek, his blue eyes looking worried. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m glad you’re here. What time is it?”
He stretched and smiled, leaned in close. “Time for breakfast.”
Clearly, the man was hungry, but not for food. His kisses were sweet at first, trailing along my jawline and shoulder. Then his hands got busy and both our passions quickly rose. I was relieved when he pulled me beneath him. After the awful things in that nightmare, I needed to feel something good.
EVENTUALLY, we made it to the kitchen.
Wanting to spoil Mike, I brewed a fresh pot of Tanzanian peaberry. Full-bodied with sweet notes of fruit and a finish of bright citrus, it was a heavenly cup, like having dessert for breakfast.
Unfortunately, I was all out of actual dessert—and much of everything else. The coffeehouse had been so busy lately, I’d been working extra hours, and my kitchen cupboards were nearly bare.
I let Mike know.
“You don’t have to cook. I’ll treat you,” he said, renewing his Veselka offer, but I wanted to stick close to home.
Frankly, I was worried. The Village Blend’s early-morning opening had gone well. I even served a new customer: Sergeant (not Davy) Jones from the Harbor Patrol. “You described your coffee so nicely last night,” he said, “I decided to try some myself.”
The sergeant downed a free sample and left with our largest refillable travel mug.
Many of our regulars stopped by, too, none of whom mentioned the viral video. Then Matt had arrived, and I went to bed. Now I couldn’t stop hoping: Is the Gun Girl story over already? Is our business safe from repercussions?
I was anxious to find out.
“You shower and get dressed,” I told Mike. “I’ll fix us something to eat.”
“I thought you said your cupboards were bare.”
“Nearly bare. Trust me . . .”
A little scrounging produced one red pepper, the heel of a breakfast sausage, four eggs, and a hunk of mild cheddar—all I needed to make my big, beautiful sausage-and-pepper-stuffed omelet for two.
When the omelet was done, I brought the pan to the table, cut my fluffy, cheesy, overstuffed handiwork in half, and plated it with the last slices of my Amish Cinnamon-Apple Bread (toasted and slathered with Irish butter).
As Mike and I inhaled our afternoon breakfast, his phone buzzed. It was Franco again, but this time he wasn’t texting. He wanted to talk.
I cleared the table and listened in—or tried to. Mike’s end of the conversation betrayed nothing, except at the close of the call. (And this was a shocker.) He actually smiled.
“Good news?” I asked.
“You remember our mugger?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, Adam Thomas—that’s his name—is also an addict.”
“Didn’t you already deduce that last night?”
“Yes, and Franco confirmed it. He’s been interviewing this kid for three hours. Thomas has no record, and he’s flat broke. But he has something extremely valuable to offer us.”
“Information?”
“Key information, something we’ve been after for weeks. I guess small favors really can give up big rewards—at least in this case.”
“So you’re happy?”
“Happy? Sweetheart, I don’t know how to thank you for bringing me to that park. If this kid’s story turns out to be true, he could be the Rosetta Stone of Styx.”