Chapter

45

Much to my dismay and for reasons unknown, Brodie insisted on feeding me. Not in the literal sense, mind you. But he refused to let me leave until I cleared my plate. Maybe he didn’t want to murder me on an empty stomach. I grinned as the thought flickered through my head.

Brodie wasn’t about to kill me. At least not at the Gett family dinner table.

I was 90 percent sure.

Besides, he’d have to take Marshall out too, since the man in question currently served an array of delicious foods, none canned, to Brodie and me.

“More whiskey, miss?” Marshall held out a bottle of Gett. Its label clearly printed, white lettering upon black. Straightforward, like the whiskey itself. Not an ounce of creativity went into packaging or the brew. Unlike Lucky. We opted for bold flavors. Packaging and liquor with flair.

I debated the wisdom of another drink, and then decided if I were going to die, I would have at least two more. “Yes, please.” I hoisted my glass, smiling as he poured a perfect two fingers. He motioned the bottle to Brodie. “Master Brodie?”

“I’m good,” he answered. “No matter how much I beg, Marshall refuses to call me anything but Master Brodie. He knows it drives me insane.”

“Rightly so, Master Brodie,” Marshall responded, deadpan.

I giggled, eased by the friendly banter. You didn’t joke around with someone you planned to kill, right? Another laugh escaped my lips. This one filled with nervous energy.

Marshall disappeared to parts unknown, leaving Brodie and I alone in a dining room large enough to hold fifty. Thankfully Brodie had rearranged the place settings so we were seated across from each other rather than at opposite ends of the long table.

“What were you and Grandma discussing before I came into the library?” he asked after a long silence.

Instead of answering, I asked a question of my own. “What were you and Roger discussing before he was murdered?”

Brodie gave a small shake of his head. “You won’t give up, will you?”

Now it was my turn to shake my head. “I can’t.”

“I know.” He blew out a brash breath.

We consumed the rest of the fabulous meal in an uneasy peace. The only sound was the clicking of forks against china that cost more than my apartment. When I finished the last bite of a fabulous tiramisu, I set my fork down and looked up—right into Brodie’s steady gaze.

I wiped my face with the linen napkin in my lap. “What?” I asked when he didn’t look away.

“Are you ready to go?”

Rather than answer, I pushed from the table. My legs felt rubbery from the whiskey and good food. Not to mention the slight fear I felt being so close to Brodie Gett. He led me from the house to his Jeep. Holding out his hand, he helped me up, his hand lingering a little too long.

“Charms,” he said into the darkness, “you have a hell of an ass. Anyone told you that?”

I snorted. “I’m not that drunk. And you’re definitely not that smooth. So whatever you’re planning, forget it. I’m not sufficiently intoxicated enough to climb any water towers tonight.”

Jumping in the driver’s side of the Jeep, he started the engine. He started down the driveway. “About that …” he trailed off.

“What?” Was he about to offer an apology? A Gett asking for a Lucky’s clemency? Be still my whiskey-laced heart.

Rather than beg my forgiveness, he jerked the Jeep to a stop. “Some idiot left the garage door open again. Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He leapt from the vehicle.

I winced, knowing just who said idiot was.

In my rush to get to Rue, I’d forgotten to shut the side door. Would he discover my trespass?

Instead of worrying about it, I opted to take advantage of his leaving. I ran my hand along the dashboard, then I looked to the left, and then the right before I popped the glovebox open. When we’d gone to visit Boone, I’d noticed a gun hidden inside. I should’ve taken a closer look then, but in my defense, Boone had been trying to fill us with buckshot.

There indeed was a weapon inside the glovebox. A snubnose .38.

Was it the same gun used to kill Roger?

My fear, half wrapped in the warmth of whiskey, surged forth. Calm down, Charlotte. Brodie wasn’t about to kill me on the drive home. Though he had flatly refused when I said I preferred to walk. “Too many hidden dangers,” he warned. “I’ll take you.”

With my gaze resting on a beautiful homemade dessert, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal.

But now, faced with a .38, I felt very real fear.

“Hey,” Brodie said. I jumped a foot in the air, dropping the gun on the floorboard. It landed with a loud bang, but thankfully didn’t fire. Not sure how I might’ve explained killing Brodie with a ricochet from the same gun used in Roger’s murder. Danny would probably give Jack and me a two-for-one deal on prison garb.

Brodie gazed down at the weapon, and then back at me. I swallowed hard as his eyes turned from down-home country boy to cold-blooded solider. “Did you want to ask me something, Charms?”

The hairs on my arms rose to attention. I stared him dead in the eye, and lied, “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“Good.” He lifted himself back into the driver’s seat. Slowly, ever so slowly, he leaned down, between my legs, and picked up the gun. I froze as the whiskers on his cheek grazed the thin fabric of my leggings. I fought the urge to draw my knees together.

After what seemed like hours, he straightened, checked the safety, and then slipped the gun back inside the glovebox. He put the Jeep into gear and started down the dark path toward the Lucky homestead.