Page 37 of Celebrity in Death

“I’m having the fruity yogurt, and that’s it.”

At his seat at their tiny kitchen table, McNab poked at his bowl of Crispy Crunchie Charms and said nothing.

Peabody doctored her coffee first and wished the stupid low-cal sweetener tasted as good as the wonderful zillion-cal sweetener. But she felt righteous if deprived, sitting down with the healthy yogurt and the low-cal coffee.

She wished she could eat bowls of Crispy Crunchie Charms with an ocean of soy milk like McNab and his skinny ass that never seemed to gain an ounce.

Life was definitely unfair when your metabolism had all the zip of a lame turtle.

She drank some coffee, and felt her brain start to clear. She liked the way the sun came in their kitchen window in the morning, and played through the bright yellow curtains she’d made herself—still hadn’t lost her Free-Ager skills, she thought.

She’d enjoyed making the curtains, selecting the fabric, designing a pattern, sitting down at her little machine to whip it all together into something pretty and functional.

Plus McNab had been mega-impressed.

One day she’d actually finish hooking the rug she’d started for the living area, and that would knock him right out of his gel-boots.

He got such a kick out of the fact she could make stuff, so that added more pleasure and satisfaction to the making. It was good to have their things mixed and matched together in their own apartment. Her dishes with his pub glasses, her chair, his table. Just theirs now.

And it was good, really good, to sit with him in the mornings when their shifts meshed, eating together, talking.

As she drank more coffee, she realized he wasn’t eating, or talking.

“Your triple C’s are going to get soggy,” she warned.

“Huh? Oh.” He shrugged, pushed the bowl aside. “I’m not really hungry.”

“I don’t get you people who aren’t really hungry in the morning.” The entire concept put her in a sulk. “I wake up starving, then have to talk myself into not eating everything in sight so my butt doesn’t become an ad blimp.”

When he didn’t respond—and he always had something cute to say about her butt—she frowned. He looked a little pale, she thought now. Heavy under the eyes, and very broody.

“You okay?” She reached across to touch his hand. “You don’t look so good.”

“I didn’t sleep much.”

“Are you sick?” Instant concern had her leaning over to lay a hand on his brow. “I don’t think you have a fever. Why don’t I make you some tea? I’ve got that blend from my gran.”

“No, that’s okay.” His pretty green eyes lifted, met hers. “Peabody... Delia.”

Oh-oh, she thought. He only called her Delia when he was upset, pissed, or feeling very, very horny. And he didn’t look horny.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

“I just wondered... I love you.”

“Oh, I love you, too. I was just thinking how much I like sitting here with you in the mornings in our kitchen. Just starting the day together. And—”

“Do you want to get married?”

If she’d been drinking coffee, she’d have sprayed it all over his face. Instead, she swallowed hard. “Oh. Um. Huh.” How did her tongue get so fat all of a sudden? “Sure, yeah. Eventually.”

“To me, I mean.”

“Well, yeah, to you, dummy. Who else?” She gave him a light punch on the shoulder, but he didn’t smile, and her stomach went queasy. “Didn’t I just say I love you? Did I do something to make you think I don’t? Ian...” Like her first name, his was reserved for bigger moments. “I can be stupid about—”

“No. Dee, no. You don’t want to get married now?”

“Well...” Her stomach fluttered, clenched, fluttered again. “Do you?”

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