Page 29 of Building What's Meant to Be

“He was heading south.”

“South,” I repeat.

“You sound like you’re conducting an investigation,” Mae says.

I am, sis. I am.

“For the record, we were at the town hall because we’re concerned citizens. What excuse do you have?” Mae juts her chin.

My patience runs as thin as the Formica covering the table.Oh, ya know, I’m just an FBI agent, actually conducting an investigation.

Instead, I say, “I’m also a concerned citizen and if you didn’t notice there’s no bullet train running through the center of Butterbury, so I consider that a win.”

“Fair point,” Nash says, eyes still scanning behind me in case we have company.

“Thank you,” I say then add evidence to my case. I put a lot of money behind stopping Hydro-pro, government money, but still. I helped expose the shifty taxes Stoll tried to impose, and the historic preservation of the original town meeting house. I caught him falsifying clerical documents, among other things.

“The big question I have is why Stoll trusted you,” Taylor asks me as if he’s not sure how much he does with Tinsley sitting by my side.

“He’s not the brightest bulb. He saw dollar signs in his future and was blind to anything other than that. The guy got sloppy and saw me as an asset instead of an enemy.” I shrug.

“Did you find out anything useful?” he asks.

Tinsley shifts behind me and the sequins on her dress mesmerize me for half a second before I notice the way they reflect on the wall from the light through the window. With a gasp, I barely stop myself from inhaling the last bite of pie as I realize something crucial.

Chapter Seven

TINSLEY

To my left, Bess, Aiden’s sister, leans over and says, “I can’t decide what I think of the facial hair.”

I think it’s nice. Everything about Aiden Peter Fuller is nice. No, a bump up from nice. If you took nice and elevated it to handsome and hot, slightly mysterious with a subtle commanding and authoritative posture that makes a guest appearance on his otherwise easy-going and entertaining one-man show. That’s Aiden Fuller.

He catches me glance at him and flashes a dangerous wink. I remind myself I’m sitting beside the enemy and stare at the untouched sandwich on my plate. I used to be the kind of woman who’d only pick at her food in the presence of men. As of going on sixty hours since my life turned into a dark comedy, I’ll clear my plate and then lick it clean so there aren’t any crumbs left. Except right now. Mae and Bess have me in a state of nervousness akin to when I’m around my siblings. Thankfully, right now the friend group talks among themselves.

“Can I have your pickle? I love pickles.” Aiden points at my plate.

“Uh, sure,” I reply. “Not a big fan.”

“What about cucumbers?” he asks.

“Did I tell you guys our cucumber vine started growing?” Christina interjects like it’s a small miracle.

Louella Belle comments about vinegar preservation and the fermentation process. “I hope you have a bumper crop.”

“I do like cucumbers,” I say, getting a word in to respond to Aiden’s question.

“But not pickles? They’re practically the same thing. Is it the flavor?” he asks.

“Wait, do pickles come from cucumbers?” I ask, putting two and two together.

Everyone looks at me, slack-jawed.

“What?” I steal another peek at Aiden in case he signals we make a run for it. After Officer Henley’s community service order and Aiden’s invitation to join the crew for lunch, I get the sense we’re in this together.

Despite what Bess said, he doesn’t quite have a beard. It’s just the right length between full facial hair and a few days of unshaved scruff. I can’t say I mind.

He rubs his hand along it and then says, “Yep. Pickles come from cucumbers.”

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