Page 54 of Unlocking Melodies

“There's a new French place in the next town,” I tried one last time, increasingly aware that I was falling into old habits. “Very exclusive?—“

“How about,” Jimmy cut in gently, “you let me pick?”

I stopped, recognizing my pattern of trying to impress rather than connect. Same old defense mechanism, just with a bigger budget now.

“I'm doing it again, aren't I?” I sighed. “Throwing money at simple things to make them complicated.”

“Just a bit.” His smile took any sting out of the words. “Though I have to admit, the helicopter suggestion was impressive. Mr. Quackers would never recover from that level of drama.”

The duck in question looked up at his name, clearly considering whether this conversation required his intervention.

“Sorry,” I said, meaning it. “Old habits.”

“Hey, at least your grand gestures have evolved. Besides, I happen to know a place that makes a mean grilled cheese. No helicopter required.”

Through the gathering dusk, I could see Riley frantically scribbling in his not-at-all-obvious notebook. Mrs. Henderson had given up all pretense of walking Winston, who had settled in for what looked like a long-term occupation of his patch of grass.

“Sarah's?” I asked, remembering the infamous sandwich that apparently bore Jimmy's name.

“Actually, I was thinking somewhere a little more private. Less chance of audience participation.” He nodded toward our observers, who all suddenly found various aspects of the landscape fascinating.

“You cook?” The surprise in my voice made him laugh.

“According to Nina, I make a pretty spectacular comfort food spread. Though she might just be being nice because I organize her vinyl collection.”

The simple offer – dinner at his place, no helicopters or private chefs required – felt more intimate than any fancy restaurant could have been.

“That sounds perfect,” I said, meaning it more than any corporate deal I'd ever closed.

A cheer erupted from the surveillance squad, followed by quick attempts to look busy. Officer Dawn became intensely interested in a nearby duckling. Riley dropped his binoculars. Mrs. Henderson didn't even bother pretending, just beamed at us while Winston snoozed peacefully at her feet.

“So,” Jimmy said, eyes dancing with amusement, “should we give them something else to report?”

“Pretty sure Mrs. Henderson is already drafting the town-wide announcement.”

“Oh, definitely. Winston is her stenographer. Look at him taking notes.”

The pug snored loudly in response, clearly excelling at his assigned duty.

“I think your suit might actually be a write-off. Mr. Quackers plays for keeps.” Jimmy said thoughtfully.

“Worth it,” I said without thinking, then caught his soft smile.

The town's response to our bench conversation was immediate and overwhelming. Sarah materialized with fresh coffee and a smile that suggested she'd already planned our wedding menu. She didn't even try to be subtle about it, just handed over the cups with a cheerful, “On the house. Consider it my investment in local happiness.”

Nina's timing was suspiciously perfect – calling Jimmy “just to check on that inventory thing” while obviously fishing for details. Even through the phone, I could hear her barely contained excitement.

“No, Nina, I haven't forgotten about my shift,” Jimmy said, rolling his eyes fondly. “Yes, I'm still by the pond. No, Mr. Quackers hasn't successfully stolen any more designer footwear.” A pause. “I'm not answering that.” Another pause. “Or that. I'll see you later.”

Jake's patrol car rolled by at approximately two miles per hour, giving me a look that somehow combined “I approve” with “I know how to hide bodies” in one practiced expression.

Through it all, Jimmy handled the town's investment in our potential date with an ease that made my chest ache. He fielded their not-so-subtle interest with grace and humor, like he was completely comfortable being the center of their collective attention. It made me both proud and regretful – proud of who he'd become, regretful of missing how he got there.

“So,” he said after we'd survived another drive-by from Mrs. Henderson, who had now acquired opera glasses, “tomorrow evening?”

“Tomorrow evening,” I confirmed, feeling oddly nervous. Like a teenager asking out his first crush instead of... well, instead of who I was supposed to be. “Seven?”

“It's a date.”

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