Page 15 of Frosted and Sliced

“Someday I want you to tell me why you’re really here,” she said.

“I could tell you now,” Burke said. “But then of course I’d have to kill you.”

CHAPTER 7

Georgette sat at the counter, absorbed in a novel. She had no idea where Burke was, but then she rarely did. A few weeks ago, before a strange man set up camp in her attic, she would have made a dire prediction about how they would fare. How could it be anything but weird or awkward to have a stranger in her space all the time, even if that space was vast? But Burke was a surprisingly easy and thoughtful roommate, with an uncanny sense for when Georgette wanted company and when she wanted space. He was like a superhero, showing up when she needed something lifted or fixed and disappearing again when everything was in order. Or possibly an imaginary friend.

“What’s going on?” he asked now, tapping the counter in front of her to snag her attention.

“I’m reading,” Georgette replied.

“I can see that, but why? Where’s your brother?”

Sundays were Georgette’s day with Brody. They’d started the tradition soon after she returned from culinary school and bought the inn. She couldn’t remember why. Had it been his way of checking on her? Had it been her way of making certain hehad a substantial meal once a week? Whatever the reason, it was now set in stone. Except for today.

“He had an emergency, someone fell off a boat and he’s gone to assist in the search,” Georgie said. It would be selfish to feel a little hurt by his absence, because what kind of monster would keep a police officer from his duty? But every time it happened, Georgie couldn’t help but feel a tiny twinge of painful resentment. Her head knew he had a legitimate reason to skip out on her, but her heart needed a stern talking to.

She braced herself, in case Burke decided to give her that sort of pep talk, theduty callsversion. Instead he sat at the counter beside her without a word and scanned the messy kitchen.

“What’s happening with this?” he said after a while, gazing at the covered countertops.

Georgie sighed, feeling heavy and dull with ennui. “I was in the middle of making waffles when he texted. I planned to go ahead with the waffles, because I was too far along in the process, but apparently my waffle iron is broken.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Burke asked, standing.

“Tell you what? That waffles were off the menu? I didn’t think you’d care. I have croissants in the freezer, if you’re hungry. Five minutes in the oven should defrost them nicely.” Every other time Brody showed up, Burke had disappeared to the point of invisibility. It had saved Georgette from having to tell her brother about him. That was definitely a conversation she didn’t want to have because she could imagine Brody’s reaction all too well. But as long as it was just her and Burke tucked away in her inn, no one else had to know about it.

“Why didn’t you tell me your waffle iron needed fixed?” He unplugged the waffle iron and turned it over.

“You’re a waffle iron mechanic?” she asked, puzzled. Was that a skill people possessed? Being able to fix anything that wasbroken? He reached into the drawer and pulled out a set of small screwdrivers. “Where did those come from?”

“I put them there when I began tightening everything with handles in here.”

“You did that?”

“You didn’t notice?” he returned.

In retrospect her pans had been less wobbly. “I thought it was the pot fairy.”

“You might want to rephrase that. With Maine’s recent change in drug laws, people might start to think you’re a dispensary,” he noted as he unscrewed the bottom plate of the iron and opened it up.

“Where did you learn to fix things?” she asked.

“When I was a kid, it was a way to alleviate curiosity and boredom. I took things apart to see how they worked and put them back together again,” he said.

She tried to imagine Burke younger and couldn’t. Maybe he hadn’t ever been; maybe he’d been exactly as he was now, but smaller. “How did you become a spy?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Most of it’s classified.”

“There have to be some parts you can tell me.”

He was quiet for a while. She thought that was his way of shutting down the question, but apparently he’d been sifting for the parts he could say. “I was in the army. I enlisted when I was eighteen. It became clear that I had a certain aptitude for things, and I came to the attention of a man who urged me toward espionage.”

It wasn’t much of an explanation or insight, but it was something.

“Did you like it?” She thought he would say no, because why else wouldn’t he still be doing it? But to her surprise he said the opposite.

“Yes, I loved being a spook. It was sort of a dream come true, I guess. When I was a kid, I loved spy novels and movies, ninja things, martial arts.”

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