Page 25 of Crazy Spooky Love
I seethe inwardly at my own incompetence. Lesson learned; cover your tracks. Fletcher Gunn, or Fletch, as he is ubiquitously known, is a jumped-up wannabe, a supposedly hotshot reporter from theShropshire Expresswho is always looking to discredit my family at any chance he has. We’ve moved on opposite sides of the same circle for several years, baiting each other every now and then but always keeping to our respective halves. To be completely fair, his problem isn’t personal to the Bittersweets; he has an issue with anything that has a sniff of the supernatural about it. He likes his facts to be as black and white as the newsprint he churns out, and he makes it his business to stick his oar in where it isn’t needed or wanted in the name of proving himself right.
“Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent himself,” Marina drawls, as unimpressed as I am by the new arrival. Just so you get the picture, he’s nowhere near as mild mannered or clean-cut as Clark Kent. He’s gota louche air of confidence and a “just tumbled out of bed with two blondes” look about him that irritates the hell out of me. Is he hot? God, yes. He has eyes the color of seawater on a warm day, rock-pool green glass that reflects his every thought, and his conker-brown hair kisses his collar in that “I just shoved my hands through it and what do you know, it looks gorgeous” style that no amount of intentional styling can capture. He’s sexy in an effortless kind of way; it just rolls off him like the tide rolls off the sand. I mean, sure, he’s hot, but that can’t disguise the fact that his heart is a cold, dead weight in his chest. In fact, he probably stores it in the freezer at night.
“I liked the Superman TV shows,” Artie pipes up. “Used to watch reruns with my dad.”
Fletch looks momentarily thrown, sizing Artie up and probably dismissing him. He looks back at me and sniffs the air.
“Is that the whiff of Bittersweet bullshit and baloney I smell?”
“Go back to your desk and write the problem page, or whatever it is you do over there, Fletch. You’re boring me.”
Artie’s eyebrows crawl into his hairline at my deliberately rude tone. I’ll explain later—for now I just want Fletcher Gunn out of here.
“They don’t let me answer the problems anymore,” he says, walking to the far end of the room to gaze out over the gardens. “People complained they found my style too abrasive.” He shrugs. “It’s not my fault if they prefer to be mollycoddled and lied to rather than face hard, cold reality, is it?”
“Never let it be said that you have anything approaching a compassionate bone in your body,” I mutter.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says, biting. “I’m the king of compassion for the right reasons. Just not when it comes to crackpots and circus acts like Leo Dark. Or Blithe Spirits.”
I refuse to let him bait me with that knowing, cocksure way of his. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t work for the family firm anymore.”
“Hang on,” he says, pulling his mobile from his pocket and holding it out to me. “If you’re about to finally fess up that it’s all a load of hokum bollocks I want to catch it on record.”
Marina and Artie move to flank me on either side as I shake my head, not willing to divulge details of the agency to him for derision. “I think it’s time you left.”
He strolls back across the room in his own sweet time, taking in the details.
“I’m watching this place,” he says. “I saw Dark on TV giving it the big ‘I am,’ and now here you are too. Anything that involves both you and him is definitely on my radar.”
“I’m flattered,” I shoot.
He laughs over his shoulder as he leaves. “Give my regards to your mother. I hear she speaks highly of me on her radio show.”
As soon as he’s gone, I kick the nearest sofa and Marina gives him the finger through the front window.
“He’s all we need poking around our first case,” I say, and I mean it. Fletcher Gunn is bad news for me. I really want to project the image of a kick-ass businesswoman but something about him turns my insides girlie. Jesus, did I even justthinkthat? Girlie is definitely the completely wrong word. He turns my insides womanly, then, as in every bit of me apart from my brain goes all stupid around him. By stupid, I mean I feel as if I am actually sparkling on the inside. Oh God. That’s so hideously girlie I want to cut my own throat.
“He’s all smoke and smart-arse.” Marina keeps it real, picking her tote up and swinging it over her shoulder. “Shall we go?”
“Think so,” I say, nodding. “I don’t think the Scarboroughs are going to tell us any more of their secrets today. They scattered like thieves caught at the scene of a robbery when Fletch turned up.”
As we pile into Babs, I notice a business card stuck under the wiper and lean out and grabit.
“Fletcher Gunn. Reporter.” On the back he’s scrawled, “Nice van, Thelma.”
“Thelma,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“I think he means like onScooby-Doo,” Artie says, fastening his seatbelt.
“Yes. I got that, thank you.” I yank the choke out on the van and rev the accelerator to get Babs going.
“Cheeky bastard,” Marina mutters. I can always rely on her solidarity. “Hot though, and he was definitely checking out your ass back there. I caught him red-handed.”
“He so did not,” I say, flustered. I don’t want him looking at my backside any more than I want to acknowledge that I might have snuck a look at his. “Did he?”
Marina winks as I file that snippet away to consider later, then she starts to laugh and looks at Artie. “To be fair though, you’re a dead ringer for Shaggy.”
He nods, not in the least offended. “Does that mean I can bring my dog to work tomorrow?”
