Page 99 of Brewbies
And a broken heart.
Breaking every mirror in her camper might be the thing to do now.
Gabe’s amber eyes narrowed. “Did that sheriff do this? Did he hurt you?”
“I’m okay. Really,” Darby lied. “I just haven’t had my coffee yet.”
Cords stood out on Gabe’s neck, making the Celtic knots covering his throat appear to tighten. “Because you give me the word, and I’ll break Flannel Flanders goddamn legs. I don’t care if hedidhire these guys to help with cleanup.”
Darby glanced behind her friend to the dozen or so men standing in a semicircle, eyeing the dumpster fire of carnival aftermath.
She wasn’t sure which thought was more devastating.
The possibility that Ethan had planned to surprise her had their morning gone differently, or that he’d wanted to make sure she’d be okay even though she’d verbally ripped his spleen from his ass.
“There will be no breaking of legs, arms, or any other appendages,” she said, gathering her hair into a pile atop her head. “No maiming of any kind, in fact.”
Gabe kicked the bleached shell gravel with his motorcycle boot like a disappointed boy.
“What d’you want I should do with them?” he asked, jerking his angular chin over his shoulder.
“Put them to work,” Darby said, already shuffling toward her coffee counter. “I need to get this place cleaned up as soon as possible.”
“Because the city is coming to inspect the grounds?”
Darby dumped a double shot of earth-dark grounds into her behemoth of an espresso maker. “Because I’m leaving.”
TWENTY
Hot Break
THE PRECIPITATION OF PROTEIN AND TANNIC MATTER WHEN HOPS ARE ADDED TO BOILING MIX
“Been tryingto get a hold of you all day, sheriff,” said a businesslike woman on the other end of the line. “You’re a tough man to find.”
Maybe a guy who is hard to find doesn’t wanna be found,was the retort he bit back as he threw his wood driver chisel on the bench of his lathe. He wasn’t fit for human consumption at the moment, so he was doing things that made him feel better. Like chopping and shaping wood. Bending it to his will. Hammering. Nailing. Pounding.
Jesus Christ, did ninety-eight-and-a-half percent of sex euphemisms come from contracting nomenclature?
“What can I do for you, Gwen?”
Gwendolyn Baadsgaard’s family had stones in the graveyard next to the Townsends. The Viking-sized woman had turned a legacy of pillaging land into subdividing and selling it.
“Please tell me I’m the first real estate broker to inform you that the Raven Creek property hit the market about an hour ago. I have here on a huge pink sticky note dated that in no uncertain terms should anyone be shown the Raven Creek property without first allowing you to offer.”
Ethan choked on thin air in his haste to gasp, “What?”
“Yeah, seller is very motivated to buy, though people thought you and she were…” Gwen let the thought trail off, waiting for him to pick up the conversational thread she dropped.
His heart pumped with such violence, Ethan couldn’t produce a reply.
“Tell you what,” she said when the silence stretched a beat too long. “I’m going to miss her Titty-Twisted Iced Tea.”
Shock gave way to alarm that escaped as anger. “Is she remaining on the property until it sells?” he demanded, louder than he’d meant.
“Dunno, sheriff, she used an out-of-town agent. Can’t say as I blame her. But everyone is so sad to see her go.”
“Are they?” he asked.
