Page 43 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Yes. And you have no choice. Tell Brick I’ll give him the secret recipe next time he comes by.”
I slide the card away. “Don’t think I’m giving you a pity discount if I catch you committing a misdemeanor.”
Her eyes narrow. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“Often,” I say, tucking the bag under my arm. “What else can I do for you?”
She hesitates, swallows, leans closer. “There is something. I think I’m being threatened.”
I straighten. “What are you talking about?”
“Can you spare a few minutes? Not over the counter.”
We take a booth near the register. She talks; I listen. Swanson. The Escalade. The “I know everything about you” routine. The not-quite threat that still managed to feel like one.
“I don’t know, Jasmine,” I say when she’s done. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do right this second. He made a buy offer—that’s not illegal. We’d need overt threats, witnesses, something on paper. Otherwise any judge will say he’s clean.”
“What, I can’t even get a restraining order?” Her hands are up, helpless. “He listed my friends and family.”
“I’m sorry. Without proof—”
“He sent those men to rob my store.”
“We don’t have evidence of that. It could’ve been a random break-in.”
“Wow,” she says softly.
“If you’re right—”
“If I’m right?” She fixes me with that sharp green stare.
“You know what I mean. I’m trying to be rational.”
“Screw rationality—I’m worried about my life.”
“And what, you think I’m not?” The words are out before I can stop them. “Of course, I am. More than you know.”
Her eyes flicker. “What does that mean?”
I open my mouth, and right then the radio on my shoulder crackles to life. Dispatch: disturbance on Baxter Avenue, possible prowler, homeowner afraid to leave the house.
“There’s a call a few blocks from here,” I say, pushing out of the booth. “I’ve got to go.”
I can feel her gaze between my shoulder blades as I hit the door and jog for the cruiser.
What the hell was that,more than you know?
***
Baxter Avenue is one of the posh pockets of Golden Heights—wide lawns, fresh paint, agitated hydrangeas. I pull to the curb outside the address, walk to the porch, and knock.
The door opens to a woman in her early forties, pale and wide-eyed, towel tightened around her like armor.
“Are you Helen Sanders?”
She nods.
“You made the 9-1-1 call.”
