Page 8 of Just Friends

“How many brothers do you have?”

He shifted, and the seat swayed a little. Rebecca willed herself not to look down. “Two,” he responded.

“Yeah.” She nodded with returning memories. “I sort of remember hearing about you from before I left. But, you were a couple of grades ahead and always in trouble.”

He snorted. “Don’t hold that against me. We were,” he hesitated, “insane.”

“Yeah, you guys had a rep that proceeded you.”

“And not a good one, either.”

“Your brother’s still in town?”

“Dalton is. He’s a mechanic. He own’s the Anderson Garage over on fifth.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve passed it.”

“Logan OD’d six years ago.” He said bluntly.

Her heart sank. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s fine if it’s not. Sometimes, things aren’t okay.”

“I know. And it wasn’t for a long time. It’s one of the reasons I do what I do.” Weasel pulled her tightly to his side, and his head leaned on the top of hers. He smelled good—a mix of soap and a light aftershave, maybe. She’d noticed earlier too, but now she allowed herself to snuggle against his neck, for a moment. Then it hit her. He’d worn his cologne the way she said she liked it. They rode in silence the last part of the Ferris Wheel, and he exited first, reached back for her, and helped her out of the basket.

They walked around the festival holding hands until they came upon a duck shooting game. Cutouts of ducks mounted to a conveyor went on at a steady pace across the mock water scene. Weasel handed the guy a ticket and held the plastic rifle out to her. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she replied.

“Nope. Let’s see what you got, Miss Gilbert.” She took the rifle and held it out. “Not like that.” He stepped close behind her and reached around adjusting her grip on the fake weapon. “Now,” his voice in her ear. His touch was so distracting that she missed the ducks her first several attempts. She shook him off and tried again and landed her last two shots.

“It’s rigged,” she said as justification.

“Let’s see.” He handed the guy another ticket and accepted the game rifle from her. Of course, he only left one standing. Weasel looked at her with a satisfied grin.

“You missed one.”

He burst out laughing.

“I want the bear,” she replied pointing at stuffed animals hanging in a row. “You have to hit them all to get it.”

“Picky-ass woman,” he muttered still chuckling, handing the man another ticket. He lifted the fake gun and took down every duck. “She’ll take the bear,” he said to the man running the booth who didn’t appear too pleased to be there. Weasel turned and presented her with the stuffed animal.

Weasel escorted her to her apartment, and although he walked in with her, he moved through the residence checking the windows, the balcony door, and all four rooms and the closet.

“What are you doing?” she asked. She hung her jacket and purse on the coat tree in the small foyer.

“Making sure no killer clowns are around.”

She shuttered. “Thanks for the reminder.” She remained in the apartments minuscule entryway when he returned.

“All clear.” He grinned at her.

She laughed. “Well, yeah, but thanks for the thoroughness.”

He nodded then kissed her hand. “Goodnight, Miss Gilbert.” With that, he went. She locked it and stopped there for a minute looking at the bear he’d won and given her. What an unexpected shift of events. This should not turn her on. And the fact she thought the words Weasel and a perfect gentleman in the same sentence was mind-boggling.

Three

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