Page 27 of Crimson Love

What I don’t tell him, because the last thing I need is for people to find out about my windfall, is that my job is so boring I feel like I’m on a high dive straight to hell. But I’m also not about to sit back and live off my new trust fund.

“I’ll nose around for you and see if anyone has a room for rent. The only time people around here sell is when they make a trip through the mortuary and land in a grave at Winslet Cemetery. Real estate doesn’t turn over much. Case in point, I’m living in the house I grew up in.”

“I was halfway there. I’m not wishing that on anyone.”

Dean is about to say something else, but his radio crackles and a voice comes across the comm. “Yo, Bigshot. You there?”

Dean shakes his head and sighs before he picks up the comm. “For the last time, you don’t need to ask if I’m here. I’m always here.”

“Man, you’re not going to believe this...” The voice sounds like a kid, but maybe I just feel that old these days.

Dean closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If Mrs. Miller’s cow got out again, I quit. It tried to kick me the last time I had to lasso her ass. I’m not a fucking ranch hand.”

“Fun times, but not today. We got a call from the manor. It seems Winslet hit a new threshold of crime.”

Dean isn’t pissed about cows anymore. He moves to his feet in a flash. “The last time you said that bullets were flying. What the hell happened?”

“Dude, from the sounds of the nine-one-one call, there’s a real drama going on. We’ve got ourselves a legit GTA on our hands. The owner is freaking the fuck out.”

The comm goes silent as Dean pauses with a look on his face that makes me think he thinks he’s being punked. Finally he puts the comm back to his lips. “GTA?”

“You heard me, Bigshot,” the kid says in a tone that sounds like he’s grinning from ear to ear. “This is way better than a hormonal heifer on the run. Grand theft fucking auto.”

Dean swipes his keys and cell from the counter. “I’m on my way.”

And before I have a chance to say anything else, Dean is out of the Combover and in a jog to his SUV.

“Winnie,” I call as I pull a bill from my money clip and toss it on the counter next to my mug. “I’ll be back to check on the animals later. Can I borrow your car? Mine’s in the shop.”

“They’re pets, Jett. Pets!” Winnie yells across the diner like I’m being chastised but digs through her purse behind the counter and tosses me a set of keys. “A bird crapped on it this morning. Give it a wash before you bring it back, yeah?”

I have no idea where there’s a car wash in town, but I’ll figure that out later. I need to get back to the manor.

Someone stole a car.

And since I hotwired a car today, I bet I know what this is about.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ALMOST UNDER ARREST

Lennon

“A re you sure this is where you parked?” I turn to Felicity who has been supportive, sweet, and, yes, even motherly to me since my first day at the manor. She and her husband, Harold, insist I eat dinner with them every Sunday, and she always sends me home with leftovers. I’ve never met anyone who is more the-glass-is-half-full than Felicity.

But there is nothing half-full about this situation. My racing heart and sweaty palms are proof. I don’t feel the nip in the air the way I did when I rolled into work late this morning...

And parked my heap of a junker in the very empty spot I’m standing in!

I turn to Felicity who’s hugging her shawl around her shoulders. “I adore you for trying to make me feel better. But this is where I parked. I always park here, away from the majority of guests. I don’t want my rusty pile of metal to mar the pristine landscape of the manor. No one asked me to, but it’s the least I can do. She’s gone, Felicity. Natasha is gone!”

Felicity winces and lays a calming hand on my forearm. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I do forget that you young people name your cars.”

“I’ve never called nine-one-one before,” Blake says as he slides his cell into his pocket. “It wasn’t nearly as exciting as I thought it might be. It goes straight to the duty officer. Turns out it’s my cousin who’s fifty percent lazy. Even Grandma thinks so. He never offers to bring anything to the holidays. Not even bread. But he drinks all the beer and brings his own to-go containers. He doesn’t deserve leftovers when he doesn’t bring anything in the first place. Even I can throw together a green bean casserole.”

I drag my hands through my hair at my wits end. “Can we please focus on the problem at hand? Someone stole my car! I don’t need the police involved. I need my car. Blake, would you mind driving me around town to look for it? Winslet is so small, and my car barely flirts with fifty miles per hour. We can catch up with them, wave them down, and I can get Natasha back.”

Blake’s eyes widen. “Do I look like someone who chases down car thieves? I’m a maître d’. I didn’t even play football in high school, and everyone played football in high school. Even a couple of girls.”