“What’s not to like? He’s got a good head on his shoulders, he can shoot like a cowboy, he rescues dogs, and he’s got a butt that don’t quit in those uniform pants. My pal Gladys drops her purse every time she sees him just so he’ll bend down to pick it up.”
“He also sees everything in black and white, acts like he has the right to tell me what to do, and manhandles me.”
“I know this is not politically correct, but I love me a good consensual manhandling,” Mrs. Tweedy said with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.
Okay, I didn’t hate it either. If anyone other than Nash had dragged me into that room at the gym, they’d be breathing through a straw in the waiting room of a plastic surgeon. But I didn’t feel like thinking about that. Instead, I grabbed a jar of peanut butter and threw it into the cart.
“He’s also got that whole broody thing going right now. Like the man’s got storm clouds in his head and he’s just lookin’ for a little sunshine.”
“Yeah, well, he can go find his vitamin D someplace else.”
And so would I. Ha. Solid inner monologue dick joke.
My elderly shopping partner tut-tutted. “Two people who keep gettin’ drawn together like magnets can’t be wrong. It’s a law of nature.”
“Nature made a mistake this time around,” I assured her and added a carton of sparkling water to our cart.
Mrs. Tweedy shook her head. “You’re looking at it all wrong. Sometimes the body recognizes what the head and heart are too stupid to see. That right there is real truth. The body don’t lie. Huh. Maybe I should put that on a bumper sticker?” she mused.
“I’d much rather trust my head than my body.” Especially since my body seemed to be set on self-destruct mode. I’d never been so attracted to a man so infuriating before.
It was disorienting, frustrating, and borderline sadomasochistic. Yet another sign that I needed to commit to changing my ways. That was the message the universe was sending me, not Hey, here’s a hot guy. Get naked with him and everything will work out.
Mrs. Tweedy snorted indelicately. “If I had your body, I’d be listening to every damn thing it said.”
“I seem to recall your body kicking my body’s ass at the gym half an hour ago,” I reminded her.
She fluffed her hair as we turned into the cereal aisle. “I do look pretty good for my age.”
There was a man at the opposite end of the aisle pushing a cart in our direction.
“If you’re dead set against Nash, how about I reel this one in for you?” Mrs. Tweedy offered.
He was a buff-looking guy in his thirties with glasses and short, dark hair.
“Don’t you dare,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth.
But it was too late. Mrs. Tweedy came to a halt in front of the marshmallow and cartoon character cereal section and made a show of stretching for the top shelf. A shelf I could have easily reached.
“Excuse me, young man. Would you mind fetching me a box of Marshmallow Munchies?” Mrs. Tweedy asked, batting her lashes at him.
I pretended to be fascinated by the lack of nutritional value in a box of Sparkle Pinkie O’s.
“No problem, ma’am,” he said.
“That is so sweet of you,” she said. “Isn’t that sweet, Lina?”
“Very,” I said through clenched teeth.
The man grabbed the box and flashed me a knowing grin.
He was close to a foot and a half taller than Mrs. Tweedy. Up close, he looked like an accountant who went to the gym a lot. According to his cart, Big Guy looked like he took his nutrition seriously. He had a rotisserie chicken, all the fixings for a couple of salads, a six-pack of protein shakes, and…a large bag of gummy candy. Well, no one was perfect.
“Are you married?” Mrs. Tweedy demanded.
“No, ma’am,” he said.
“What a coincidence. Neither is my neighbor Lina,” she said, giving me a shove forward.
“Okay, Mrs. Tweedy. Let’s leave the nice man with the long arms alone,” I said.
“Party pooper,” she muttered.
“Sorry,” I mouthed to the man as I dragged my meddling neighbor and our cart down the aisle.
“Happens all the time,” he said with a wink.
“Is there something wrong with your libido?” Mrs. Tweedy demanded when we were probably still within earshot.
I thought of waking up with Nash with his hard-on between my legs. “Very definitely. Now, come on. I need to stick my head in the ice cream cooler.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
SNAKES AND SHAKES
Nash
“I’m gonna burn this house to the ground,” Mayor Hilly Swanson griped as I emptied her coat closet of boots and gardening clogs.
“Probably shouldn’t be sayin’ that in front of the law,” I said as I shook out a snow boot and tossed it aside.
She was standing behind me on a step stool in the foyer, wringing her hands.
Officer Troy Winslow was backed up against the front door holding the twelve-gauge shotgun we’d relieved the mayor of upon our arrival. He was looking like he wanted to bolt.
“I should sue that dang real estate agent. If she woulda said ‘snake migration’ at any point during the buying process, my ass woulda said no thank you,” Hilly said.
She’d lived in this house for twenty years, and the Knockemout PD went through this ritual twice a year. In the spring, snakes slithered their way down from the limestone bluffs toward a swampy area of nearby state park lands for the summer. In the fall, they slithered their way back to the bluffs to wait out the long winter.
Hilly Swanson’s house was smack-dab in the middle of the migration path. Over the years, she’d spent a small fortune to snake-proof the foundation, but one or two always managed to find their way in.
I shoved the now empty shoe rack aside and checked behind it.
“This is just like waitin’ for those refrigerator biscuits to pop,” Winslow said. “You know it’s comin’ but that don’t mean you’re ready for it.” Winslow was not a snake person. The guy had no problem chasing bears out of campgrounds, but if it slithered, he wasn’t going near it.
I, on the other hand, had grown up on and in the creek, which had given me a hell of a lot of experience with snakes.
“I told Mickey not to leave the door open when he was cartin’ groceries inside. But he said I was crazy. And then he took his butt off to the golf course and I’m the one who has to deal with the consequences. If I was a braver soul who wasn’t about to pee her pants, I’d put that damn snake on his side of the bed to teach him a lesson.”
I reached for the trench coat belt in the corner only to realize it was moving. “Gotcha.”
“Oh my God. I’m gonna kill Mickey.”
I aimed the beam of my flashlight at the reptile and reached out lightning-quick to grab it just behind the head. It was cold and eerily slick under my hand, like no matter how tight I held on, the muscles under all that smooth would just slide right out.
“It’s practically a baby,” I said, stuffing all five feet of pissed-off rat snake into the pillowcase I kept in my cruiser for such occasions.
I backed out of the closet and got to my feet.
Hilly recoiled. “Lord have mercy.”