“Dexter, yeah… he’s a devout Mormon. So… you know… he’s very devout about not drinking.”
I’m fairly certain Dexter is not Mormon. Lying on the fly is clearly not my strong suit. Hughes doesn’t look nearly as convinced as he should be and more doubt creeps in, bringing with it some of the anxiety I haven’t felt in years.
“Anyway,” I continue, “we run a tight ship around here. No alcohol. No sleepovers…” The more I speak, the more my confidence crumbles under the heavy weight of his scrutiny. Grabbing the rim of my straw hat, I pull it down to defend myself from the onslaught of his unblinking stare. “And you should know that I own a gun and I know how to use it.”
Except I don’t own a gun. And I don’t know how to use one. Much to the chagrin of my father, an officer of the law.
“Good for you.” He glances around, seemingly unaffected by my strange behavior. “Try not to shoot anyone while we’re here.”
“Who’s we?” At this point, I’m not taking anything for granted. We agreed on housing the other Hughes brother––the criminal one––and one assistant. That’s it.
“My brother travels with a team… I’m the team.”
The good news is that his attitude shakes my confidence right out of its downward spiral. The bad news is that my mouth hasn’t caught up yet. “Uh… I’m sorry, but we don’t have room for you.”
“No problem. I’ll bring my trailer.”
“Unfortunately, our electrical system can’t handle two trailers.” Which is entirely true. I shrug, sweetening the bad news with a smile.
“I’m staying here,” he states after a meaningful pause. “It’s in the contract.” I’m subjected to more intense eyeballing. “Did you read it?”
No, I did not read the contract in my nonexistent spare time. All I know about the contract is the long list of requests they made. Some of which were off the charts laughable. Like his brother’s request that we feed him an all-organic diet. If Aidan Hughes ever ate my cooking, he’d go to bed gripping a bottle of Imodium and crying for his mommy. Organic would be the least of his concerns.
I’m saved from answering by a red pickup truck approaching.
“Guess what I got?” Mona hollers at me from the passenger seat as the window comes down. I spot Darby behind the wheel.
She slides out of the cab and adjusts her top, her attention automatically moving over to Shane Hughes. If there’s a hetero man within her one-mile orbit, you can rest assured Mona’s attention will find him. It’s kind of impressive to be honest.
“And who might you be?” she coos, flashing her dimples.
“Mona, this is Shane Hughes. Aidan Hughes’ brother.” I give her a look that says behave yourself which she promptly ignores. “What did you get?”
“Bye, Sugar. See you tomorrow,” Darby shouts from the cab and waves, temporarily stealing Mona’s attention away from the target of her curiosity.
“Bye, babe,” she says in return.
Darby drives off and Mona walks over with an outstretched hand and a coy smile. At the same time, and without sparing me a glance, she thrusts a shopping bag at me.
“Mona Harris. I’m the owner of this fine establishment. Lovely to meet you.”
Hughes shakes her hand and offers her a small, tight smile. “Pleasure is mine.”
Frankly, I doubt there’s any pleasure involved. He looks like someone has his nuts in a vise.
Inside the bag, I find a set of walkie talkies.
“So we can communicate,” Mona says to me while her smile and attention are both still very much trained on the man standing before us with the intensity of a tiger on a slab of beef.
“Mr. Hughes is under the impression that he’s staying here, and I was just explaining to him that there’s no room for anyone other than his brother, an assistant, and one trailer.”
Mona looks between the two of us. “Hmm, that’s a pickle…” Which is followed shortly by a devious look on her face. One I’ve seen plenty of times when we’re faced with the daunting task of convincing owners to surrender animals they can no longer care for—or ones they’ve neglected for years. It’s usually great, when it works in my favor. A gut feeling tells me this will not be one of those times.
Hughes examines the farmhouse. “This place looks plenty big to me.”
“No strangers are allowed in the main house I’m afraid.” No clue why I suddenly sound like a character in an Amish small-town romance, but here we are. “You’ll have to make other arrangements. Like the resort. That’s probably more your style anyway.”
I give him a cheerful look meant to say problem solved. Except judging by the frown I’m offered in return, I would have to say it not only missed the mark, but the target altogether.
“What about the guest house?” Mona offers.
She may as well have dropped a JDAM on my head. “The one I live in?”
“You can move in with me in the main house and Mr. Hughes can have use of the guesthouse while he’s here.”
That speeding sensation is back.
“Works for me,” Hughes says with a curt nod. Then he walks past me, heading straight for my guesthouse. Without permission.
Images of the state of that very same guesthouse when I walked out this morning flip through my head. My underwear lying on the floor. The highbrow literature I prefer to read on the couch. My relax-her, as I like to call it, laying on my bed… above the covers.
“Wait!” I shout and bolt after him.
In my entire life, I have never chased anything other than a misbehaving animal or an emergency. Then again, maybe not so different.
Chapter 3
“Is the table set?” I ask Mona who’s in the process of pulling a bottle of soy sauce out of the cabinet when I walk into the kitchen. “You need me to do anything?”
“Sit your butt down. I already set up outside.”
Tired and hungry, I do as I’m told, dropping down on the kitchen stool like a sack of horse feed. This time of the day, I’m useless. A blob. Muscles aching, brain fried, barely human. Thank God Mona likes cooking.
“This fine establishment?” I drawl, sending her a chiding glance from across the kitchen counter while she prepares the marinade for the chicken we’re having for dinner.
“Are you doubting this is a fine establishment?” A sly, Cheshire cat smile slides across her face. She gives the lime she’s holding over the bowl an extra squeeze.
“No, you grill-billy. But I am questioning if you’re running a bordello I don’t know about.”
She laughs. “I was just having a little fun with him. Don’t be such a tight ass.”
Grabbing the plate stacked with chicken, hips swinging, she walks out the back screen door ass first onto the flagstone patio and I follow. The sun is halfway to sinking below the hills in the distance and turning the sky different shades of pink.
“Magic hour” is what Hollywood calls this time of day. When the light makes everything look perfect. We make it a point to eat out here as often as possible because, as Mona often reminds me, you never know when you’ll see your last sunset so you might as well take advantage of each and every one you can.