Death and Relaxation (Ordinary Magic #1)(48)

How did you make it all look so easy, Dad?

“Or we could break up a fight,” he suggested. “See a sappy teen movie without explosions, go on a stakeout.”

“What?” That was when I realized I’d been standing there silent, probably scowling at him like a hemorrhoidal lunch lady.

No wonder I never got any dates. I had zero moves.

“Tomorrow?” I blurted. There. That felt better. Also a little embarrassing.

He tipped his head. It felt like forever before he answered. “I could do something, maybe.”

“Dinner?”

He shook his head. “Meeting with a client.”

Right. He did have a business to run.

“After dinner?” he suggested.

“Dessert. My favorite meal. Where?”

“Who’s open after nine now?”

We’d lost the Sweet Dreams restaurant that opened late and closed early. It had been surprisingly successful selling specialty desserts and drinks. But when Ganesha had decided he was done with his vacation last year, he’d shut the business down.

The loss of our all-night dessert shop had been mourned by everyone in the town, and nothing had taken its place yet.

“Besides the bars and grocery store?” I thought of canned pudding and stale donuts.

“Curly’s?” he suggested.

Curly’s. I hadn’t thought about the homemade ice cream and dessert parlor for years. It was almost an hour’s drive to Netarts, where the little shop lorded over the tiny town’s boat launch next to the bay.

“I haven’t been there in ages,” I said with longing. “It’s too far, though. Maybe the casino? The dessert bar there is decadent.”

“You go out there a lot, don’t you?”

Every week to pick up god mail. “Off and on.”

“What I think you meant to say was every Friday.”

It was true, but it was also, actually, a weird thing to say.

“Are you stalking me, Ryder Bailey?”

“Just paying attention. You like to gamble?”

“I like to get out of town every once in a while.” It was the excuse I thought up when I’d become the courier for the gods. “They have good food.”

“And a nice hotel.”

I paused before answering that, wondering if he’d just accused me of what I thought he’d accused me of. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing.” He ran his hand back through his hair, mussing up the dark waves. “I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean anything by it.” The tension was back in his heavy shoulders, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was embarrassed.

What could embarrass the easygoing, big-city, own-my-own-business, open-the-door-naked Ryder Bailey?

Hotel room.

It clicked, and I had to swallow down a burst of laughter. “You think I’m going up there to sleep with someone?”

“I did not say that.” His eyes flashed in warning. I was not intimidated in the least. I had the upper hand here.

“But that’s what you meant, isn’t it? You think I have a weekly booty call.” I grinned. “My, my, Mr. Bailey. How quickly your mind slips to the gutter.”

Ryder grew more uncomfortable, hazel-gold eyes squinting like it was suddenly too bright out. “Delaney. I didn’t—”

“I am single. I don’t see why I shouldn’t have myself a little weekly dessert on the side.”

“Are you done? It was a stupid thing to assume. And none of my damn business.” He still looked uncomfortable, but his body language was loosening, and that shadow of a smile was back. Good. I liked a man who could laugh at himself.

“I don’t know. Is there anything else you’ve been dying to ask me?”

“How about what that kiss this morning with Cooper was all about.”

He would have to bring up the one thing that would make me blush.

“That was a miscommunication. A mistake.” Is it suddenly hot out here? “He thought there was something to salvage from our relationship. There isn’t. I’m not seeing anyone. Not in town, not out of town, and certainly not Cooper Clark. My trips to the casino are a chance to get a cup of coffee where I’m not Delaney Reed, the chief of police who couldn’t figure a way not to get roped into taste-testing rhubarb, a fruit that is an affront to all things decent.”

“Vegetable,” he said. “It’s a vegetable.”

“That’s what you got out of the conversation?”

He shrugged one shoulder and the smile was back, along with the light in his eyes. “Everyone knows it’s a vegetable.”

“New York ruled rhubarb was a fruit in 1947. Lower tariff fees.”

He pursed his lips, hiding the smile. But not for long.

“I did not know that,” he said.

“So what about you?”

“I like the coffee in town.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“I’m trying to, but she works really long hours and has no concept of the food groups.”

Oh. That was sweet.

“Are you going to keep trying? To see her?”

“Dessert is a strong possibility.”

“Good.”