Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(5)

I flashed her my friendliest I’m Not a Threat smile and held up the platter of donuts and breakfast pastries I’d ordered to go from The Brunch Club. “Hi,” I said chipperly.

Scarlett detached the cat from her leg and nudged him back into the house with her work boot.

I could hear her boyfriend, Devlin, on the phone somewhere behind her.

“I repeat. What in the hell do you want?” she demanded coolly.

But I noticed how her eyes tracked to the goodies which, after my horrific run this morning, were starting to weigh heavily on my weakened arms.

“Scarlett, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I began cheerfully.

“If you mean you being a low-down, no-good, dirty, gossip-mongering, she-devil of a reporter trying to infiltrate my family and dig up dirt on us as the wrong foot, then yes. Yes, we did.”

Undaunted, I removed the plastic wrap from the tray of carbs so the scent could escape and overwhelm her brain. Olfactory function was on my side. No one could stay angry when they were sniffing sugar. “I’m not a reporter. I’m not writing about Callie Kendall. And I promise I’m not trying to infiltrate your family.”

Scarlett looked at me with suspicion. But the scent of French cruller was distracting her. It smelled like victory to me.

“You write for magazines,” she pointed out. “You showed up in town with the rest of your soulless, heartless, loafer-wearing journalistic weasel friends. I don’t care if your giant brother is dating one of my very best friends in the whole wide world. That does not require me to be nice to you.”

She snatched a pastry from the tray.

“I do freelance write,” I agreed. “For academic psychology journals. I’m writing a thesis involving field study on the bonds that exist between neighbors in small communities and how these relationships can often be as strong as and as binding as actual biological or romantic relationships.”

Scarlett bit off a corner of the cruller and blinked. “Say what now?”

“I’m getting my doctorate in social work. I’m writing my thesis on Bootleg Springs. On how your town chased off a pack of soulless, heartless, loafer-wearing journalistic weasels. GT can vouch for me,” I promised, hoping my brother wouldn’t mind playing character witness for me if need be.

I was staying in Bootleg Springs until I had everything I needed for the best damn thesis ever written on small-town psychology. And the Bodines might as well get used to the idea. Because I wasn’t leaving town without their input in my survey.

Scarlett was still eyeing me like she didn’t trust me any farther than she could pitch me off a dock. “You may come in,” she said finally. “But one wrong move, one word that I don’t like, and I will chase you off my property with my daddy’s shotgun. It’s not loaded, but it still looks real scary. And I can swing it pretty damn hard.”

“Fair enough.”

I followed her inside. The cottage was adorable, tiny, and… stuffed to the rafters. Boxes lined one wall of the skinny hall. I turned sideways and edged past them holding the tray aloft, making my back and shoulders scream in protest. The space opened up into a minuscule kitchen and teeny tiny living room. Both of which were overflowing with stuff. There were more boxes, some labeled, some open with their contents spilling out.

Two clothing racks of smart suits bookended the small couch. Plastic totes and file boxes were built up in a wall in front of the TV.

The cat zoomed in and out of stacks of books and magazines before sinking his claws into a cardboard box labeled Case Files 2010.

“You stop that, Jedidiah,” Scarlett ordered, whipping out a spray bottle and aiming it at the cat.

The cat looked at her, and I swear it grinned. He continued shredding the box until Scarlett sprayed him right in his little face.

He yowled and sprinted off down the hallway.

“If you’d just listen the first time, I wouldn’t have to do that to you,” she called after him.

Devlin, tall and impeccably dressed, was standing in the kitchen with a phone pressed to one ear and a finger in the other. He spoke attorney fluently into the phone and gave me a distracted smile. He dropped a kiss on Scarlett’s head and ducked into the bedroom shutting the door.

“I’m pouring you some sweet tea. But only because it’s polite. Then we can go out on the porch where you can attempt to win me over, at which you will undoubtedly fail, leaving me no choice but to escort you from my property.” She sniffed.

I wasn’t a fan of sweet tea. It made my teeth hurt. But I didn’t feel safe admitting that to her.

“Sweet tea would be so nice,” I said cheerfully.

She glared at me and stomped into the kitchen where she produced glasses and a pitcher of sugar. She put it all on a tray and carried it to the sliding glass door. I pulled it open for her, earning a curt nod, and followed her outside.

This was the kind of experience I needed to absorb and somehow translate in my dissertation. This adherence to tradition and etiquette while still being borderline rude. It was fascinating.

I found myself in a cozy screened-in porch that faced the sparkling waters of the lake that kissed the end of Scarlett’s land.

My hostess dumped the tea on a small table for two. I added the pastries, and we sat.

“So, what the hell do you want?” she asked, pouring the tea. “And don’t even think about asking me one single question about that body those folks in New York found this week.”