Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(28)

“King.” I held his hazel gaze. “How are you today?”

“I had a good weekend.” He smirked. “Always makes for a good Monday.”

If his definition of a good weekend was invading my private life on Friday—kissing me—only to ride off and find another woman to make his weekend good, I was going to destroy him.

“Lucky you,” I said. “I wish I could say the same. I had an unwelcome guest on Friday who put a damper on my whole weekend.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?” Dad asked. “What guest?”

“We were busy yesterday with the paper. But it seems that I have a pest problem on my porch. Can I borrow your shotgun?”

Dash chuckled quietly, his broad chest shaking as he smiled at the wall.

“A shotgun?” Dad’s forehead furrowed. “What kind of pest? Gophers?”

“Nope.” I shook my head. “A snake.”

“You hate snakes.”

“With a passion. Hence, the shotgun.”

Dash continued to laugh under his breath. The movement making his jaw seem stronger. Sexier. Ugh.

“You’re not using the shotgun.” Dad frowned. “I’ll come over tonight and see if I can find it.”

“Thanks.” I’d tell him later the snake was gone. “Well, I have a busy day. Glad you got the press working.”

“Me too. It was a good thing Dash poked his head in when he did.” Dad laughed. “I was about to light the damn thing on fire.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Standing on my toes, I pressed a quick kiss to Dad’s cheek, then spun around and marched for the door. Behind me, Dash’s deep voice rumbled until the sound of boots echoed behind me on the floor.

Dad didn’t wear boots. He was a sneaker man.

Every cell in my body wanted to tell Dash to go away. Or to ask him to kiss me again. I wasn’t sure.

Fighting the urge to turn was hard but I kept my shoulders squared and my legs moving forward. When I pushed through the door, I only opened it a crack, hoping it would shut on Dash’s face.

It didn’t. The moment I was in my chair, Dash was perched on the edge of my desk. He crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps flexing with the movement. The definition around his muscles wasn’t something you saw often on mere mortals, all tight skin covered with tattoos.

I swallowed down a wave of drool. “What do you want?”

“A snake?” The corner of that sultry mouth turned up. His eyes were shining and full of mischief.

I shrugged. “It fits.”

He grinned, flashing me those white teeth. A lock of hair fell onto his forehead and I clasped my hands together so they wouldn’t reach to fix it. Dash had great hair. I bet it was silky and thick, the strands like dark chocolate. It was just long enough I could get a good grip if he was on top of— Oh, for fuck’s sake. That kiss had scrambled my brain and given him the upper hand. Somehow, I had to take it back, which was going to be difficult with him sitting on the edge of my desk, smelling like sin and pure temptation.

“Was there something you needed?” I asked.

“How about a thank you?”

“For?”

He nodded to the pressroom door. “For fixing your press.”

If not for the stress it would take off Dad and the paper’s budget, I would have died a thousand deaths before uttering a word of gratitude for a job I hadn’t asked him to do. But Dad’s relief had been palpable. “Thanks.”

“Was that so hard?”

“Would you mind getting off my desk? I have work to do today.”

“Can’t.”

“Jesus. Here we go with the can’ts again.”

“Read your paper yesterday.”

“And.”

“It was . . . informative.”

“Well, that is the purpose of a newspaper. To inform the people.”

“You’re doing a hell of a job.” His compliment seemed genuine; therefore I didn’t trust it for a second. “I have a proposition for you.”

I arched an eyebrow, a silent I’m listening.

“Let’s call a truce.”

“A truce?” I scoffed. “Why would I agree to a truce? I’m winning.”

“Maybe.”

Bullshit. “Definitely.”

“Fine. You’re good. But we both want the same thing. We both want to find out who killed that woman.”

“But I already know. It was—”

“It was not my dad.” He held up a finger. “If it was, you can prove me wrong. But if I’m right, which I am, wouldn’t it be better to print the real story? The one about the real killer, before anyone else?”

“I hate to break this to you, King, but I’m the only one in town spreading the news. I don’t need your help getting the story. Hell, I can wait around and print what the cops feed me and I’ll still keep my readers.”

“But that’s not your style.”

No, it wasn’t. I wanted a scoop. And not just against other news outlets. I wanted to scoop the police too. “What exactly are you suggesting we do with a truce? Work together?”

“That’s right. Seems like we might be real good together.”