Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(80)

Oh, my dear God. He’s counting on that. I’m special. Shit! My pulse zings through my veins, my heart pounds. What does that mean? Why would he be counting on my friendship? And why is he so interested to know if I’ve—Christy’s—heard something about him leaving?

“Well, okay, Father Tim, thank you so much for everything. I really should get back to the baby. Thanks. This was so helpful.”

Father Tim’s face is puzzled. “Glad to be of service, Christy,” he says. He stands aside as I practically leap out of the room, nearly colliding with Mrs. Plutarski, who is too close to the door for any purpose other than eavesdropping.

“So nice to see you, Christy,” she says, pretending to pick up a piece of paper already in her hand.

“It certainly is. Take care,” I say distantly, grabbing my coat. I need some air. My head is buzzing and my hearing seems to be off, and I need to get outside and away from the rectory.

I burst into the slush, sliding and nearly falling on the sidewalk, then slip over to Christy’s car, taking great gulps of air. Where did I put the keys? Where are the damn keys? I check the diaper bag and can’t find them. Father Shea! How many compartments does this thing have? Diapers here, wipes there, changing pad, pacifier, teething ring, Goodnight Moon, a stuffed dog, a sterilized bottle in a sealed plastic bag, some emergency formula, but no goddamn keys.

And then, around the corner comes Malone.

“Shit!” I hiss. I can’t believe the crap luck. Where are the f**king keys? Fifteen more feet and I’ll have to talk to him.

“Maggie?” he says cautiously.

Without thinking, I turn and walk away from the Volvo and away from Malone as fast as I dare in the slushy mess on the sidewalk. Jerking open the door of the CVS pharmacy, I hustle inside, looking for a place to hide until he passes. I stop in front of the tobacco display, which hides me from the front door, and pretend to look at pipes. I’m sweating bullets.

“Hi, Mrs. Jones,” calls a teenager from behind the counter. The Bates girl…what’s her name? Susie? Katie? Bessie? Shit, I can’t remember.

“Hello, honey!” I call a little too loudly.

The bell over the door rings, and Malone comes in. I scamper further down the aisle, then take a left. Ha! Here, I’ll go here. I try to stop panting and run a hand through my hair. I’m shaking, but I should be safe. He wouldn’t dare follow me here.

He dares. “Maggie?” His voice is low and grumbling and vaguely menacing.

I stretch my mouth into an approximation of a smile and turn to him. “Oh, hello, Malone. It’s actually Christy. Don’t worry, happens all the time.” Shimmers of heat are rolling off my face. I snatch a box of tampons from the shelf and study it hard. Extra absorbent for your heaviest days. That should scare off any male.

Malone doesn’t move. I shove the box back and grab some pads large enough to serve as dog beds.

“Why are you pretending to be Christy?” he growls.

I steal a glance at him. He’s scowling, of course, and his hair is rumpled from the wind. He hasn’t shaved today, and he’s so ridiculously male that even here, even knowing what I know, my knees soften in a biological rush of attraction.

“Hi, Christy!” calls a red-haired woman I’ve never seen. She has a baby on her hip.

“Hello!” I call back, waving. “How’s the baby?”

Malone folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes.

“A little fussy. Teething, I think. Your husband said I could try Motrin if it gets worse.”

“Oh, yes. Motrin. That will do the trick. Mmm-hmm. Will knows these things. Definitely try the Motrin. Works for Violet.” I shove the pads back on the shelf and go for the big guns—yeast infection treatments. I shake the box for emphasis, hearing the applicator rattle.

“Maggie,” Malone rumbles. “What are you doing?”

“It’s Christy, okay? You made a mistake. Even our parents mix us up. Now, I really need to concentrate because I have a raging yeast infection, okay? So goodbye.”

He leans in close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, and suddenly the box is shaking in my hands. Do not look at him, I warn myself. Do not even turn your head.

“I know who you are,” Malone whispers. Then he turns and walks away. I hear the bell over the door tinkle, and he’s gone.

“DON’T BE MAD at me,” I tell my sister as I hang up her coat.

“Did you dent the car?” she asks, taking a sip of tea. The baby monitor is on, the house warm and quiet, an oasis of calm.

“I pretended to be you,” I admit, bracing myself.

“What? Maggie! Come on!” she exclaims.

“Hey, quiet now, you’ll wake the baby,” I say, grateful that there’s a sleeping child to protect me from her wrath.

“Aren’t we a little old to be switching?” Christy grumbles. “And what the hell for, anyway?”

“Is the water hot? I could use a cup,” I say.

“Help yourself,” Christy says, putting aside her crossword puzzle. “You got some ’splainin’ to do.”

“Yeah, okay. First of all, I’m sorry,” I say. “I had just decided not to do it when Father Tim busted me. It was a bad idea. But you’re not going to believe this.” I spoon some sugar into my tea and sit down across from her. “I think Father Tim is leaving the priesthood.”