Borrowing Trouble (9 page)

“Perfect,” Connie said. “Everyone give me fifty bucks and I'll buy the gift certificate online.”

“Fifty bucks?” Wyatt protested. “Then I still have to get him a wedding gift.”

“I'll put in a hundred,” Rhys said. “Everyone else just do what you can. It doesn't have to be fifty.”

“God, Wyatt, you're so cheap.”

“Connie, knock it off.” Rhys pulled out his wallet and shoved a bunch of bills in her hand.

Sloane didn't have any cash on her. Privately, she told Connie to put her down for a hundred and she'd get money from the teller machine at the Gas and Go. She also wanted to swing by the Nugget Market and see the cake selection there.

After Rhys settled in his office, Sloane wandered back there and knocked on his glass door. He motioned for her to come in and take a seat.

“What's up?” He leaned back in his chair and threaded his hands behind his head.

“I'll take over for you while you're gone—if you still want me to.”

“That's great. You're sure?”

“I just don't want anyone to feel slighted or like I'm too ambitious.”

He sat quiet for a few seconds. “It's not like that here, Sloane. But there is nothing wrong with being ambitious. That's why I hired you. I don't want this to be a department where people think they can skate because it's a country town that doesn't have a lot of crime.”

“I don't mean it that way . . . I mean as far as moving up the ranks.” Now she felt ruffled.

“What's going on with our John or Jane Doe?”

“Everything has been sent to the state Department of Justice's Bureau of Forensic Services. We're hoping to get DNA. In the meantime, I've been searching NamUs—National Missing and Unidentified Persons System—and any other databases I can find.”

“Okay. Just keep me up to speed on it. So, do Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday work for you? In exchange, I'll give you four days off next week.”

“Who'll work during Jake's wedding?”

Rhys sighed. “Wyatt and I will split it.”

“That's not fair. If we cut the shift up three ways we'll each get to attend the reception, at least for a little while.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. Now I have to go find a freaking cake.”

He laughed. “You're not planning to bake it?” She looked at him like he was out of his mind. “Why do you think I volunteered to bring the drinks?”

“Good trick. Don't think I won't remember it for the next time,” Sloane said.

When she left Rhys's office she was smiling. On her way out, she grabbed her purse and headed to the ATM. Griffin was working under the hood of an old station wagon but came into the convenience store when he saw her.

“Hey, how goes it? You find out anything more on the skeleton Justin found at the Meet Up?”

“Not yet. It'll probably be a while. Unfortunately, the lab guys don't have a lot to go on. But I'd like to spread the word. You know, in case someone remembers a ranch hand who never showed up to work or an out-of-towner looking for hiking trails, that sort of thing.”

“I don't think you have to worry in this town,” Griffin said. “Word is getting spread as we speak.”

She laughed. He had a point. The town was rather gossipy. She couldn't get a hamburger at the Bun Boy without hearing Donna Thurston talking about this one or that one. Nothing mean, but rumor-mongering did seem to be a favorite pastime.

“Hey, Griff, do you know Tawny? She makes boots.”

“Of course. Everyone knows Tawny. Why do you ask?”

“She had on a pair I liked. Are they terribly expensive?”

“On average about three thousand bucks.”

“Whoa. Then they're definitely out of my league.” Sloane had never been one to spend a lot on clothes or shoes. But she'd been curious about Tawny ever since she walked into Brady's kitchen.

“She also sells samples and seconds. You can probably get a better deal that way if she has your size. She and Lucky are building a house and a new studio. But for now she sells them out of her garage. I can give you directions if you want.”

“Lucky, the guy who owns the cowboy camp that everyone talks about? How is he related to Tawny?”

“They're engaged. They have a nine-year-old together.”

“Really? Uh . . . I'll get her address from you later. I'm supposed to be on duty.” She started for the door. “If you hear anything about my case let me know, okay? And ask Owen and the other guys too.” She couldn't bring herself to call them the Nugget Mafia.

It was ridiculous, but when she got in her truck she did a mental happy dance. Tawny and Brady must just be friends, then. Although she didn't know what she was so excited about. If Brady had been remotely interested in her, he would've made a move by now.

On her way back to the station she stopped at the Nugget Market.

“Hi, Ethel, you have any cakes?”

“Just what we have in the freezer cases. I think there are a few Sara Lee pound cakes in there.”

“You don't have any bakery cakes?”

“Not at the beginning of the week, I'm afraid. Not enough of a demand. We have mixes in the baking aisle. Just make one.”

She went over to the baking stuff and perused the shelves. It's not like she even had cake pans. Maybe she could borrow some from Brady.

“Chocolate or vanilla?” Sloane called to Ethel.

Ethel came down the aisle. “What's that, dear?”

“The cake is for Jake. We're throwing a shower for him at the police station.”

“Now isn't that sweet.”

“What flavor do you think I should go with?”

“You can't go wrong with white cake and vanilla frosting.”

Okay, she thought, and grabbed a cake mix and a frosting can off the shelf. “Maybe I'll get one of these icing things to write on the cake with, too.”

“I'm sure you'll make it lovely,” Ethel said. “I'll meet you at the cash register.”

Sloane grabbed a jar of candy confetti just for good measure, paid for everything, and put it in her SUV. She hadn't driven her Rav4 since she'd gotten here. Rhys let her take the department vehicle home with her every night.

Back at the station, she briefed Wyatt on what areas she'd patrolled, headed home and unloaded her groceries. She changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and nuked herself a frozen burrito in the microwave. At the table she watched the window for Brady's van. If he didn't come home soon, she'd be screwed for cake pans. But a half hour later he drove down the driveway and parked. She didn't want to ambush him so she waited until he went inside his apartment and had time to unwind.

In the meantime, she set up her ingredients and thought about clever things she could write on the cake.

Wishing you a long and happy marriage, since the other three didn't work out
.

A little cop humor that she'd keep to herself. Sloane decided that enough time had passed since Brady got home, crossed the porch to his apartment, and knocked on the door.

It took him a while to answer, but when he did he was shirtless and rubbing a towel through his wet hair. He was insanely ripped, beautifully toned, and his arms . . . seriously inked with intricate designs. Whoa, she'd never seen him without long sleeves.

“It's cold,” he said. “So come in and shut the door.”

She was trying very hard not to stare at his chest . . . his six-pack . . . or his tattoos. Without thinking, she reached out and touched his bicep where an image of a fork and knife crossed like an X.

“Did it hurt?”

“Nah,” he said. “You hungry?”

Jeez, did he think she was a food mooch? “No. I had a frozen burrito. You want one?”

He seemed to be thinking about it. “Sure. If you have an extra.”

“I have a whole bag of them. Come over when you're dressed and I'll microwave it for you.” She kept sneaking peeks at him. Tattoos weren't usually her thing, but on him they were hot. Truth be told, she'd never wanted a pair of arms around her so badly.

“Okay,” he said, breaking the spell. “Give me five minutes.”

“Just come over whenever you're ready.” She started to leave. “Oh, and Brady, do you have a cake pan I can borrow?”

He continued to dry his hair and she watched his arms flex with every move.

“What do you need a cake pan for?”

“We're throwing Jake a shower at the station tomorrow. I got cake duty.”

“You want round, square, or rectangle?”

“Uh, I don't know. I better look at the box.”

“You got a mix?” He pulled a face.

“Yes. Not everyone is a trained chef, Brady.”

“I'll bring a couple different ones over.”

She hurried home to make sure she hadn't left any bras or panties hanging in her bathroom. About ten minutes later, he came into her kitchen—unfortunately wearing a shirt—carrying an assortment of baking pans. He lifted the cake mix off the counter and shook his head.

“What?”

“It's lame. You bake a cake, you do it from scratch.”

“No,
you
do it from scratch. I do it from a mix. Actually, I would've bought a cake if I could freaking find one in this town.” She grabbed the burritos from the freezer. “How many do you want?”

He eyed the bag. “I'll take two.”

She wrapped them in a damp paper towel, put them on a plate, and stuck them in the microwave. “I make an excellent frozen burrito,” she told him.

He cocked his eyebrows. “I can see that.”

“I have four days off next week and I plan on making you that real meal I told you about, the one you promised not to judge.”

“I don't judge. Just to prove it, I'll help you make the mix, even though it goes against everything I stand for.”

The microwave dinged and she set a place for him at the table. He didn't make gagging noises when he bit into the burrito, so she figured he didn't mind it.

“Your place looks nice.” He grinned. “Girly. I wouldn't have figured you for the flowery, ruffly, throw-pillow type.”

“No? What would you have figured me for?”

“I don't know. But I like that you're unpredictable.”

“What about you with all those tattoos?”

“You don't like them?”

She felt her face heat and got up to start on the cake. “I like them.”

He cleared his dishes, rolled up his sleeves, and washed whatever was in the sink. She pretended to read the cake box while slyly sneaking peeks at his arms.
Mmm
.

“Let me see that.” He took the box from her hand and read the instructions. “We should do two rounds.” He preheated the oven and dumped the box into the batter bowl she'd set out.

Next thing she knew, he'd taken over her project, which was fine. At the rate they were going, her cake would be done in no time. She watched him butter and shake the pans until they were evenly coated with flour.

“You're good at this.” She laughed.

“Not really. Baking isn't my thing.”

“Don't you have to learn it in culinary school?”

“The basics, but pastry is typically a different program.”

“I liked Tawny,” she said. Clunky segue, but she was curious about their friendship.

“When I met her she was having a real rough time. Her little girl had leukemia and it was touch-and-go there for a while. But a couple of months ago Katie had a stem cell transplant and seems to have made a miraculous recovery. Lucky, Katie's biological father, was the donor. Now he and Tawny are getting married.”

“How did you guys become friends?”

“Through Sam. Then I started bringing food over to help out.”

“That was kind of you.”

“Everyone in town rallied. That's just what it's like here—we take care of each other.”

Sloane thought it was a nice sentiment if indeed it was true. In her experience no one took care of you if you went against the status quo. Even if it was the right thing to do.

Brady added the wet ingredients into the cake mix, stirred, poured the batter into the two pans he'd prepared, and slipped them into the oven. On the counter, he picked up the canned frosting. “We really gonna use this?”

“Yep.” She pulled out her tube of icing and jar of confetti and held them up. “For decorating.”

He sort of wrinkled his nose but didn't challenge it.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“Hang out.” He let his eyes move over her and she wondered what he was thinking. “After it's done baking we'll have to let it cool for a while before frosting it.”

“Let's go in the living room then.” She led the way, thankful that it wasn't a mess.

Brady stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds, taking it in.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing. Where did you get all this stuff?”

“Santa Monica, Melrose Avenue, Venice.” She shrugged “Wherever. Don't make fun of it.”

He sat in her overstuffed chair. All that testosterone looked funny there. “It suits you.”

“My choice of furniture? How's that?”

“You're pretty and so is your furniture. Are you getting over someone in LA?”

“No.” She tilted her head, surprised by the question. “What made you think that?”

“I figured that's why you left . . . a bad breakup.”

Before Sloane could answer, her phone vibrated with a text. “Damn. I'm probably getting called out again.” She leaped up, grabbed her cell off the hall tree, and read the text. The color must've drained from her face because Brady came up beside her and wrapped his arm around her.