“I hate you,” Myra mumbled.
Jean laughed and patted Myra on the head.
“When’s the next thing?” Myra sighed.
“It’s a fundraiser,” Jean sing-songed. “Want to guess what it is?”
“No.”
“Canoe jousting?” I said.
“Not this time. C’mon Myra. Guess. It involves pancakes.”
She shifted her head to the side and cast a suspicious gaze at Jean’s grin. “Is it a cook-off? A pancake breakfast? That wouldn’t be terrible.”
“Boring.” Jean practically glittered with excitement. “Cakes on Skates!”
I heard the words, but couldn’t make them fit together in my head.
“Skates?” Myra said. Was that actual interest I heard in her voice?
“Breakfast delivered to your door by people on skates. Costumes encouraged. She’s got Hogan on board, so there will be cake donuts and cake cupcakes and cake cake, but he’s got four kinds of pancakes he’s going to whip up too.” From the smile on her face, you’d think the man had invented breakfast pastries.
“Why skates?” Myra asked.
“It’s also a contest.”
We waited.
“How many deliveries a skating team can make. How many times a skater drops their delivery. How many tips they can get out of the delivery. Who gets back to the finish line first. That kind of stuff.”
“Tell me Bertie already has judges.”
Jean shrugged. “Who knows. You still have your old skates?”
“No.”
“I do,” Myra said.
“Good job, pack rat.” Jean patted her shoulder. “You might want to loan them to Bertie so she can find some chump to sign up for deliveries. Unless you’d like to do the skating? Rebecca Carver will be doing it.”
At the name of her old high school rival, Myra’s face shut down into a scowl. “What’s she doing back in town?”
“Slumming? Walking around in her Jimmy Choos, despairing about our lack of diamond-coated puppy baths and pills that make you poop gold? What? That’s a real thing. Look it up.”
Myra, who was still head-down on the table, rocked her head back and forth, having given up on the conversation.
“I got nothing,” I said. “I’m out. It’s been a long day and I want some sleep. See you two tomorrow.” I threw a five on the table because even though Piper wanted to comp us our pie and coffee, she deserved a tip.
Myra said something that almost sounded like, “Gold poop pills. Brings a whole new meaning to gold digger.” Jean laughed again.
I left them to it and pushed out into the cool, wet night.
I liked summer. I liked the ever-shifting coastal weather that brought us days of lukewarm fog, or nearly gale-force winds, or crystal clear sunshine stunners that made everything feel right in the world.
And sure, I liked the cool wet of autumn, winter, and spring in Oregon too.
But Thor giving us the middle finger for three months was really getting on my nerves.
“You couldn’t give us one week of sunshine?” I asked as I tromped to the Jeep. “Come on, Thor. You know I’m grateful for your help in finding Cooper. I’m sorry you have to stay away from Ordinary for a year, but think of it this way. At least your power isn’t lost.”
I got in the Jeep and clicked on my seatbelt.
The rain seemed to lighten a little, the drops shrinking from nickel-sized to dime.
Maybe he was listening.
“You lay off the rain for the rest of August and most of September, and I promise we will throw you the biggest welcome home party Ordinary has ever seen when you come back.”
I started the engine and guided the Jeep south toward town. By the time I turned east, navigating the quiet neighborhoods toward the lake, the rain was down to a soft drizzle that finally, finally, stopped.
I let out a long breath. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Thor.”
I drove past the front of Ryder’s cabin, then parked across the street. Moonlight filtered silver down through the clouds. Wow, Thor was going to give us a little break. I hoped he didn’t change his mind in the morning.
Ryder’s truck was in his driveway. Next to it was a sleek sedan with an in-state license plate, but not one I recognized.
Ryder was not only back in town, he also had company.
The memory of his phone call this morning rolled through my head. He had sounded tired, worried, and maybe drunk. He had sounded like he was leaving to do something he might regret.
Kill a vampire?
No. Ryder didn’t know about the creatures who lived, or un-lived, among us.
Had he called because he was worried about returning to Ordinary? That didn’t really make much sense. He lived here.
I studied the low glow coming through the window beside the door, probably light from the living room.
Maybe he had a date.
That thought hit me like a two-ton sledgehammer. Not that there would be anything wrong with him dating. He’d dumped me. We weren’t together. So if he wanted to have a woman over, if he wanted someone else in his life, I should be happy for him.
Okay, not happy, but there were no legal grounds for me to slash his tires.
Maybe the chick’s sedan had expired tags. Maybe it had been used in a bank robbery. Maybe I should go over there and check that out. Because it was my job, not because I was jealous.
I was moments away from running the plates when the porch light flicked on, bathing the front of the house in light.
I killed the engine and ducked down, hoping the night would hide the Jeep. Why hadn’t I parked out of sight of the front door?
Stake out 101, Delaney.
The door opened and two people stepped out onto the porch: Ryder and another man.
Yes! He was with a man, not a woman.
My heart did a leap of joy, which was totally unprofessional.
Ryder stood in the doorway scowling, his arms crossed over his chest. His dog, Spud, sat attentively at his feet.
Just watching Ryder, lit by the light of the porch and shadowed by night, made my heart thump harder. His wide shoulders were muscled from the hands-on approach he took to his business. He might design buildings, but that didn’t keep him from going on-site and swinging a hammer. Those shoulders stretched the tailored lines of his dress shirt so that it was tight at the chest and biceps, but it skimmed his flat stomach.
Even at this distance, his dress slacks drew my eyes to narrow hips and long legs.
Ryder could model those business clothes, and more than one fashion magazine would take him on.
Since I’d seen him naked, I knew more than one underwear designer would take him on too. Those images were not helping me pay attention to what was happening at the porch.
They were talking. Maybe arguing? The man moved, his hand cutting a sharp line between them as if refusing something Ryder had said. He looked angry.
Okay, Delaney, pay attention.
Ryder’s expression had gone flat and unreadable. He waited until the guy was done gesturing, then nodded, a clear invitation for the guy to leave.
The man leaned in a little, his finger pointed at Ryder’s face, then off to the side at nothing in particular, or maybe indicating the neighborhood or town.