I remain silent, although I glance down at my outfit as we follow the sidewalk that takes us through a pretty residential area. I didn’t bother to shave after my shower, but I did throw on a pair of khaki pants that had been bought for me after my “death.” When I’d been put in that apartment in Chicago, I didn’t have a stitch of clothing other than the outfit I’d been wearing during my supposed execution. That had consisted of a black Harley long-sleeved t-shirt, a pair of jeans, biker boots, and my leather cut. All of my pre-undercover clothes were in storage and wouldn’t be fetched for me until my new destination was determined, so I’d had to make due with a variety of clothes that Joe Kizner bought me.
That included a pair of khaki pants and a light blue button-up shirt that I paired with a pair of dark loafers. I looked like a fucking moron, or at least I think I did. It had been so damn long since I’d worn anything other than biker clothes that I wasn’t quite sure.
“And this is the time that would be appropriate for you to tell me that I look nice too and this outfit doesn’t make my ass look big,” Jane says with no small amount of snark.
“You look nice,” I say automatically and with no change in my inflection, even though I’d like to tell her she looks beyond amazing. When she’d opened her door five minutes ago, the breath was almost knocked out of my lungs. She was wearing a white, gauzy-looking skirt with lace on the edges, and it floated around her legs to just below her knees. Her shirt was a pretty shade of light green and hung off one shoulder. With her hair loose and wavy, she looked like a beautiful gypsy. The entire look was sweet, but it was also most definitely sexy.
She truly deserves more than just “you look nice,” and yet I can’t make myself say it. Anything to draw her closer to me means I’ll most likely be equally drawn back to her, and that’s just not optimal with the fucked-up mess that is my life right now.
“Well… I’m just one stomach flu away from my goal weight,” she mutters under her breath, but not so low that I can’t hear her.
“What?” I ask as I tilt my head to look at her, not really sure what that even means.
“The Devil Wears Prada,” she says as she glances at me briefly.
Devil? Prada? What the fuck?
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” I say irritably, feeling completely out of sorts because she wants a true compliment from me and she deserves one, but I can’t seem to give it.
“It’s a movie,” she murmurs as we continue to walk down the sidewalk. “2006.”
And for some reason, this immediately lessens the tension for me. She’s quoting movies and this is something she’s done so incessantly since I’ve met her, that it actually feels comfortable. Oddly, it almost centers me and the feeling is so appreciated, I stop and reach out to touch her arm. She turns to look at me curiously.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her truthfully, needing to give her something if only for the fact that she has the ability to make me feel okay in this strange world.
And your ass is slammin’, by the way.
Jane beams a smile at me, tucking her hair back behind one ear. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say as I pull my hand back and turn to start walking again. Before I can even help myself or talk myself out of it, I open the door for conversation because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment. “This is a pretty neighborhood.”
“It is,” she says in agreement. I don’t have to look at her to hear the fond smile in her voice.
To our left is the start of Misty Harbor, the actual body of water for which the town is named and the reason for a lighthouse. It starts on the end of the long jetty that separates it from the Atlantic and cuts into the mainland. To our right are houses that sit on tiny, well-manicured lots, their front porches facing the harbor waters with a view of the Atlantic just beyond the jetty. The houses are small, but I expect the prices are at a premium because of the views.
In between the water and the sidewalk is Front Street, and I’m assuming it’s named so since it fronts the water. But I could be wrong.
We approach a white house with a matching picket fence around it. The porch has black rocking chairs that match the shutters and potted plants of various sizes. A tiny dark blur shoots down the porch steps and charges at us down a walkway that’s lined on both sides by flowers. I realize it’s a small dog as it starts yapping at us, running along the fence line as we continue to walk.
Jane… being Jane… turns to the dog and curls her hands into claws while she cackles, “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too.”
The dog is unfazed and continues to yap at her.
Jane gives a soft laugh, and then reaches over the three-foot fence as the little dog comes up on his hind legs. He stops barking and his tail wags back and forth as she scratches his head. “Hi, Bilbo. You protecting the neighborhood?”
The little dog’s tail wags even faster. When Jane straightens and removes her hand from his head, he turns around and runs back up onto the front porch where he plops down on his stomach and watches us.
Jane turns toward me, and we start walking again. “That was the Wizard of Oz.”
“Yes,” I say dryly. “That I knew.”
“1939,” she adds on.
“That I didn’t know.”
Jane chuckles. As we start walking past the next yard, she throws her arm up and waves. I turn my head to see a couple sitting on rocking chairs on their front porch. It’s a pretty two-story house with gabled peaks and gray shaker shingles.