“Yeah. Fine,” I said. I needed work to do. Heavy work. Manual labor. Especially given how chilly she was acting. “Anything I can carry to the bin outside?”
“Yes.” She pointed to the stack of black garbage bags that lined the hall. “These are all ready to go.”
Thank Christ. I nodded and set to it, grateful for the distraction. I needed to get myself under control.
After five trips to the dumpster, I felt better. Sort of. Enough to remind my dick that Devon was actually a person and not a pair of spectacular legs connected to an even more spectacular ass, and to remind my head that Devon wasn’t some box I could just force open at will.
She looked at me, her lips quirked in a half-smile. “What’s with you today?”
I wanted to ask her the same. “Nothing,” I lied. “What’s next?”
She hummed, still assessing me, and said, “Attic. Seems like you need it.”
I raised my eyebrows. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she seemed to know me as well as I understood her.
Or at least, as well as I thought I did. Right now, I barely knew my own name for as much as my head was running in circles.
She moved past me, her arm brushing mine, and my skin felt electric. I followed her up to the third floor of the Victorian, keeping my eyes on the faded, rose-print wallpaper even though it was a Herculean task, and then we stopped in front of a half-size door.
I repeat: a door, only it was half the size it should have been.
“Um, what’s that?” I asked. “The murder room?”
She laughed. “That’s the door to the attic. Only half this floor is non-attic.”
“So you’re going to send me through that tiny door and lock me in there?”
“Nah,” she said, her eyes dancing. “Not today.”
“Have you been in here yet?” I opened the door and bent to peer inside.
“Not this go-around.” She shook her head as I straightened. “But if it’s anything like it was when I was a kid, it’s filled with a bunch of junk. I don’t know why it was easier for her to carry things up here instead of putting them on the street, but I’m pretty sure we’ll need these.” She held up the box of heavy-duty trash bags. “And you’ll need this.” She held up a blue bandana in her other hand. “Sweat, dust, whatever.”
I nodded and took it, then shoved it in my back pocket. “After you.” I gestured to the door. “I’m not going into the murder room first.”
She huffed a laugh and clicked on the flashlight she produced from somewhere, angling a glittery smile back at me. She bent over, god damn that ass, walked in, and I followed. I would follow it anywhere.
I shook my head. I was a mess today. I blamed Price, Will, Chief, and even Mike. They were the four horsemen of my personal apocalypse.
I stood to my full height once we got inside and looked around. “Wait a minute. I thought the murder room was going to stay tiny?”
It was filled to the rafters, literally, with dusty furniture parts, boxes, trunks, and rolled-up carpets. It was entirely possible we could kit out a two-bedroom house with the stuff up here if we were creative enough.
“Not at first. It slopes.” Devon pointed the flashlight at the back of the room, then she pulled on a string, bringing an ancient bulb to life that barely provided any light. “You ready for this?”
I was ready, all right. Just not for what she was talking about. Focus on her heart, asshole. “As I’ll ever be.”
Two hours later, my muscles were screaming at me and I was officially done. I held the bandana up and waved it after tossing a carpet into the dumpster. “Mercy,” I begged, then used the massacred cloth to wipe my face.
Devon threw a contender for the world’s ugliest lamp into the dumpster, then turned and flashed me another wired but still devastating smile. Turns out, she had a dimple in her right cheek and it only came out when she was torturing me. “Had enough?”
I held up the bandana once more, happy she’d warmed up over the past two hours. “I could fill a glass with the sweat from this.”
“Hmm. Tempting. But I prefer tea.” She waved me back inside. “Come on.”
I followed her shorts—her, I meant her, I swear I had mostly good intentions—to the kitchen. While she busied herself preparing what she called ‘the perfect iced tea,’ I washed my hands and took a wet paper towel to my face and neck. Finally cooled off, I threw it away and came face to face with Devon.
“Well, hello there.”
She grinned, the shiny hardware of her mouth on full display. “Hello yourself.”
I smiled like an idiot, ready to cheer at the way she held my gaze. It seemed she was back.
“Sooo,” she said. “I need the trash can.” She winked as she swung a desiccated lemon between her fingers.
“Ah.” I scooted over, and she opened the door under the sink to throw the lemon away. I’d like to say I didn’t notice how her tank top fell open to reveal a little more of her breasts. I’d like to. But I’d be lying.
“Pretty sure it’s cooler outside,” she said as she grabbed the glasses. “Besides, it doesn’t get any more Southern than drinking tea on your front porch, so we’re going all in.”
The dogs raised their heads from their spots in the shade on the porch when we appeared, then laid them back down with twin sighs. I chuckled. “So much for them staying in the back yard.”
Devon hummed in agreement, then dropped into a rocking chair as I did the same. I accepted the tea she handed me, raised it to her in a salute, and took a sip. “Whoa.”
She smiled. “Told you.”
“I don’t really even like tea that much, but this is”—I took another sip—“okay, this is really good.”
She preened. “You’re welcome. One of the tricks I picked up from Gigi over the years.”
