“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”
His tan from long days working outside does little to hide the blush that overtakes his cheeks as he meets her eyes. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” He turns and hurries away, stomping down the stairs like he’s taking them as fast as possible.
Well, that was interesting.
Could it be that Charlie Waybill is attracted to her? Or is it only pent-up hatred that has him all flustered? Perhaps it’s a combination of both. Regardless, it gives Gretchen a potential advantage. Only a fool would pass up the chance to use it, especiallywhen the conversation she’s about to have is going to be tricky, to say the least.
So she turns the water on, then gathers up the few remaining semidry clothes she has and shoves them under the showerhead until they’re also soaked through.
7
Everett is waiting in the hall when Gretchen comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but lacy thong underwear and a damask-patterned towel.
His blue eyes descend her body in businesslike assessment this time, nodding in approval when he reaches her legs. “Nice getaway sticks.” He rubs his hands together. “Are we going to talk to Charlie now? Ooh, can we do good cop, bad cop? I’ll be Stabler, you can be Benson.”
Gretchen frowns.
“No, you’re right. You should be Stabler. You’re definitely the more believable loose cannon.”
“Neither of us is going to be Stabler,” she says.
“We’re doing Benson and Amaro? Hm, interesting choice.”
“We’re not doing Benson and anybody.”
Everett pokes at the dimple in his chin. “Briscoe and Green, then?”
“Oh my god.” Gretchen groans. “No one is going to be anyone from any branch of theLaw & Orderfranchise.”
“Got it.” Everett rocks back and forth on his toes, half an inch above the floorboards. “What about Starsky and Hutch?” Gretchen’s face must adequately convey her feelings on this because he holds his hands up in capitulation as he floats backward down the stairs. “Okay, okay. No good cop, bad cop. So what are we doing?”
“Wearen’t doing anything,” Gretchen says, the old stairs letting out a veritable symphony of squeaks and creaks as she descends. “Iam going to go into the kitchen to ask Charlie if I can borrow some clothes, hopefully distracting him from how much he hates me with my—what did you call them?—my ‘getaway sticks,’ and then I am going to tell him everything you’ve told me and hope for the best.Youwill stand by in case I need further information, but otherwise you are to be completely silent.”
“Except for when—”
“Completely. Silent,” she reiterates, narrowing her eyes.
Everett does a pirouette around the end of the banister, passing through the bottom steps so that the lower half of his body is momentarily inside the staircase. “Mm, yeah, not sure that’s going to work for me.”
“What do you mean it’s not going to work for you?”
“Well, I haven’t had a reason to be quiet in a looooong time, doll. And now you expect me to be able to keep my yap shut on command?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I expect. And if you want my help fulfilling your cursely obligations, you’ll try your best not to distract me when I need to focus.” She glances around the foyer. “Kitchen?”
“Right this—ah—” Everett presses his lips together and mimes locking them with a key, which he then pretends to throw over his shoulder before sweeping his hand in front of him and bowing his head like an obsequious butler in a period drama.
He leads her to an open doorway, through which is a large kitchen with dated appliances, butcher-block counters, and a square oak table in the center of the room. The walls are covered in wallpaper that features apples or maybe cherries—some fruit, it’s hard to tell, really, given how faded it is. It isn’t chic. Definitely not the “farmhouse” decor Gretchen has seen on HGTV. But it’s so, well,cozy, that it makes Gretchen immediately imagine the numerous pies and scrambled eggs and pot roasts produced here over the years. The kind of home cooking she’s only ever really experienced at hole-in-the-wall family restaurants on the road, never at anyone’s actualhome. Her stomach growls at the same time her heart aches. Probably hunger-induced indigestion.
Charlie sits at the table, his chair turned to the side. He has his left ankle propped on his right thigh and an open hardback book resting at the junction. With the afternoon sun coming through the window over the sink highlighting the gold of his hair and turning the amber strands in his beard into tiny streaks of fire, he looks like some sort of fierce angel. Maybe the one that would have warned Gretchen that this was a bad idea if she hadn’t evicted it from her shoulder back in 2005, leaving a flashing vacancy sign that seems to have attracted an extra devil.
Speaking of, Everett wanders past her into the kitchen. He hunches behind Charlie, staring down at his book. Charlie’s shoulder twitches, a small shiver at the slight change in temperature. The family resemblance is undeniable now that Gretchen sees the men together; their coloring is different—Everett pale, blue-eyed, and dark haired under his tweed cap; Charlie sun-kissed, hazel-eyed, hair straddling that line between blond and light brown. But they have the same slightly too large nose, matching wide mouths.
Gretchen can’t help but wonder if Charlie’s smile would also be charmingly crooked. But given the animosity between them, it seems unlikely she’ll ever find out.
Not that she cares anyway.
She clears her throat.
