Project Produce(7)

He seemed to shake himself back into consciousness. “No. Don’t do that. C’mon, let me in, and I’ll explain.”

I ignored him and dialed the police as I watched him pinch the bridge of his nose and blow out a breath. He walked to the street and kicked a big whitewall tire, then leaned against the hood of the classic red Mustang. So he was the crazy person with the vintage car. Kind of a noticeable car for a crook. Maybe he moonlighted as a car thief.

The patrol officer arrived on the scene and joined Hot Britches while I verified with the man on the phone that Detective Dylan Cabrizzi was the real deal. After I hung up, I poked my head out the door. “Come on in. When I described you,” I jerked my chin in the Detective’s direction, “your captain assured me you’re not a criminal.”

The patrol officer coughed into his fist.

“Oh, and he said he wanted to speak with you first thing in the morning. Something about standard procedure.”

“Great. Can we get on with this? I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure. I have some questions, too.” I led the way into the lobby.

“Peterson, stand watch.”

“Okay. But, um,” when Peterson paused, I glanced over my shoulder and watched him grin wide, “maybe you should get your badge, Cabrizzi. We wouldn’t want the poor victim forgetting you’re not a hoodlum.” He slapped Dylan on the shoulder.

“And maybe you should can it, Peterson. We wouldn’t want you forgetting I outrank you.” Dylan returned the slap to Peterson’s back, and Peterson’s smile slipped a little.

“No problem.”

“Good.” Dylan entered the lobby and closed the door.

Yes, indeed, it had been one very long day, but it wasn’t over yet. In fact, things were starting to look up. Detective Hot Britches wasn’t a loser after all, not that I had any intention of getting involved with him. He was a man, and in my experience, that was just as bad. Nope, he wasn’t the perfect guy for me. No man was.

But he just might be my perfect zucchini.





CHAPTER TWO





I put a pot of coffee on, then motioned for Detective Cabrizzi to sit.

He glanced at the ugly excuse for a chair and said, “I’ll stand, thanks.”

I couldn’t really blame him. I’d watched T.V. The icky stuff the CSI guys dug up in dirty motels turned my stomach. I didn’t want to sit in those chairs, either, but the adrenaline rush had left me exhausted. I wasn’t about to strain my neck just to answer his questions, so I breezed by him and sat, trying not to think about what might be wiggling beneath my derriere. Folding my hands in my lap, I stared at him.

“Okay, I’ll sit.” He sat, pulling out a notepad and pen from his leather jacket. “Why don’t we start with your full name. For the record.”

I didn’t say a word, just kept staring at him.

“Look. I can’t help you if you don’t answer my questions.”

“And I can’t help you if you don’t take off your glasses. I don’t trust a man whose eyes I can’t see.” I didn’t trust men, period, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Sorry. Forgot I had them on.” He removed his mirrored sunglasses.

“Sweet Jesus,” I exhaled on a whoosh.

“What?”

“N-Nothing. Your eyes. They’re just...” I smiled. “They’re fake, aren’t they?”

“Come again?” He blinked at me.

“Come on, fess up. You have to be wearing contacts. There’s no way that sparkling sapphire blue is natural. And your lashes. Good Lord, they’re long.”

He cocked a brow. “I assure you, ma’am, there’s not a thing on me that’s fake.”

My eyes dropped to his crotch, and I wanted to smack myself silly. Yanking my gaze back up to his sizzling eyes, I gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Um, where were we?”

The corner of his lip crept up ever so slightly, and he replied, “You were about to tell me your name before you got lost in my eyes.”

“I did not get lost in your eyes.”

“You were staring.”

“I wasn’t staring. I was just surprised,” I huffed. “And my name is MacDonald. Callie MacDonald.”

“As in ‘supersized’?”

“Well, aren’t you full of yourself?”

His brows formed a V. “I meant ‘supersized’ as in McDonald’s, the restaurant. Is your name spelled like that?”

“Oh.” Had I said this day was looking up? I wanted to hit the rewind button and not stop until I heard the sound of my alarm clock, so I could throw the useless thing out the window and stay in bed all day. “Um, it’s MacDonald, with an ‘a.’ Next question?” Darned Irish skin. He had to have seen me blush yet again.