Butterface

He picked out an orange jasmine without even looking at the labels and handed it to her. “If I don’t, then you can’t, either. Your entire house is a crime scene.”

Everything stopped for a second. None of that sentence sounded right. She wasn’t the kind of person who had threats leveled against her. Well, unless she counted the bridezillas on the warpath, but even that was usually fixed with chocolate or champagne.

“What are you talking about? You said it’s probably natural causes,” she said.

Ford held her gaze. “We won’t know that until the ME’s report, so this is going to be treated as a homicide until we know different.”

“Bullshit.” The kettle’s ear-splitting whistle sounded at that moment as if the universe was putting an exclamation on her statement.

“Look, we have to treat the threat with a higher level of concern than we would if it had been called in about a normal citizen.”

She dropped the tea bags into each mug and poured the steaming water over the top. “You mean one without ties to organized crime.”

“Exactly.” As if he owned the place, Ford reached over and set the timer on the oven display for three minutes, the exact amount of steeping time recommended on the back of the tea packets.

He had just told her that her house was a crime scene and because her brothers were idiots involved with the mob the cops were taking it seriously, and yet he still thought it was important to steep his tea properly? What the hell? It was just one more thing to annoy the shit out of her about this entire situation. Why was it that the men in her life felt the need to run roughshod over her?

“So, I’ll just be staying on your couch for a few days until the medical examiner confirms her initial theory that your grandfather died of natural causes after slipping between the walls, and we can make sure that no threats are made against you.”

“Are you deranged?” She yanked the tea bag out of his mug even though there was a full minute and a half left on the timer and tossed it into the trash. “You think I’m just going to agree to that because we told my brothers that you were my boyfriend—as if anyone would believe that. What, do you think people believe this is some lame romantic comedy where the hot guy falls for the ugly chick? Newsflash, I don’t wear glasses, so there’s no taking them off and then suddenly I’m a total babe and believably your girlfriend.”

The words came out in a rush, and by the time she was done her breath was coming out fast and hard. Her cheeks hurt from the heat of embarrassment. God. She thought she’d gotten past all this hurt from being the ugliest girl in the class, but one wedding night prank had raked it all up to the surface, and all of a sudden she was sixteen again and hearing the giggling whispers of Butterface as she walked down the hall.

Clenching her jaw tight so her chin couldn’t tremble, she focused all of her attention on her own mug. She put way more effort into carefully removing her tea bag and putting it into the trash than she had with Ford’s, all so she could have a few precious seconds to take a breath and pull herself back from the edge. Once she could trust her voice, she turned back to the man who kept bearing witness to her most humiliating moments this decade.

Keeping her gaze on his chin with its dimple in the middle, because looking him in the eyes was so not going to happen right now, she said, “This isn’t just my house. It’s my place of business.”

“We can arrange it so that only the attic is off-limits,” he said, his thumb tapping against the mug’s handle.

Her confidence coming back with each inhale, she raised her chin and her gaze. “If someone did kill my grandfather, then they’re long gone.”

His thumb sped up its rat-a-tat-tat beat. “Are you so sure of that?”

“I could just tell my brothers that I need them to help out.” Ugh. Saying it out loud sounded like a worse idea than just thinking it in her head. Still, it was better than the alternative. Ford? In her house? Nopity nope nope. “They’ll stay here.”

“Is that what you want?” Ford raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his tea. “The chance of your brothers going off half-cocked when the mail carrier rings the doorbell to drop off a package? And anyway, the only choice you have is me staying here or you at a hotel.”