“Like Parson Payne?”

“Pain?” Dear God. That sounded like some bad BDSM alias.

“Payne,” he said, spelling it out. “He’s a religious dude who handles snakes out in Joshua Tree.”

Halle-freaking-lujah. I could have kissed Ralph right on the mouth. “That’s got to be the one. He buys his snakes from you guys?”

“Every month, like clockwork. He shows up here in his ratty-ass shit-brown Jeep and throws a tantrum if the snakes he’s buying aren’t just perfect.”

“Monthly, huh?”

“Rain or shine. The owners love him because he drops a grand every time, and they don’t have to deliver anything. But he never tips for loading, and he’s a dick, and he’s a straight-up freak. His teeth are all fucked up, and he smells like a hippie. Ugh.” Ralph shuddered. “Hate that old man.”

I tried to hide my excitement, but I was practically busting at the seams with joy. “Wow. He sounds like a real winner. But maybe we’re not talking about the same guy. The man I’m looking for buys unusual snakes,” I said, giving him my best if-you-know-what-I-mean look.

Ralph glanced around as if his boss might be listening. “Endangered Eden boas.”

“As in boa constrictor?”

He nodded. “Classified as critically endangered on the Red List. Illegal to remove from Brazil. Illegal to import to the States. One bite from an adult Eden can take down an elephant. And he doesn’t want babies. He wants the suckers ten feet long, minimum. The guys in the warehouse say he switches up buying different herps—”

“Herps?”

“Reptiles. They’re almost always exotic and venomous. Three months ago, when I started working here, he bought a hundred pit vipers. What he needs with all those snakes . . . ?” He shook his head in quiet disapproval. “I don’t even wanna know.”

“Well, shit,” I said brightly. “That’s got to be the guy. You know where his chapel is?”

“Don’t know if he’s got a chapel or not. He pays in cash, no address on file. Only know he’s from Joshua Tree because he keeps an annual park pass on the dash of his car.”

Crap!

“But if you want to chat with him, all you gotta do is be at the delivery dock between seven forty-five and eight a.m. tomorrow, before we open. Like I said, the dude never misses a pickup. But don’t tell him I was the one who told you. And definitely don’t tell the owners.” He dropped his cigarette butt and ground it out with the heel of his boot. “On second thought, what the hell do I care? If I get fired, at least I won’t have to deal with Parson Payne anymore.”

* * *

I told Lon everything once we drove away. We made a plan to return the next morning, and after that, I fell asleep in the car. Not gradually, either. One second he was asking if I wanted to head back into L.A., and the next thing I knew, he was standing in the open passenger doorway, unbuckling my seatbelt. I had no idea why I was so tired. It wasn’t as if I’d run a marathon or anything. But it was all I could do to carry my bag into the hotel—which wasn’t the L.A. hotel. Lon said we could get the same sleep somewhere local.

I agreed wholeheartedly. Especially when he took us to a grand Mission Revival hotel in downtown Riverside that was on the National Landmark list. And I liked it even more when a whiff of clean linen called my name. I managed to stay awake long enough to shower dead snake and dust out of my hair, then collapsed into one of the beds while Lon called Jupe to tell him where we were. Everything smelled so good: the shampoo, my minty-clean teeth, and something else. Something wholly familiar and wonderful. Something nice, nice, nice. It took my fatigue-addled brain a few seconds to recognize that scent as Lon.

He was clearly planning on sleeping in the other bed. And that was . . . normal?

Of course it was. It would be silly to expect him to start sleeping with me after one kiss. One really good kiss. Phenomenal. I wanted another one.

But it wasn’t even that. I just wanted him closer for comfort. How weird was that? I watched him for a minute as he slipped off his shoes and socks—no other pieces of clothing, so I supposed that whole casual naked thing was off the menu—and propped up pillows on the other bed. He lounged there on top of the covers and opened his laptop on his stomach.

I flipped over onto my side and, in my mind, willed him to come over to me. That didn’t work. I tested the crazy telekinetic power I’d used in the botanical gardens, to see if maybe I could lift his computer. Nope. Not even my phone sitting on the nightstand.

Feeling a little loopy and weary, I picked up the phone and opened my text messages. Odd. I’d never texted Lon? Of course I had. I remembered texting him on multiple occasions. I certainly texted Jupe all the time. And yep, there. All my texts back and forth to Jupe before I went into the hospital. A couple of months’ worth. But no texts to Lon. Maybe I’d erased them by mistake? Oh, well. It didn’t matter, I supposed. I’d just start fresh now.

Sent 11:30 a.m.: What you doing over there?

MSG from Lon, 11:30 a.m.: Researching.

Me: You could do that over here.

Lon: You need to sleep.

Me: Don’t worry. I’m too tired to jump you.

Lon: A shame. But I don’t trust myself.

Me: Come to think of it, I don’t trust myself, either. Let’s not trust ourselves together. P.S. You smell really good. I mean that in a creepy way. Come over here and let me sniff your skin like some crazy stalker.