“Then would you mind if I walked down to the gas station and grabbed something to eat? I didn’t get any breakfast this morning.”

So much for getting a jump start on filling the orders. Clearly this wasn’t my weekend.

“Sure,” I told her, giving in to the inevitable. “Take your time. Let them in on your way out.”

Looking over my checklist, I considered all I needed to get done that day. Too much. Way too much for a woman with a hangover.

“You look like hell,” Carrie said brightly, sticking her head through the doorway. I blinked, because she looked fantastic. All perky and happy and obviously full of far more energy than was decent. Margarita stepped past her, holding a cup of coffee out toward me. God, she was even worse—somehow she’d managed to do her hair and full makeup.

“Why aren’t you hungover?” I demanded. “I feel like something a cat coughed out.”

“Vast quantities of caffeine,” Margarita declared. “And vitamin C. You should try it. I’d get an IV if they’d let me. We brought you food, too. Grab a seat.”

“I need to work.”

“You need to eat,” she corrected. “Now sit your ass down. The stove will still be there when you’re done, I promise.”

She and Carrie had already grabbed stools, pulling them up to the center island. I sat across from them, reaching for one of the wrapped sandwiches. I opened it to find pepperoni, prosciutto, and salami, with a heavy mixture of mayo and mustard oozing out the sides like pus.

“I can’t eat this,” I said, gagging as I dropped it.

“That’s mine,” Carrie said, laughing as she handed over another wrapped sandwich. “Yours is a veggie wrap. See? I’m not a total sadist.”

Margarita laughed, opening a meatball sub that smelled like death. I took a bite of my wrap, then set it back down. Yeah. Eating wasn’t gonna happen. Not yet.

“Too soon?” Carrie asked, her voice sympathetic. I nodded mournfully, which hurt my head. When the fuck is that Tylenol going to kick in? “So what happened last night? You and Joel were eye-fucking each other when we left. Please tell me you got laid.”

I considered lying to them.

Telling them that I’d dragged him to some cheap hotel, then had wild monkey sex with him. Something involving handcuffs and whipped cream and a fluffy purple boa.

“He showed me pictures of his kids,” I told them. “He has a daughter about the same age that Tricia would’ve been.”

Carrie and Margarita shot each other a look.

“And?” Carrie asked.

“I ugly cried like a mental case. Then he took me home and kissed me on the forehead.”

They groaned in unison.

“Kiss of death,” Margarita said gravely. “You’ll never hear from him again.”

“Hey, let’s not leap to judgment,” Carrie objected. “Yes, you cried all over him while you were drunk. Obviously that’s a huge turnoff. But you didn’t see how he was watching your ass, Tink. You were looking mighty fuckable last night, which means there’s still hope. He already put in the effort to comfort you while you were sad—I’ll bet he’d be happy to collect his reward. Give him a call.”

“I don’t have his number.”

“Way ahead of you,” she said, grinning. “This morning I called Anita Schofner. She lives in Wenatchee these days, works at Bi-Mart. Anyway, Anita is friends with Kirstie Inman, who’s friends with Brandy Soza. She’s Joel’s sister’s hairdresser and she just happened to have his phone number.”

Margarita and I stared at her, eyes wide.

“What?” she asked, all innocence.

“That’s some serious stalker shit,” Margarita said slowly, and I had to agree. Sometimes Carrie scared me.

“Yeah, it’s a disease,” Carrie said seriously. “And not only am I good at stalking people, I’m vindictive as hell. That’s why you should always buy me lots of alcohol, so I stay in a good mood. Now, here’s the plan. Tinker, you’re going to text him later today. Tell him you wanted to apologize for going all sad on him, and that you’d like to take him out to dinner or something.”

“If I do that and he figures out how I got the number, he’ll probably file for a restraining order,” I said. Carrie shrugged.

“You already went all crazy on him last night,” she said reasonably. “You’ve got nothing to lose at this point.”

I looked to Margarita, waiting for her to shoot down the ridiculous plan. She shrugged.

“I’m the wrong person to ask. Crazy is what I do, remember? And you need a distraction from your hot handyman. I can see why you want to sleep with him. If I weren’t married—”

“Not helping,” Carrie said, cutting her off. “So, you’ll call and ask him out?”

I considered the situation, then sighed.

“What the hell . . . send me the number.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GAGE

I stared at Marsh’s gun, a surge of adrenaline roaring through me. No fuckin’ way I’d be able to get it away from him before he shot me. Nope. I’d have to bluff my way through this one.

“You got somethin’ you wanna tell me?” Marsh asked.

This is it, asshole. If he’s onto you, you’re dead. Of course, my Reaper brothers would skin him alive—vengeance was kind of our thing—but seeing as I’d be in a grave by then, the thought wasn’t much comfort.

Time to roll the dice.

“Yeah, I got somethin’ to tell you,” I said, offering a grim smile. “I’m considering breaking up with your sister, seeing as she fucks other guys. It’s getting old.”

Marsh stared at me for long seconds, eyes wild, then he burst into maniacal laughter. I kept myself loose and ready for action, but he was lowering the gun.

“Jesus, you’re crazy, Romero,” he said, shaking his head. “Usually guys piss themselves like babies when I do that.”

Yeah, well, I’m a Reaper, not one of your fuckin’ pussy rejects.

“Got nothin’ to hide, Marsh,” I said, holding my hands out to the side, palms up. “You wanna shoot me, not like I can stop you.”

“Sit down,” Marsh said, jerking his chin toward a chair. I sat, leaning back like I was totally relaxed and comfortable with the situation. “We’ve got a traitor. Told you about him already—goes by the name Hands.”