Chapter 8
8
DAX
I woke from a dream that I was suffocating, that I was being subjected to the medieval torture of a heavy stone placed on my chest. It had some fancy French words for it, but my dream didn’t know them. Only that I couldn’t breathe.
My eyes popped open in panic, then realized it was Pancake sitting on my chest.
“Fuck,” I muttered, gently shoving the stupid cat to the side. “You need a diet,” I mumbled, as I heard a knock on the door.
Glancing at the bedside clock, I saw that it was seven-twenty. So much for sleeping late.
Pancake eyed me, his tail sliding back and forth across the comforter .
“Who could that be?” I asked, although I wasn’t going to get an answer from him.
Pushing up, I realized I never made it under the covers, nor out of my clothes the night before.
Rubbing my hair, I opened the door and found on the stoop an older woman who immediately began to eye me up and down.
“Well, they grow them big in Denver,” she said.
Gray hair cut in a neat style. White blouse. Jeans. A ruffly kind of decorative scarf around her neck. She was stylish and put together, but not fancy. Idling on the street behind her was a small sized SUV. Just as clean and tidy as she was. Behind the wheel was a similarly aged man with similarly gray hair.
The only threat right now was my morning breath.
“I ate a lot of spinach as a kid,” I replied.
“Does a body very good,” she commented, a wry smile twisting her lips. Her compliment was more teasing than pervy. “I’m Mrs. Metcalf. I worked with Hannah at the library and I’m a part-timer at HEA.”
HEA. HEA. What the hell was HEA?
I scratched my head. “That’s nice. Hi. Um… I’m Dax, Jack’s friend.” It was early, but I still knew my manners.
She nodded. “Yes, I know all about you.”
I arched a brow, unsure of exactly what she knew. Obviously, she knew Jack. But had he shared his former career before he settled into hitman retirement?
“I’ve got a problem,” she admitted .
“I can probably fix it.” It was my job, after all. I doubted that she needed a body dumped or some charges dropped though. Or money collected because she was a loan shark for the senior crowd.
“Yes, Hannah said you liked to fix things.”
Ah. The truth, but without context it made me sound like a handyman. Shit, hopefully she didn’t want me to fix her garbage disposal or something.
“Elise is having an appendectomy.”
I frowned, even though I didn’t know who Elise was. “I’m sorry to hear that. Will she be all right?”
Mrs. Metcalf waved her hand. “Yes, but she can’t work for a few weeks.”
I nodded in understanding. I had mine taken out when I’d been stabbed with a screwdriver. I’d been twenty-three and a little too sure of myself. I was thankful the only thing they’d removed from my body had been my appendix. I learned from that experience and hadn’t been stabbed… much, since.
During my recovery time though, I’d had to resort to alternate maiming techniques until I could get in a fist fight, fully twist at the waist, or lift someone. Or all of the above at the same time.
“I’m sure,” I replied, because I doubted she’d want the screwdriver story.
“So you’ll need to fill in for her.”
I blinked at her like she’d just flung dust in my eyes.
“Um, doing what? ”
“Working at the shop.”
“What shop?
“HEA. Happily Ever After.”
Right! I remembered when Jack first fell for Hannah that he had no idea what that abbreviation meant. We’d had to look it up. I didn’t know what it meant in this context though.
When I continued to stare at her, she added, “Hannah’s bookstore.”
Brakes squealed on my sluggish thoughts. What? No way. It was my turn to wave a hand, then hold it out in front of me full stop. “Wait. Wait. Not happening.”
“I’d do it, but Mr. Metcalf and I are headed to Arizona to see our grandson play. He’s a linebacker for his college football team.”
“That’s nice, but I know nothing about running a bookstore. Or more importantly, romance books.”
She looked me over from head to toe, appraising my wrinkled suit pants and shirt. If she wondered why I slept in my clothes, she didn’t ask. A honk from the car at the curb disrupted her. “I assure you; the customers won’t mind.”
Reaching out, she shoved keys on a glitter pineapple keychain and a little slip of paper into my raised hand. “For the front door. And the alarm code’s on there, along with the password to get into the point-of-sale system. Be there before ten. Gotta run!”
It took me a few seconds to process what had just happened, that I’d been bested by a five-foot-tall senior citizen. She was in the car and halfway down the block before I realized that meant I was now expected to work at Hannah’s bookstore.
Me. Mr. No Romance himself.
What the hell?