Chapter 30
Friendship, Sort Of
Tessa
I'd just peeked out through the blinds when Maisie hoisted her bike onto the front porch.
When her head turned my way, I jumped back and practiced looking casual, even though nobody was there to see. But a minute later, when Maisie opened the front door, I was standing right there, waiting like a gossip hound, ready to pounce.
At the sight of me, her steps faltered. "Hey."
I smiled, trying to play it cool. "So…how was work?"
She gave me a funny look. "Fine. Why?"
Damn it. I should've eased in slower. "No reason."
She laughed. "Oh, there's a reason. I can tell."
"Okay…well, I just heard something, that's all."
"About what?"
"You actually."
Her eyebrows lifted. "Oh?"
"Uh, yeah." How to begin? "By any chance, do you know a woman named Franny?" Yes, I knew the answer, but I had to start somewhere, right?
Maisie practically snorted. "Yeah, everyone knows Franny."
"Not everyone," I said. "I mean…I didn't know her."
Maisie didn't even blink. "But you definitely know Franny now."
Had Maisie heard something? I gave her a funny look of my own. "How'd you know?"
With a knowing smile, she replied, "Call it a hunch."
Not wasting any time, I told Maisie how Franny had stopped by the coffee shop earlier today. To keep it simple, I omitted any distracting details, like the fact Franny had started slinging coffee and muffins on her own.
Maisie didn't look surprised. Mostly, she looked preoccupied, like her mind was somewhere else. As she kicked off her shoes, she asked, "Care if we talk in the kitchen? I've got to see what I've got for sandwiches."
By now, I would've followed her to Timbuktu if only to get some answers. It was nine o'clock at night, and I'd been mentally pacing since lunchtime, when Franny had started flinging rumors like confetti.
After following Maisie into the kitchen, I learned that she had, in fact, hired someone – except the guy was working for sandwiches and a rental bike like mine.
As Maisie turned away to look in the cupboards, I asked, "But why would he work for so little?"
She turned back with a sharp look. "It's not like I twisted his arm."
Yikes. "I never said you did."
"Yeah, but I'm just saying…it was his idea, not mine." Again, she turned away, this time to open the fridge. She stared into it for a long moment as if hoping a premade sandwich would magically appear.
It wouldn't.
I knew this because I'd opened that same fridge an hour ago and had found nothing interesting. Even that bottle of Moscato – the one I'd replaced on my way home from work – was hidden away in a cupboard for safekeeping.
When Maisie closed the fridge, I asked, "But why? I mean…nobody works for sandwiches."
"Don't forget the bike," she said. "That totally counts."
"But not for keeps," I reminded her. "So, no. It doesn't."
Her mouth tightened. "Look, I appreciate your concern. I really do, but I can't afford to be picky, okay?" She gave me a pleading look. "I was drowning. You know that. So excuse me if I grab the first decent lifeline that comes along."
"Well, excuse me if I'm concerned." The words came out sharper than I meant, and my hands flew to my mouth. "Oh, my God."
Startled, she glanced around. "What?"
Through my splayed fingers, I said with a little groan, "I sound just like my mom."
Maisie's mouth opened, but nothing came out before she clamped it shut and silently stared.
And now I felt like a nag, butting in where I didn't belong. I dropped my hands and said, "I'm really sorry. I know it's none of my business."
I waited for Maisie to object, to say that it was fine, that we were friends, and that she knew my heart was in the right place.
But she said nothing.
I cleared my throat. Right.
Message received.
Stiffly, I added, "So, just forget I said anything, okay?"
But then, Maisie surprised me by shaking her head. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off. You're being…weirdly nice, and I guess I panicked."
My mouth twitched, unsure if I should feel flattered or offended. "Weirdly nice?"
Color rose in her cheeks. "Sorry, I meant really nice."
I couldn't help it. I snickered. "No, you didn't."
She gave me a sheepish smile. "Can I blame the hangover?"
I studied her face. "You're still hungover?"
She laughed. "No, but I still want to blame it."
It felt like an olive branch, and I leapt to take it. "Deal." I smiled. "But only if you tell me more."
"About what?" she asked, trying too hard to sound casual.
"You know what. Or rather, you know who."
She hesitated for barely a beat before saying, "Deal. But in return, you've got to tell me what Franny said. And…" She winced. "Do you care if I bake some bread while we talk?"
"Now?" I eyed her with concern. "But you've been on your feet all day."
"Yeah, but I've got a bread machine, so it won't be that hard." She gave me a weary smile. "So, is it a deal?"
I couldn't let her do that, not when I had energy to burn and a million questions. "Nope. I've got one better. You talk. I'll bake."
She objected.
I insisted.
In the end, I won out – a good thing, too, since Maisie looked ready to drop. I didn't want her to drop – and not only because I cared. I hadn't even gotten to the hit man part, and I was dying to hear what she'd say.
When I suggested she take a shower while I pulled out bread-making supplies, Maisie didn't even argue. To my infinite relief, she didn't mention taking a bath instead – a good thing, since I'd failed miserably in replacing her bubble bath.
But I wasn't done trying. Somehow, I would find it.
And if I failed? Well, then I'd just have to admit I was a klutz and offer to buy Maisie something else.
I just hoped it wouldn't come to that.
Yes, I realized that bubble bath shouldn't be a big deal. But Maisie and I were finally hitting it off, and I hated the idea of another speed bump – even such a little one – derailing our budding friendship when it still felt so fragile.
The logic made sense. And I was feeling pretty good about it – until a half-hour later, when Maisie started talking about her mystery man who was working for free.
And let's just say, it didn't take long before alarm bells started ringing.