Athica Lane: The Carpino Series by Brynne Asher Read Free Book Online Page B

back of my neck.  My hair is piled high on the back of my head in a mess of a pony-tail from my cleaning extravaganza.  I drop my legs and turn quickly to see the brick wall standing over me, close at my back.  He’s half grinning through his lush goatee and offering me a beer bottle.  I don’t know whether it’s his proximity or the drop of condensation dripping down my neck, but I shiver. 
    I narrow my eyes while pulling the buds from my ears and ask, “Are you going to pour that on me?”
    His half grin turns into a full blown smile and his eyes drop to my body where I feel them on me again.  I know he must remember the wet t-shirt incident when he drones, “Not today.”
    He hands me a beer, not even asking if I want one.  I sit back, tip the bottle to my lips and take a drink before asking, “Are you on a diet?”
    This time he frowns as he claims a close patio chair, “Why would I be on a diet?”
    “Because you’re drinking light, watered down beer.  I thought maybe your workouts weren’t cutting it and you’re watching your calories or something,” I say, raising my eyebrows.
    “What do you drink?” he asks back.
    “Mostly craft beers, but I like Sam Adams, Blue Moon, Sierra Nevada, stuff like that.  But in the fall, only pumpkin beer.”
    “Pumpkin beer?”
    “Yep,” I answer.  “Pumpkin beer is the best.  But light beer?  Never.”
    “Point taken,” he tips his head as he puts his bottle to his lips.  He looks to the backyard at the kids playing when he adds, “You’ve had a busy day.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.  “I’ve been sitting here most of the day, relaxing and eating bonbons.  Cappuccino bonbons.  They’re the best.  In case you’re taking notes along with the beer.”
    “Darlin’,” he starts.  “If you’ve been sitting here livin’ the easy life, maybe you can tell me who broke into my house and cleaned my kitchen?”
    Now that he’s not barking at me or being frustrated and pissed, I hear a hint of a drawl to his voice when he called me “darlin’” for the second time.  It’s not an in your face drawl, but I’m pretty sure it’s there. 
    “That was Cara,” I inform him.  “We went to let Ariel out and she decided she couldn’t live another day in your disaster of a kitchen.”
    “Cara cleaned my kitchen,” he states.
    “Yeah,” I say, taking another drink of my watered down beer.  “She was going to start on your laundry, but she was exhausted.”
    He shakes his head and looks back out to the yard without responding. 
    However, just like all things me, I can’t help myself, “You have a really nice kitchen.  Was it that way when you bought your house?”
    “Nope,” he says to the yard.
    “So you renovated it?” I go on.
    “Nope,” he repeats.
    I frown, “What do you mean?”
    He looks over and after taking another swig, answers simply with four words, “My mother.  She meddles.”
    I repeat, “What do you mean?”
    He sighs and rests his beer on the arm of his chair as he explains in more words, “She meddles.  Two years ago after I moved in, she came for a visit.  She shopped all week, which I didn’t think was strange because my mother can shop.  Three weeks later, she came back to visit again and when I got home from work, there was a dumpster sittin’ outside my house and my old kitchen was trashed inside it.  It was a fucking mess.  The ceiling was gone, the floors were ripped up and walls were torn down.  I went crazy.  She—being the mother she is—didn’t give a shit and told me the kitchen I had was so small you couldn’t cuss a cat in it without getting a mouthful of fur.  She said it was a house warming gift.  I told her I would have preferred an extension on the garage if she insisted on doin’ shit like that.  She said she doesn’t care about garages, but she does care about kitchens.  What was I supposed to