And another homerun for the little lady in the pink sundress. She was good. I might have some serious competition when she got older.

* * *

After a long and fruitless talk with Ashley, I took a quick shower, dressed in my best PI attire, then waited for my neighbor—my other neighbor—to make her morning appearance.

And waited.

And waited.

I made more coffee, said my good-byes to the Sanchez family, and waited some more.

“You’re worried about her,” Reyes said, accepting a cup of coffee from my side of the playground. He looked good on my side. He had dressed in a pair of jeans, white T-shirt, and heavy boots. His dark hair, still wet from his own shower, curled over his forehead and around an ear. I longed to tuck it behind said ear, but it was just an excuse to touch him, to feel him beneath my fingertips.

But Cookie was officially very late. It was almost eight o’clock. She was always over by six thirty. Seven at the latest, and Amber had to be to school in about five seconds.

“Go check on her,” he said, crossing back to his apartment. “I have an order coming in.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, my tone a little sharp.

He turned back to me, one brow hitched in question.

“That is my cup you’re taking, mister.”

His dimples appeared as he walked back to me. “I’ll give you a dollar for it.”

“It’s my very favorite cup.”

He stepped closer until his mouth was at my ear, until his warmth coiled around me and soaked my skin. “Two.”

“I’ve had it since I was a kid.”

After a quick glance at it, he asked, “Your cup predicted there would be a television show called Downton Abbey?”

“You don’t know that. Downton Abbey could be a real place in England.”

“It has the show’s logo.”

“It could be the house’s logo. Like its crest. The show used it for authenticity.”

“And a picture of the cast.”

“That could be anybody. It’s grainy.”

He set the cup down and leaned onto the counter, bracing one hand on either side of me. “Why don’t you tell me what you really want?”

“Your mouth on mine,” I said before I could stop myself.

And before I could retract my request, he bent his head and slanted his mouth across mine.

“I’m late!” Cookie barreled in, her clothes askew and her hair a tad more spiky than usual. She rushed over, took my cup of coffee, and downed it in three gulps. It was still pretty warm, so I couldn’t help but be impressed.

Then she noticed the fact that I was wearing a suit made of hunky man flesh.

“Oh, Reyes, hi.” She stumbled back.

“I’m late!” Amber said, following in her mother’s footsteps. Her hair hung in tangles down her back, her long limbs covered in wrinkled and mismatched clothes.

“Oh, my god,” I said to Cookie. “You’re wearing off on your daughter.”

Reyes straightened when Amber’s eyes alighted on him. She beamed brilliantly at him. “Hey, Aunt Charley,” she said, her focus fixed on Reyes. “Hey, Reyes.”

“That is Mr. Farrow to you,” Cookie said, realizing the depths of Amber’s attraction. “Go get your backpack. I’ll drop you off before I go to work.”

Amber lowered her head. “Okay.”

When she left, I asked, “She still hasn’t fessed up?”

“No.”

“She will, hon. I know Amber. It will eat her alive.” Cookie nodded, but before she could leave, I asked, “How was your date last night?”

A soft pink blossomed over her face.

“That good, huh?”

“It was—” She thought about her words carefully. “—nice.”

“I’m glad. You guys didn’t, like, make out or anything, did you? Because that’s just wrong. He’s my uncle, Cook. How am I going to be able to look at you?”

She turned and said over her shoulder, “I’m not discussing this with you right now.”

“Okay, but that means we’ll just have to go into more detail about it later. You’ll be embarrassed.”

Reyes chuckled. We stayed behind. Put off work as long as we could and talked. Just talked. We laughed about Amador’s poor sportsmanship when he’d lost miserably to Reyes that morning, about Ashley’s insistence that Reyes wait for her, about Cookie’s blush and Amber’s guileless adoration of him. It was nice. Everything about that morning was nice.

I knew it was too good to last. My forty-eight hours were up, and I still had no clue where Phillip’s girlfriend was. Not that I was about to hand her over to the bad guys, but I needed to talk to Agent Carson. To fill her in on my latest findings and my newest plan. Surely it would work. What could go wrong?

So, after a wonderful morning with my main squeeze, I realized time and tide wait for no man. Or woman. I called Special Agent Carson on my way over to my office. I couldn’t tell her what Phillip Brinkman told me just yet. I needed to talk to his girlfriend first, to get her side of things. If Carson pulled the plug on everything because of Emily’s testimony, the Mendozas would know that Brinkman was just trying to get out from under him. Everything would be lost.

It amazed me that he would rather go to prison than turn on them. That told me just what kind of people the Mendozas were, and that they were not to be trifled with.