Honey and the Hitman

by Hannah Murray

  He found his lips twitching. “You sound like you’re getting ready to face a firing squad.”

  Her mouth twisted. “You haven’t met Mrs. Patterson yet, I take it.”

  He shook his head. “So far, you’re the only person I’ve met.”

  “You’ll see,” she promised darkly.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what she meant by that when another ear-splitting scream rent the air. “Honoria Frances Foster, you come get this beast away from my Buttercup right now!”

  “Dammit,” Honey muttered. “This wouldn’t happen if the damn cat stayed inside where it belonged.” She raised her voice. “I’m coming, Mrs. Patterson!”

  With a perfunctory glance in both directions to check for traffic, she started across the street in the direction of the barks and the screams. She tossed a wave over her shoulder, picking up the pace as Mrs. Patterson began screaming again about her poor Buttercup amid a renewed flurry of barking.

  “Milo! You stop that right now!” She broke into a run, long legs eating up the grass as she disappeared around the back of a two-story frame house.

  Ethan found himself tempted to follow, just to see what kind of cat would take on an English Mastiff. But his stomach was rumbling, Aunt Winnie was waiting with pancakes, and by the sound of the screams, he was pretty sure he wanted to put off meeting Mrs. Patterson as long as possible.

  Since it was right there, Ethan decided to cross Honey’s backyard rather than walk the long way around to the house. The grass tickled his feet, and the scent of Aunt Winnie’s lilac bushes tickled his nose. He kicked his sandals off and brushed most of the sand from his feet and lower legs before climbing the steps to the kitchen door.

  The inner door stood open, so he called through the screen. “Okay to come in the back?”

  “You got sand on your feet?” came the response.

  He glanced down. “Mostly, no.”

  The door squeaked open, and a hand thrust out, holding a worn towel. “Make it all the way no, then come in.”

  He used the towel to get rid of the rest of the sand, then shook it out and draped it over the rail. He opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen.

  Winnie turned from the stove, a platter of pancakes and bacon in her hand. She arched a brow at his bare feet, then nodded. “Good enough. Coffee or juice?”

  “Coffee,” he said, and she jerked her head at the old-fashioned percolator on the stove.

  “Table’s already set. Go wash your hands, then bring the coffee in with you.”

  He washed up in record time, then, coffee pot in hand, followed Aunt Winnie to the dining room.

  He was reaching for the platter even as he sat down, piling on a stack of pancakes and a handful of bacon before dousing the whole business in a river of golden maple syrup. “This looks great, Aunt Winnie.”

  She hummed as she sipped her coffee. “It’s nice to have someone to cook for besides just me. The occasional breakfast when Jacob stays the night is about the only chance I get to indulge.”

  He winced even as he took another bite. “You can cook for me any time, Aunt Winnie.”

  The twinkle in her eye told him she knew exactly what she was doing. “Well, Jacob can’t eat bacon on account of his high cholesterol, so this is a rare treat.”

  “Man.” Desperate for both the caffeine and the distraction, he gulped his coffee.

  Her laugh rang through the dining room. “You’re so easy.”

  “You’re just mean,” he muttered, and applied himself to his breakfast.

  “Aw, let an old lady have her fun,” she chided.

  “You’ll never be old, Aunt Winnie.”

  “Now you’re trying to butter me up so I’ll stop embarrassing you.”

  “Is it working?”

  She sent him a saucy grin. “We’ll see. Why’d you come up the back porch?”

  He adjusted to the lightning change of topic smoothly, grateful they were no longer in the conversational neighborhood of her sex life. “I cut over a block sooner, wanted to see some more of the neighborhood.”

  “You cut through Honey’s yard?” Winnie frowned slightly.

  “Yep.” He cut into his pancakes. “Ran into her on the sidewalk. Milo got out.”

  “I thought I heard barking.” Winnie sipped her coffee. “Mrs. Patterson’s cat again?”

  He grinned. Small towns. “That’s what she said. She looked like she was getting ready to face a firing squad when she went after him.”

  “You haven’t met Mrs. Patterson,” she said, echoing Honey’s sentiments. “She’s probably got him back by now. Maybe I should ask her over for breakfast.”

  Ethan swallowed his mouthful of bacon before replying. “She said she was short on time and would be cutting Milo’s walk on the beach to make up for it.”

  Aunt Winnie’s lips twitched. “He won’t like that. You seem to have had quite a conversation.”

  He shrugged. “Not really. She’s a rambler.”

  “A what?”

  “A rambler.” He laid his fork down with a sigh of contentment. “She talks, and it doesn’t seem to matter if I talk back. I’ve never met anyone so free with personal information.”

  “Well, Honey’s the sociable sort, and friendly with it. Probably never met a stranger in her life.”

  Ethan picked up his coffee, keeping his expression carefully neutral. The level of openness he’d seen in the sociable, friendly Honey was foreign to him. His long-held philosophy of blending in and not making waves had at first been strategy; stay anonymous, stay alive. Over the years it had simply become second nature, even when he wasn’t working. He’d forgotten that normal people didn’t live like that. They didn’t need to. Hell, it probably never occurred to most of them.

  Small town life was going to take some getting used to.

  “She’s single, you know.”

  “Is she?” He said it absently, his mind still working through the differences between his old life and his new one, and he almost missed the gleam in his aunt’s eye.

  “Young, too. Twenty-seven, I think, or twenty-eight. Her grandmother owned the house, and when Ada passed on, Honey decided to move here permanently. Got a job teaching art classes up at the school, and the kids love her.”

  His throat closed up in sheer panic; he had to try twice to clear it before he could speak. “Aunt Winnie—”

  “I don’t think she’s hardly dated at all since she’s lived here,” Winnie went on, cheerfully ignoring his stuttering attempt to head her off. “Sweetwater isn’t exactly a singles scene. Most of the people around her age are married already, with small children.”

  He tried again. “Aunt Winnie—”

  “You’re not seeing anyone just now, are you, Ethan?”

  “Don’t even think about it, Aunt Winnie.”

  She blinked wide eyes at him, all sweet old lady innocence. “Why, Ethan, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh-uh.” He shook his head, desperately trying not to show even a hint of the panic threatening to consume him. He’d been a predator long enough to recognize another, and he knew if he showed the slightest sign of weakness, she’d go for the jugular. “You’re not fixing me up with your neighbor.”

  “Of course not,” she said immediately and sucked some of the self-righteous wind out of his sails. “You’re a grown man, Ethan, and can surely make your own romantic choices. And Honey is a lovely, personable young woman who I’m sure can do the same.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her serene smile, not buying it for a second.

  “Besides, I don’t think you’re her type.”

  He nearly chuckled out loud at the obvious ploy, even as his ego reared its head in protest. He smothered the knee jerk reaction without a qualm. He was certain he wasn’t her type. Honey was small-town innocence, with home and hearth written all over her, and he wasn’t exactly picket fence material.

  “You’re absolutely right, Aunt Winnie.” He gestured with his coff
ee cup as he sat back in his chair. “I’m not her type.”

  She blinked, a little taken back by his ready capitulation, but he had to give her credit for a quick recovery. “I wasn’t even thinking of the two of you together. You’d drive each other crazy inside a month.”

  He said nothing, sipping his coffee in silence as he watched her mind churn.

  “But she does know a great many of the younger people in town,” Winnie continued and might have managed to pull off nonchalant if she wasn’t darting little glances his way, trying to gauge his reaction. “It certainly wouldn’t hurt to tag along with her to a few functions, make some friends.”

  He set his coffee down with an easy smile. “It’s sweet of you to worry about me, Aunt Winnie, but no.”

  Her mouth gaped open, as though she couldn’t quite believe he’d just shut her down. “But, Ethan—”

  He pushed to his feet, shaking his head as he stacked dishes. “No,” he said again and leaned down to kiss her cheek. He strode past her into the kitchen, rinsing the dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher, counting off the seconds in his head. He was up to twenty-two when she swung into the kitchen.

  “I worry about you, Ethan.”

  He glanced up to find her standing with legs braced apart, arms crossed over her chest. Girded for battle, he realized with a spurt of amusement. She shook her head at him. “I know you haven’t been happy these last few years.”

  “No, I haven’t been,” he acknowledged. He rinsed out the dishcloth and draped it over the faucet, careful to keep his back to her as he closed the dishwasher.

  “I think it’d do you good to get out, meet some people. See that there’s another way to live.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He turned to face her, expression mildly curious. “Another way to live?”

  She waved her hands in the air. “You’ve been working so hard for so long, making money and a name for yourself—”

  You have no idea.

  “—and I think you’re missing what’s really important. When’s the last time you had a relationship with a woman?”

  He didn’t think she wanted to hear about his long-standing arrangement with Victoria, one of London’s most exclusive escorts. Or Marci, in New York. Or Penelope, in Los Angeles. “It’s been a while.”

  “And when’s the last time you had a true friend?”

  The question surprised him into a frown. Though he would certainly count Michael as a friend as well as a colleague, they had little connection to speak of outside of work. “It’s been a while there, too,” he acknowledged.

  She strode forward, putting her hands on either side of his face, worry creasing her brow. “I think you’ve forgotten how to connect with people, Ethan. And I can tell you from experience, you need to rediscover that part of yourself. If you keep yourself alone too long, before you know it, your life will fly by with nothing of worth to show for it.”

  There was an uncomfortable twist in his gut because she was right. He was tired of feeling apart, as though he were an observer of the world rather than a participant; it was one of the reasons he’d decided to quit. He knew finding a way to engage in the world again wouldn’t be completely painless; he’d been a loner for so long, switching gears was bound to sting. Letting people in, he knew, would be particularly difficult after all the years of keeping himself isolated, and it actually wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have one, solid friend.

  But even as he opened his mouth to concede the point, he saw the matchmaking gleam light Aunt Winnie’s eyes again.

  “Woman, you almost had me.”

  “What?”

  “What?” He mimicked, grinning at her air of wounded innocence. “Look, I get what you’re saying. And I’ll admit you have a point,” he said, holding up a hand when she opened her mouth. “But I’m not interested in Honey.”

  “I don’t know why not,” she grumbled as her hands fell away from his face. “She’s a lovely girl, bright and happy.”

  “And she’s not interested in me,” he continued.

  “She might be, if you’d give her a chance,” she said slyly.

  He shook his head. “Leave it alone, Aunt Winnie,” he said, injecting some steel into his tone.

  Recognizing a brick wall when she rapped her head against it, she subsided with ill grace. “Fine. I’ll back off about Honey, if you’ll promise me that you’ll get out there and make some friends.”

  “I promise.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I love you, Aunt Winnie.”

  She sighed as she wrapped her arms around him. “I just want you to be happy.”

  “I know,” he murmured, absurdly touched by the tears thickening her voice. “Just give me a little space to figure out what that’ll look like, without trying to marry me off to the neighbor.”

  She sniffed as she pulled back, narrowing her eyes at him. “Marry you off. Really, Ethan.”

  He grinned at her frowning face and kissed her again. “Really. Now, before you hatch some scheme to have me leading the local Boy Scout jamboree, I’m going to get a shower.”

  “Like they’d let you lead the jamboree,” she said haughtily. “You were always a terrible camper, and you couldn’t tie a shank knot to save your life.”

  His laugh came from the belly as he imagined the fit she’d have if she knew the various knots he’d learned how to tie over the years—and how he used them. “Thank God for small favors.”

  She slapped him on the shoulder. “Go, get a shower. And don’t drop your clothes on the floor. There’s a hamper, so use it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He jogged out of the room and up the steps to the guest room, feeling pretty good about his first official day of retirement. He still had to find a place to store his weapons, and he was pretty sure Aunt Winnie hadn’t given up her matchmaking efforts.

  But all in all, it beat the hell out of murder for hire.

  Chapter Four

  Ethan managed to avoid getting dragged to the library fundraiser by using the simple strategy of desertion: he slipped out of the house while Aunt Winnie was picking up her dry cleaning. He left her a note on the dining room table and took the car, a snappy little convertible he’d treated himself to as a retirement gift, and with the top down, took a drive up the coast.

  He found a little diner on the lake that made the best fried chicken he’d ever had outside of Louisiana. He ate it with hush puppies and washed it all down with a cold beer. He savored the meal, watching the waves pound the sand. When the moon rose high over the water, he made his way back to the car.

  His phone rang as he slid the key into the ignition. He didn’t recognize the number on the display, but that wasn’t necessarily troubling. He’d had this phone, and the corresponding number, only slightly longer than he’d been in Michigan, and it was the first phone number he’d held in his own name in more than ten years.

  Still, it paid to be cautious, and he took a screenshot of the number before answering the call. “Hello.”

  “How’s the retirement home?”

  The gruff voice on the other end of the line was familiar and welcome. He relaxed with a grin. “It comes with fried chicken, hush puppies, and cold beer.”

  “Fucker,” Michael replied, his voice mild despite the epithet. “I’m stuck in fucking France. You know what they do to chicken in France?”

  Ethan chuckled at the irritation in his old friend’s voice. “They roast it, I believe, with butter and herbs. I understand it can be quite delicious.”

  “What I’d give for bird soaked in buttermilk and fried in lard,” Michael sighed. “At least the wine is decent.”

  Ethan grinned into the phone. “What’re you doing in France?”

  “Same old, same old,” came the reply, and Ethan understood his friend was on a job. “I’m sorry for the interruption of your leisure time, but I thought you’d want to know: your name came up recently.”

  Ethan went still as all the fine hair
s on the back of his neck stood at attention. When he spoke, his voice was mild as milk. “Is that right?”

  “You remember our mutual friend from Paris?”

  Ethan’s eyes narrowed. Jean-Paul, no last name, a French national who often worked as a hired gun for North American concerns—mostly organized crime—who needed something done in Europe. Jean-Paul was handsome, charming, and the most ruthless son of a bitch Ethan had ever met. Their paths had crossed a handful of times in the early years of Ethan’s career, but he hadn’t seen or heard from the Frenchman in the last half dozen. “I do. How is our friend?”

  “Fat.” Michael’s answer was succinct. “He semi-retired a few years ago, bought a vineyard, and as far as I can tell has been eating cheese and drinking wine ever since.”

  The image had Ethan fighting back a chuckle. “Sounds like a happy retirement.”

  “I believe it is, though he keeps his hand in. Consulting when the work is appealing.” Michael paused briefly. “He contacted me, as he knew I was on the Continent, to relay that he’d heard some chatter he found troubling.”

  “About?”

  “You recall the Italian affair?”

  Fuck. “I do.”

  “Questions are being asked. Not by the parties involved, and not the suits,” Michael went on, referring to federal law enforcement. “But it does appear that gentle inquiries are being made.”

  “Interesting.” Ethan’s voice remained mild. “Any specifics?”

  “Not so far,” Michael said, his voice as smooth as Ethan’s. “But our friend will keep his ear to the ground and alert me should any new information come to light.”

  “I appreciate you letting me know.”

  “Anytime, old friend. I’ll let you get back to your shuffleboard and card tournaments.”

  “Enjoy your herbed, roasted chicken.”

  Michael’s sigh came through aggrieved and forlorn, then the line went dead.

  Ethan put the phone down with a frown. The Italian affair. New York, seven years ago. Two rival organized crime families had been on the verge of an all-out turf war, sparked by the ill-advised and unsanctioned killing of the scion of one family by a favored but unpredictable consigliere of the other. Since no one wanted a prolonged war that would cost tens of thousands of dollars in lost revenue and dozens of lives, they’d reached a peace accord, but at a heavy price. The wronged family would settle for nothing less than the elimination of the consigliere, and it was agreed on the condition that the execution would be carried out by a neutral third party. Ethan had been recommended and had taken the contract. A simple hit, cleanly executed to the satisfaction of all parties. He’d done the job, pocketed his fee, and moved on.