Project Produce

by Kari Lee Harmon

  He rattled me big time.

  He searched my eyes, apparently seeing the invitation I couldn’t hide, then licked his lips and leaned in. My heart thumped, and alarm bells rang in my ears like a drill sergeant shouting, “Move it, move it, move iiit!” Jerking away, I pulled the door handle and tumbled in a backward somersault out of the car to land in a snow-bank, my stomach stuck in my throat.

  “What the hell? Are you alright?” Hot Britches leaned across my seat and stuck his head out the door.

  I gave him a brilliant but too-stiff smile. “Fine, fine. Just fine. Forgot. Hand on door. Do it all the time.” I scrambled to my feet and fought to catch my breath, backing away toward my apartment.

  His lips dipped down at the corners, and his brow buckled.

  “Call me when free. Pay off debt. Gotta go now.” I raced into my apartment, my Snow Flurries slipping on the ice, then I slammed the door and locked it behind me. Leaning against it, I panted. Okay, more like heaved for air, as I said to no one in particular, “Close. Too close. Way too flipping close.”

  “Big Betty” started up with a loud rumble and idled for a few minutes, so I held my breath. After what seemed like forever, he finally drove away, allowing me to blow out a shaky puff of air. Then I slid down the door and landed hard on my huge insecurity with one thought keeping time with the bongos in my chest.

  What on earth did you get yourself into, Callie Anne?

  ***

  A couple days later, I sat in Big Betty, as far from Detective Cabrizzi as possible. He looked away from the highway to smile at me, but I turned to stare out the window, watching the skyscrapers pass by. Rush hour traffic had eased up, and the snowplows had cleared away yesterday’s snow. All in all, we were making good time, yet it seemed like an eternity. Probably because I hadn’t said a word since he’d picked me up.

  He’d waited a couple days before calling me about our dinner date, or rather, my payment of this debt. I hated owing anyone, but I had to admit the new job was a huge improvement over Roach Central. And I’d only agreed to dinner so we’d be even, plus I still had to question him about what it was like to be a zucchini. It wasn’t like I wanted to spend time with him. Liar. I couldn’t stop thinking about that stupid “almost” kiss and what it all meant.

  He’d asked me out. Me! Little Miss Small-Town, for Pete’s sake. Maybe he’d seen the tape. He had caressed my palm and thigh, after all. And if I hadn’t fallen, or rolled, or whatever that was, right out of his car door, he probably would have done a whole lot more. Once again, I wondered what on earth I’d been thinking by saying yes tonight.

  I hadn’t been, that much was clear. “So, any news on the case?” I asked when I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Yeah, unfortunately.”

  I looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He glanced at me and then back at the road. “The Midnight Molester struck again.”

  “Oh, no, that’s awful. When did it happen?”

  “The night the health department shut the motel down. Right after you showed up.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Wish I was. He struck earlier than usual, around eleven, close by the motel.”

  Good Lord, that could have been me. “Animal, my foot,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “I heard a sound in the bushes before I ran into you that night around ten.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” He glanced at me.

  I looked out the window again, feeling stupid. “I didn’t think it was important. I thought it was an animal. Then after you stepped out of the shadows, I thought it had been you. My God, he didn’t get me, so he must have attacked some other poor woman after you gave me a ride home. I feel awful.”

  Dylan squeezed my shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Callie. Don’t beat yourself up about it. It may not have even been him. But take this as a lesson and be more careful.”

  I looked back at him. “How come they call him the Midnight Molester if he doesn’t always strike at midnight?”

  “Because up until now, he’s only struck at midnight.”

  “Huh, that’s odd.”

  “Not really. He’s been following the same M.O. all along, until now. Something, or someone,” he shot me a pointed look, “made him snap. This makes him more dangerous, but cocky, which might make him easier to catch.”

  “Oh, come on, you don’t really think this has something to do with me, do you?”

  His eyes met mine again. “The victim looked a hell of a lot like you.”

  “Oh,” I squeaked. “Well, I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”

  “Not likely.” He reached out and patted my hand. “Don’t worry, Mac, I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you.”

  “Well, thanks for your concern, but I’m sure I’ll be just fine.” I pulled my hand from under his. He hugged a corner, zoomed into a parking lot, and then cut the engine.

  I blinked. We were having dinner at his apartment? Not a good idea. Somehow, I’d envisioned a noisy restaurant with loads of people, not a night alone with Mr. Make-My-Pulse-Beat-In-Places-It-Has-No-Business-Beating.

  “You coming?” Dylan asked, grinning wide.

  I clamped my lips closed before I said something stupid.

  “Or can’t you handle being alone with me, Mac? I don’t bite.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, climbing out of Big Betty. Being alone with him didn’t bother me, it was the handling him that worried me. And now I couldn’t get the image of him biting me out of my mind, either, darn it.

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me through his apartment door before I could say anything further. Then I skidded to a stop and gaped like a flounder.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Uh, no. Course not. Um, interesting décor.” I smiled big, trying to hide my surprise. I might not know much about make-up and fashion, but after remodeling the general store back home, I knew a bit about interior design. Honestly, I’d never seen anything like this. His taste wasn’t modern, or country, or Victorian, or even rustic.

  It was sheer madness.

  “Cool, huh?” He beamed. “A cop’s salary isn’t much, but you’d be surprised what you can do with a little imagination and a whole lot of improvising.” He hung up our coats on a hockey man coat rack and headed into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home,” he called back, giving a vague wave in the direction of the adjacent room. “I’m gonna check on dinner.”

  Hot Britches could cook? The enticing aromas of basil, oregano, and garlic permeated the air, giving me hope that he cooked better than he decorated. Wandering into the living room, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself.

  A basketball hoop dangled from the wall, and a punching bag hung ready in one corner. In the other corner stood a widescreen TV. Obviously exercise and entertainment were important to him, but entertaining? Entertaining ranked last on his list, judging by this room.

  Entertaining women, anyway.

  Where was I supposed to sit? The nearest chair was a tie-dyed beanbag that looked like it had seen better days. I picked up a few scattered shirts to get to that chair and then tossed them into a corner and dropped down into the beanbag. My long legs folded in half, and my knees slammed into my chin. I grunted. Beanbags were not made for tall people.

  And this so-called bag was in desperate need of more beans.

  I wiggled my way out of the thing as I sneaked a glance through the kitchen door. Dylan’s back faced me as he stirred some pots, whistling to a classic rock station. Good, he hadn’t seen me.

  Note to self: Zucchinis have seriously strange taste.

  “Everything all right out there?” He peeked out the doorway.

  “Fine. Just looking around.” I smoothed my hair and leaned back against the life-sized marble statue of Michelangelo’s David behind me, holding onto it for support. Sitting wasn’t an option. At least not after the episode with Mr. Beanless Bag.

  Dylan walked into the room and gave
me an odd smile. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Got any Bahama Mamas?”

  “Uh, no. But I have some wine.”

  “Wine it is, then.” I wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but with the way he made me all shaky and goofy-acting whenever he got too close, I had a feeling I would need the whole bottle before the evening was through. He walked over to a small, portable bar that sat against the other wall, and I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. I had to get my hormones under control.

  “Here you go,” he whispered in my ear a moment later.

  My eyes flew open and I jumped, breaking the finger off the statue. A tingle of awareness shot up my spine. The man was downright deadly. I hadn’t even heard him approach.

  “Trade you.” He handed me a glass of merlot.

  “I’m so sorry.” I held out the broken appendage, glancing at it while I spoke. “I didn’t mean to break his... holy mother of Mary, what is that?” I yanked my hand back as if I’d been burned, dropping the appendage on the floor, causing the circular end pieces to split in two and roll in opposite directions across the room.

  “I have to say David won’t be quite the same ever again,” Dylan commented.

  Feeling terrible for breaking his art, I shoved my glass of wine back at him and ran after the rolling ball, snatching it just before it fell down the register. “Got it! Now where’d that other little sucker go?” I scrambled to the other side of the room, adding under my breath, “And I do mean little.” Flasher Freak had David beat by half a gherkin, and I hadn’t thought that possible.

  “Don’t worry about it, Mac. It’s only a statue,” Dylan said.

  As I grabbed the other ball, I ignored him, trying like the devil not to blush. I didn’t quite meet his eyes as I thrust out my hand. “A little glue should fix him straight up. Well, maybe not straight up, but you get the point. The picture, I mean.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice sounded strained, as if he were struggling not to laugh. He took the broken pieces and handed me the glass of wine again and then headed back into the kitchen.

  What else could possibly go wrong this evening? I took a large gulp, the room-temperature liquid warming my insides. Mr. Beanless Bag would have been a whole lot less embarrassing than Mr. Limp Winkie.

  “Have a seat. Dinner will be ready in a minute,” Dylan called out from the kitchen.

  “Humph. Easier said than done,” I mumbled, and took another sip of my merlot.

  I eyed a large wicker chair. It looked hard and uncomfortable. Next to that was a black marble chair in the shape of a hand. I’d had enough of marble, thank you very much. Besides, it looked as though you sat on the palm and the fingers supported your back. No way was I going to sit with someone’s hand cradling my insecurity.

  My gaze darted to the kitchen just as Dylan bent over to check the oven. Wow, what that man did to a pair of Levi’s was sinful. The man had the most amazing set of buns I’d ever seen. Don’t go there, Cal. I shook my head. Must be the wine.

  Glancing around once more, I sighed. What had he been thinking when he picked these things out? I tipped back my glass and finished my drink, then set it on an end table in the shape of a barrel. The only other place to sit was a hammock. I’d used a hammock plenty of times back home. This should be a piece of cake.

  I sat on the edge, flopped on my back, then whipped my feet up, but the hammock tilted sharply to the left. I overcorrected by surging to the right.

  And the race was on.

  Left, right, twist, turn, grunt, groan, wrestle, wrestle, wrestle. I felt like I was competing in Cutesville’s annual rodeo, racing against the clock, wrestling a steer. Or in this case a crazed hammock.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Hot Britches called from the dining room.

  Of course it was. Then the hammock decided to pitch and roll three times, wrapping me tightly in its net.

  “Callie? Everything’s ready. Care to join me in...” Dylan’s voice trailed off, and he came to a stop at my head. All I could see were his snakeskin boots, since I lay face down about a foot off the floor.

  “Comfy?” he croaked.

  My lips poked out of one of the hammock’s holes. “Wewy, wunny.”

  “I didn’t quite catch that, Elmer Fudd.” He knelt down and dipped his head to the side so he could see my face. A loud laugh burst out of him, and he fell off his haunches onto his hind end.

  “If you’we done waughing, get me out of hewe!”

  “Sure thing, it’s just... sorry, Mac, I can’t resist.” He sprang to his feet and ran away.

  Where was he going? I didn’t have to wonder long.

  He returned and slid beneath me. “Sorry, Elmer, but this is too priceless to pass up.” He gave me a devilish grin and bit the insides of his cheeks, puckering his own lips, then pressed them briefly to mine. When my eyes sprang wide, he whipped out a camera and snapped off a shot quick as lightning. “Kissing a fish was worth that expression.”

  I blinked, seeing white spots from the flash. Fish kiss? If I could feel my lips, I’d have bitten his pucker off. What a rotten sneaky trick to pull. “You’we dead meat, mistew.”

  He winked at me, rolled to his feet, and then proceeded to untangle me from the hammock’s relentless hold. When my boots hit the floor, I shook my hands, stomped my feet, and twisted my lips until the circulation returned.

  “One of the supports is loose, and I haven’t had a chance to fix it yet. It can be a bit tricky.”

  “Ya think?” I smirked.

  “Sorry.” He grinned. “Follow me.”

  “Dinner had better be worth it after all this.”

  “No one’s complained about my cooking before. My furniture, maybe, but my cooking, no way. Come on. I’ll get you another glass of wine.”

  “Better bring the bottle,” I muttered and followed him to the dining room. Something told me even the whole bottle wouldn’t be enough to get me through this evening.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Detective Cabrizzi pulled out my chair and then scooted it in as I sat. “So, what’s up with that statue, anyway?” I asked, needing to start up a conversation.

  He laughed, heading to the kitchen and returning with the whole bottle of wine, bless the man. “My sister gave it to me.”

  “Why would she do that?” It seemed like an odd gift from a sister.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” He winked.

  This guy was way too cute for his own good. I cleared my throat and tried to stay focused. This could be one way to find out how his Mr. Winkie affected his personality. “Obvious how?”

  “Supposedly, I’m the perfect male specimen. Vain, and in love with my own body.” He shook his head. “And I just can’t help it if women throw themselves at me, so my sister says.”

  “Your sister sounds interesting.”

  “She’s something, all right. That statue doesn’t look anything like me.” He poured us both a glass of merlot.

  I took a sip. “Really?” Glancing in the other room, I studied the statue. He couldn’t have handed me a more perfect introduction into my paper if he tried. My heart started beating furiously as I plunged in, head first. “So, you’re saying you’re not lacking in certain areas?”

  His eyes followed mine. “I haven’t been castrated, if that’s what you mean.”

  Good God! I fell into a coughing fit. When he looked back at me with an arched brow, I croaked, “I’m fine. Continue.”

  “I was just saying poor guy. I hope you didn’t enjoy that. Imagine what that would do to his ego if he were real.”

  I snapped my fingers, trying to keep the ball rolling. “Now, there’s a thought. Let’s do that.”

  Dylan blinked at me. “Do what?”

  Watch me stumble my way through this insane conversation. I took a sip of my wine for courage and said, “Let’s pretend you’re him before his little accident. What exactly would it do to your ego if you... oh, I don’t know, let’s say had a pickle for a Mr. Winkie.”

  He gape
d at me. “A Mr. Who-ie?” Poor Dylan looked like a cartoon character, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

  Darn my parents for having made this so hard to talk about. “Um, a Winkie. A Mr. Winkie,” I answered, sinking lower in my seat. Wonder if he’d notice if I slipped all the way under the table to hide? I discreetly pushed the tablecloth aside and peeked under, but got an eyeful of his massive feet. Talk about intimidating.

  “Jesus, who talks like that?” he asked, jarring me from my thoughts.

  Oh, just everyone in my flipping family. Since there was no chance of escape, I sat up straight and said, “Hey, you’re the one who started with the nicknames. Besides, don’t all you guys name your Mr. Winkie?”

  “Believe me. No one calls ‘it’ a winkie.” He went back to the kitchen and returned with a big bowl of homemade sauce and meatballs. “Let me ask you a question.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You mentioned a pickle, so I’m assuming you mean how would my ego be affected if I had a small Mr. Winkie.”

  I nodded, swallowing hard, and wondered what I’d gotten myself into.

  “Then my question is would my Mr. Winkie be a pickle when relaxed or standing at attention?”

  Instantly, my face flamed probably three shades of red, and my ears felt like they were on fire. I hadn’t expected him to be willing to talk about this stuff with me, let alone be so open about it.

  I opened my mouth and then closed it three flipping times, unable to speak. The words that formed in my brain sounded so idiotic, I just couldn’t spit them out.

  “Because you know,” he continued, “at its relaxed state, looks can be deceiving.”

  I squeaked. I actually squeaked out loud. No words, just a high-pitched sound like an over-excited piglet. Darn Professor Butthead for assigning me this topic. All my worst nightmares about this stupid project were coming true. Things couldn’t possibly get any more embarrassing, could they?