Death and Relaxation by Devon Monk Page B

have to wait. Until we had an extra hand at the station. Until I’d figured out who was blowing up garden patches in the middle of the night. And it would absolutely have to wait until after the Rhubarb Rally. Adding Ryder into my life before then—if he even wanted to be added—would be madness.
    There was enough crazy in this town without me adding more to my life.
     

Chapter 7
     
    WHEN I looked out into my living room after my shower, I was relieved to see that Cooper had taken his backpack and left my house. I spent five minutes I didn’t have tucking away Thanatos’s contract in the family vault in the basement, because we never left contracts at the station, then standing in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear.
    I had a dress. Three, actually. Well, two, if you didn’t count the one I wore to funerals.
    Of the two other dresses, one was a spring sort of number, soft yellow with a splash of watercolor petals falling from shoulder to hem. The other was black, short, and tight.
    I bit my bottom lip. Was this a dress sort of thing, or should I wear my uniform? I stared at my uncomfortable dress shirt, slacks, and badge. Too formal? I didn’t want to scare off my new employee. We needed the help. And as long as this person was able and willing (and not Dan Perkin), I wasn’t about to say no to hiring him or her.
    “Burgers and fries at a brewery is jeans all the way.”
    I pulled on my favorite jeans, added a brown leather belt, and a red tank top. Jump Off Jack’s tended to get hot when it was at full tilt, brick ovens rolling and the big fireplace lit. I scurried to the bathroom to do something with my wet hair.
    “Yikes.”
    By the time I’d dried and brushed my hair and applied a little mascara to try to distract from the circles under my eyes, I was already five minutes late.
    I threw phone, badge, wallet, and gun into my purse, grabbed the first socks in the drawer—black and red striped—stuffed my feet into my boots, and took off out the door.
    Rain drizzled down, a sort of misty fog that soaked a person to the bone in under five minutes. I’d forgotten my jacket, but didn’t turn back. I jogged the stairs and was in the Jeep in less than a minute.
    Jump Off Jack’s was busy tonight, even though it was Monday, and it looked like there were more locals than tourists. The word must be getting out about the new cook Ryder had said was so good.
    Ryder. My heart picked up the beat just thinking of him.
    I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. “This isn’t about Ryder. This is about work. Also, let’s hear it for waterproof mascara. Not a smudge.”
    I pushed out of the car, noting a figure in a stocking cap walking down the fishing pier, ships tucked into their slips for the night casting yellow ripples of light into the bay. I strode through the drizzle across the parking lot then into the old warehouse between huge vats and past the tiny gift shop and register. The hostess at the register was with customers. She pointed me up the stairs with a nod, and I gave her a quick wave and took the stairs to the bar and restaurant above.
    Heat and music and the stomach-growling smell of burgers, fries, and garlic wrapped me up so tight and nice, I closed my eyes for a second and just inhaled, enjoying the moment.
    Then I strolled into the main room. What a difference a few hours made.
    When I’d come by to talk to Chris, the warehouse had felt cavernous, empty. But now the knotty pine booths and rustic tables and chairs, bare wood floors between walls decorated in the Jump Off Jack’s logo, were filled with happy people. The bar that took up the left half of the room, with its truly impressive offerings of brews, had every stool and table filled, and people leaning against the walls in small clumps.
    A group of Rossi boys—not all of them pale, but all of them that certain kind of vampire graceful—milled around the pool tables that took up some middle space between the bar and