It Had to Be You by Jill Shalvis Page A

Actually, more like a direct demand. “I’m on vacation,” Luke reminded him.
    “You’re not, you’re working a fucking case. Sheriff Thompson called me to make sure I didn’t mind sharing you. What the hell?”
    Thanks, Sawyer. “What did the threat say?”
    “It said ‘die pigs.’ But he misspelled ‘die,’ used a Y. Dye pigs just doesn’t have the same impact. But watch your back just in case.”
    “Will do.”
    “How long are you really going to be?”
    “Didn’t we just do this? Three weeks.”
    “Goddammit.” The commander went quiet for a moment. “How about one?”
    “I’ll get back to you.” Luke disconnected.
    “Work problems?” Mr. Wykowski asked.
    Luke didn’t answer. Mr. Wykowski was a nice guy, but he was close friends with Lucille, which was a lot like being close friends with a PA system. Whatever he told Mr. Wykowski, he had to be willing for the entire county to hear. If he mentioned the threat, it’d be on Facebook in five minutes flat.
    Mr. Lyons made his slow way back up the driveway, cane in one hand and in the other…an apple pie.
    “Homemade,” he said, waving it back and forth beneath Luke’s nose. “We got it off of Betsy Morango, who made it for her granddaughter. We have to let her in on the next poker game now, but anything for Ali.”
    “You can’t bribe me with pie.” Before he’d finished the sentence, his stomach grumbled loudly in a plea for the pie.
    The men grinned.
    “We all know you’re a pie ho,” Mr. Elroy said.
    Mr. Lyons had two plastic forks tucked neatly into his breast pocket. He took one out and scooped up a bite of the apple pie. “Oh yeah,” he murmured, licking the fork. “Good stuff.”
    Just the thought of it was making Luke’s damn mouth water.
    Edward was still looking at him steadily. Intensely. Luke had no idea what his grandfather’s angle was on this, but one thing he did know: There was an angle. “If I agree to step in here, you nosy-bodies have to agree to something too.”
    “What?” Mr. Lyons asked.
    “Ali needs a place to stay until she gets an apartment. You have lady friends.” Again he met Edward’s gaze. “Surely one of you knows someone looking for a roommate. She cooks. She does her own dishes. She’s…” Not quiet. Not easy to ignore. “Cheerful,” he finally said, hoping that sounded like a compliment. “She’d be a good roommate for anyone.”
    Except for him.
    “She can stay with me,” Mr. Elroy said, and waggled his brow.
    Luke wrestled with his conscience and lost. “No.” Christ. “Never mind. I’ll find her a damn place myself.” He reached for the pie, but Mr. Lyons held it close.
    “Almost forgot, I need another favor,” Mr. Lyons said.
    Luke gave him a look. “I’m a little busy working on the first one right now.”
    “This one can wait until you get Ali home safe and sound. Roger Barrett needs to hire you. He’s got a problem. He misplaced his ’67 GTO.”
    “He didn’t misplace it,” Mr. Wykowski said. “He lost it in a poker game to Phillip Schmidt two years ago, remember?”
    “Yes,” Mr. Lyons said, “with the caveat that when the old geezer died, he had to give it back to Roger. Phillip’s been six feet under for six months now, and his grandson Mikey ‘The Doper’ Schmidt still says he hasn’t ‘located’ the GTO, which is bull-pucky. He’s just not done driving the piss out of it.”
    “You realize that car’s no longer PC,” Mr. Elroy said, disapprovingly. “It’s a gas guzzler.”
    “Gas guzzler, smuzzler,” Mr. Lyons said. “It’s a beaut. They don’t make cars like that anymore. God rest Pontiac’s soul.”
    Luke shook his head. “And the GTO is my problem why?”
    “Because you’re the problem-solving guy,” Mr. Lyons said.
    “Says who?”
    “Your grandpa says that’s what you do best.”
    Luke met Edward’s gaze. Edward still didn’t speak.
    “So you’re going to help Ali, right?” Mr. Lyons asked.
    Luke could smell the brown