Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck
Chapter Eight
Eden sat at the small kitchen table, sipping her third cup of coffee and ignoring the two slices of wheat toast she’d fixed almost an hour ago. Her stomach didn’t want food. It wanted this call to be over. She watched the tiny readout on the top of her phone change from 8:59 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. before she dialed Buchanan. Yesterday evening, he’d instructed her to give him a report this morning, but it was a Saturday, after all. He answered on the first ring with a simple “Morning.”
“Hi, chief. It’s Eden,” she said, wincing because she’d just stated the obvious. The department provided the phone. He knew who was calling.
“Hey, Eden. Heard you had quite a first night of undercover work.”
“You did? From whom?” She hadn’t noticed any officers from the Bluelick PD in the bar. Had he snuck one in to keep an eye on them? Dear God, had he or she seen…everything? Her already tense stomach knotted. Maybe she wouldn’t be removing herself from the assignment after all. Maybe her boss already knew what an unprofessional clusterfuck the whole evening had been.
“Swain gave Malone his report last night. Malone reached out this morning to bring me up to speed.”
Buchanan certainly sounded relaxed about the whole matter. “Sir, I apologize on behalf of Deputy Swain and myself. He’s extremely…unorthodox in his ideas about how we should execute this assignment, and I’m afraid—”
“According to Malone, you hit it out of the park. You, specifically. Swain indicated you made contact with Kenny and Dobie, and Dobie, in particular, would willingly offer up a kidney if you asked for it. Sounds like a complete success to me. What am I missing?”
Well, a fuck ton, but now that Swain had gotten his report in ahead of her and made her sound like the linchpin of the op, she’d look like the unprofessional one, asking to be taken off the assignment.
And you don’t really want to admit defeat, do you?
She didn’t. The knot in her stomach loosened as she acknowledged the truth. Tamping down on a sigh, she said, “Nothing, I guess. It’s just—”
“Sorry, hold on a moment.” From a distance away from the receiver, his voice carried over the line. “Sweet Virginia, give me a couple minutes, and I’ll carry those downstairs.”
From an even greater distance, a female voice replied, “Relax, Wolverine. I can handle a couple cases of beer.”
So, he was home this morning. He definitely didn’t need her dumping a load of interpersonal drama on him during his personal time.
His reply was partially muffled by the sound of a chair squeaking across a floor, but Eden thought she heard a low murmur of “…better things for you to handle,” followed by a feminine giggle.
Okay, then. Time to wrap this up. Right now, she had a clearer mental picture than she ought to of Bluelick’s tall, dark, distractingly good-looking police chief and his lovely wife canoodling in their kitchen. God, she really needed to get laid.
“Sorry.” His voice returned, full force, to the call. “What’s the next move you and Swain want to make with this op, and how can we help?”
“I…um… Swain and I haven’t completely strategized our next step.” Because he’s not here. He hasn’t been here all night, and, in fact, I have no idea where he is. That’s the kind of tight working partnership we’ve established. “But we could probably go to Rawley’s again tonight. If Kenny and Dobie stop in, we can continue strengthening that connection. Invite them back to the house after last call and see if they bring their preferred party favor.”
“Sound strategy. Although Kenny and Dobie don’t usually hit Rawley’s on nights Roxy isn’t playing. If they show, it’s because they hope to run into you—which is a good sign. Normally, I think they prefer to use their money for other intoxicants than what’s available at Rawley’s. Speaking of which, let them introduce that topic, so it seems…ha ha…organic.”
“Will do.”
“Great. Let me know if the plan changes. Otherwise, just give me a verbal update tomorrow morning.”
“Will do,” she repeated.
“Anything else we should go over?”
If she planned on sticking with the op, there was one more issue to discuss. “Um. Yes, actually. I appreciate the wardrobe stipend the department provided, and I’m sorry, sir, but now that I’ve been to Rawley’s and gotten a better feel for my cover, I realize I missed the mark on some of my purchases. I’ll return what I can, but basically, most of what I picked out is too…too…” How could she put it? “Too buttoned-up. Not casual enough. It’s not right for the cover.” Frustrated and embarrassed, she apologized again. “Sorry. I know putting together a few outfits isn’t rocket science.”
“It would be to me, Brix. Take my word on that. The department can kick in a couple hundred for the right clothes and whatnot, and whatever you can return of what you won’t be able to use is greatly appreciated, but…”
He trailed off, and she heard him say something to his wife. Whatever it was, she laughed and replied loudly. “Hell, yes! Tell Eden ‘Sexy R Us’ will make a house call.” Buchanan sounded a bit pained as he said, “How ’bout we rely on an expert civilian consultant to handle the details?”
She let out a breath of pure relief. “That would be awesome, sir.”
“Fantastic. I’ll pass the phone over to Ginny and let you two work out the details.”
“Thank you, sir.” She picked up a cold piece of toast and bit off a corner. At least she wouldn’t have to go another round with Swain tonight about her personal presentation. If he didn’t like her outfit, she’d tell him he could take it up with Buchanan’s expert civilian consultant.
Ginny hopped on the line to collect some pertinent details—including a question about body luminizers that told Eden copious amounts of her skin would continue to be on display—and promised to come by the house later in the afternoon with everything they’d need to perfect the future Mrs. Eden Swain’s look.
Feeling steadier, Eden sat back in her chair, munched her toast, and considered texting Swain to find out where the hell he was—probably waking up in a strange bed, next to some deluded woman—and telling him she hadn’t packed her bags. Yet. Though the idea he’d spent the night somewhere else, with someone else, made her want to. How dare that faithless, two-timing bastard of a fake fiancé cheat on her? Yes, last night she’d told him she was bailing, but he hadn’t even waited for official word before falling into bed with someone else. Before she could tap her phone screen, an incoming text pinged.
Where y’at, choux?
What kind of greeting was that? He’d been gone all night, for Christ’s sake. I’m at the house. Where are you, Don fucking Juan? We’re supposed to be engaged.
You dumped me. Remember?
I spoke with B. He wants us to go to Rawley’s tonight. Apparently, I’m taking your cheating ass back. Don’t make me regret it. That summary mischaracterized things slightly, but she preferred to let him think Buchanan had influenced her decision to stay.
No regrets. I promise.
Says the man I can’t trust.
The dot-dot-dot pulsed, pulsed, pulsed…and disappeared. Hmm. Didn’t that just speak louder than words?
She tapped her keys. Where are you?
Work.Rain coming & the owner wants his roof on before it hits. Jr. put out the call. We can use the OT. I’ll be home by 4.
Boo-hoo. It sucked to be him. Whoring all night, working all day.
Fine.
She tossed the phone aside and picked up her toast. Two bites later, a new text dinged. Turning the phone to face her, she read.
BTW, my cheating ass spent the night in the Bronco. Me and Jack Daniels. Alone.
Why that piece of possible fiction put a smile on her lips, she refused to analyze. She also refused to reply.
I’m tired. Hungover. Covered in bug bites.
She texted a violin and a crying emoji.
Also, I’m sorry. I was out of line.
She hit the message with the double exclamation points.
Can we make up now? He followed the question with a peach, an eggplant, and prayer hands.
It should have made her want to bang her head against a wall, but it was so purposefully pathetic she laughed. Get to work, she texted, then stood to do the same.
…
Ginny Buchanan arrived on Eden’s doorstep at 1:30 p.m. sharp, armed with more shopping bags than one small woman should have been able to carry, rolling a large, flamingo pink hard-sided trolly organizer behind her. Eden’s jaw must have dropped, because the flamed-haired beauty winked. “Yes, girl. I have a cosmetology license, and I’m fixin’ to use it.”
“Uh. Wow. Come in.” Belatedly, she took several bags from Ginny’s arm and carried them into the living room. “I can’t thank you enough for taking time to help me refine my…cover.”
Ginny laughed and dumped the other armload of bags on the sectional. “Refine is not the right word, but I whiled away many an evening at Rawley’s in my misspent youth, and I’m confident I can give you the right style to guarantee you look the part. Let’s start with your hair.”
Eden backed up a step and put a protective hand on her head. “My hair?”
“Then we’ll do makeup. Then wardrobe. I concentrated on basics, mostly. Running-around-town clothes.” She pulled some skimpy shorts, skirts, and tops from one bag. “Then I threw in a few pieces that will work for nights out at the diner or the pub”—she held up two barely-there dresses and more short skirts—“and a couple of lazing-at-the-house things.” A slinky white robe and a few cotton-and-lace confections. “’Cause I figure you gotta look the part all the time. Nosy neighbors are part of the charm of a small town. There are shoes and costume jewelry to go with casual sexy, sexy-on-the-town, or sexy-around-the-house.”
“My hair?” Eden repeated. Clothes could be shed. Makeup could be removed. Hair? Hair took a lot longer to undo.
In response, Ginny simply walked to the kitchen, picked up one of the two wooden breakfast table chairs, and carried it to the living room. After putting it down, she patted the seat. “Sit. You’re in the hands of a master.” Confident of compliance, she grabbed her wheelie pink torture chamber, rolled it over beside the chair, and began opening hinges and drawers.
Keenly aware this was her boss’s wife, she said a silent prayer and sat. And nearly jumped out of her skin when two hands slid through her hair, testing the length and texture. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Half my clientele would commit murder for locks this thick and healthy. Is this relaxed or natural?”
“Mostly natural,” Eden managed. “My hair’s more coarse than kinky. My mom’s white. My dad is half-Hawaiian, half-Black. I battle frizz with a paddle brush, smoothing serum, and loads of leave-in conditioner.”
“Well, Officer Brixton, you ought to write your parents a thank-you note for superior genes and leave those products a rave review, in my humble opinion.” Sifting hair through her fingers, she thought out loud. “I’d like to do some gold highlights to provide dimension—which is a beautician’s way of saying men like shiny things—and then add a few subtle layers for movement and to make the most of your texture. Can you live with that?”
“I-I think so.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Do what you think is best. I’m in your hands.”
The hands in question clapped together. “Total surrender. That’s how I like it.”