Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) 📖

“I like it, a lot.” His face relaxed. I found it endearing that he wanted my approval.

The small dining room came next, unremarkable except for the hickory flooring with its strong variations in color and grain. It continued into the living room, which was pretty much what I expected. Brown leather couch and recliner, dark wood coffee table and side tables, big square ottoman with several days of newspapers still rolled for delivery and the obligatory huge flat screen TV, mounted above a brick fireplace. A tall glass curio cabinet stood in one corner. I walked over to it.

On the top shelf was a picture of a man in a suit and homburg, a woman in a full-skirted dark dress with polka dots, a dark-haired boy and a beautiful little girl. The shelf below it held a framed photo of a young Wukowski, dressed in a beat cop’s uniform and peaked hat with visor. There were two medals of valor and accompanying plaques—a lifesaving medal, for resuscitating a woman who collapsed with no pulse, and a rescue medal, for leading a group of senior citizens from a fire in an assisted living center.

Behind me, Wukowski said, “Those aren’t there to make me feel like a hero. They’re there to remind me that my world isn’t all about catching bad guys.”

I turned and walked into his somewhat stiff body. “You are a hero, though,” I told him.

His arms came around me and held me loosely. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”

I got it. He didn’t want to talk about the cabinet’s contents. I gave him a squeeze and backed away. He went back to the kitchen, gathered my bags and led me down the hallway.

A king-size bed dominated the rather small bedroom, a four-poster made of gray metal uprights connected at the top with crosspieces to form a large rectangular box. The bedding was also unrelieved gray. A small wooden nightstand held a clock and lamp. In the corner was a tall dresser and on one wall was a door, probably for a closet. The room was spare, almost sterile. I imagined that Wukowski liked to retreat to it at the end of a tough day.

He set the overnighter on the bed, opened the closet door and hung the garment bag on the rod. “Move stuff around if you need more space, Angie. I wouldn’t want your clothes to be wrinkled.” There was a twinkle in his eye.

“I only brought enough for tomorrow,” I protested.

He decided to ignore that. “Bathroom’s across the hall. It’s small, but serviceable. There’s no room downstairs for an en suite. I’ve been thinking about converting the unfinished upstairs space into a master suite.”

“Big project,” I said, as I picked up my bag and headed for the bathroom. Like the kitchen, the room was updated, but small. “Will it bother you if I leave stuff in here?”

“I emptied a drawer for you. Make yourself at home, Angie.” Wukowski stood in the doorway, bouncing slightly from foot to foot. We eyed each other, both a bit wary. Might as well name it, I thought.

“Caro, I think we both feel a little strange with this. I’ll just leave the bag here for now.”

We ambled into the living room. I curled up on the couch—leather is decidedly cold and there was no afghan—while Wukowski lit a wood fire. He shifted me over and sat down, taking me into his arms. “Chilly?” he asked.

“A bit. You need an afghan.”

“Lord, don’t say that to my mother. She’s the queen of knitting and crocheting. She’d have every surface in here covered with a doily, antimacassar or throw, if I let her.”

“One neutral-colored afghan wouldn’t hurt.”

“It would be a beachhead. Within a week, the place would explode with yarn. Trust me.” He rested his chin on my head. “So, our options for supper are limited. The only places that deliver are pizza joints or Jimmy Johns.”

“It just so happens that inside my overnight bag is another bag, which contains a serving dish of Mama Mia’s lasagna. It was part of the “Pipe Incident” food.”

“Garlic bread?”

“Sciortino’s.”

“Woman, you are amazing!”

I retrieved the food, put my nightie across the foot of the bed, and left the undies and toiletries in the bag. In the kitchen, I set the oven for 350. “I’ll need butter and garlic powder or salt,” I told Wukowski. “And a sweater. This place is chilly.”

“Sorry, short stuff. I got distracted and forgot to reset the temp on the thermostat when I came in.” He headed for the hallway and returned with a Packers sweatshirt. “I’m not exactly a sweater kind of guy.”

It reached almost to my knees, but it was warm. The oven beeped and I put the lasagna dish inside. Wukowski set a cookie sheet out for the bread, uncorked a bottle of Chianti and started to make a salad. The tension melted away as we worked side by side.

We ate, cleared away the dishes and went to bed, where we made love and then snuggled under the covers. “Are you working tomorrow?” I asked.

“Yeah. I couldn’t wriggle out of it.”

“What time are we getting up?”

“Six. I need to drop you off and get to headquarters by eight. Traffic’s a bear during rush hour.”

Uh-oh. We’d have to run the news gauntlet again. I could imagine their insinuations about our leaving tonight and not returning until the morning. Let them, I thought. This is worth it.

After a minute of silence, I heard a gentle snuffling sound. I fell asleep in Wukowski’s arms, in Wukowski’s bed, in Wukowski’s house. It didn’t seem strange any longer.

Chapter 34

When I started counting my blessings, my whole life turned around.

—Willie Nelson

Wukowski drove me home, past a small group of reporters. They yelled their questions as we rolled by: “Where’s Adriana Johnson?” and “Is Adriana keeping the cash?” and “Are you two an item?” Two-thirds actual news requests—not bad.

We kissed in the