But I’m also honest enough with myself to know that’s not the real reason for my hesitation. My deepest fear is that people will find out what happened between Alice and me before she died. And Molly O’Shea plans to keep digging—she was very clear about that.
My father is in the kitchen when Ruby and I walk through the door. The smell of something delicious hits my nose, and my stomach grumbles.
“Perfect timing. How was your day, boyo?” he greets me, glancing over at me as he pulls a pan from the oven.
I grunt as I head into the hall bathroom to wash my hands before dinner.
When I get out, he has the pan on the table. It looks and smells like his famous Tuscan chicken casserole.
“That bad?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I don’t elaborate yet. Instead, I head to the fridge and pull out a cold beer. I pop the top, then down a quarter of it before lowering the bottle.
“Augusta, huh?” he asks with a knowing look.
“Sort of.” I get Ruby some food, adding half a can of wet food to the dry because she’s had a day, all while Dad eyes me suspiciously. He doesn’t say a word, though, just picks up a bowl of salad and carries it to the table.
After I make sure Ruby has fresh water, I take my beer to the table and settle into my usual chair. We serve ourselves and eat in silence for nearly a minute before I finally speak. “There was a problem with Wendy Jenkins’s house today.” I explain the marble fiasco and how we’ve resolved it. “I could have used your help,” I finish.
“You didn’t need me. You handled it just fine.”
I draw in a breath and let it out.
“That’s not what you wanted to hear, but this is the agreement we came up with,” he says good-naturedly. “You’re taking over with Bear and Son, and I’m spending more time on the Bad Luck Club and my baking business. In fact, I’m working on a dog cookie recipe for one of the shops downtown.”
“You and everyone else,” I mutter, thinking of Mrs. Carlton, but he’s excited about his news—practically bouncing in his chair—and I realize I’m being rude. Pushing a piece of lettuce on my plate with my fork, I glance up at him. “Sorry, Dad. That was uncalled for.”
His gaze holds mine, and the understanding and acceptance I see there makes me grateful for the millionth time that he’s my father. “Why do I get the idea that there was more to your day than your situation with Wendy Jenkins?”
“Because you’re a mind reader.” I suck in a breath. “A reporter approached me today when I took Ruby to the dog park.”
His fuzzy eyebrows shoot up. “That sounds premeditated.”
“I know, right? She had a dog with her. Claimed she’s dog-sitting for three weeks while her sister is on a babysun.”
His nose scrunches. “A what?”
I gesture my fork toward him, irritated. “When you take a vacation before a baby’s born.”
“A babymoon,” he says with a nod.
I roll my eyes, because of course he knows the word. “In any case, she claims she found Augusta’s book in her sister’s bedroom. It unleashed her inner Lois Lane, and I guess she did enough digging to figure out Augusta’s full of shit. And that stupid dedication tipped her off that I wasn’t just a regular member of the club. She’s dangerously close to figuring out the truth.”
“How’d she find you at the dog park?”
I shake my head. “Good old-fashioned stalking, I guess. I let her know I wasn’t interested in talking and left, but she told me she wasn’t going to stop digging.”
“Did she tell you her name or where she works?”
“Not the publication, but she said her name is Molly O’Shea.”
My father takes another bite of his casserole, then gets up from the table. He’s back moments later with his laptop. After he boots it up, he starts typing and clicking. Then his face wrinkles in confusion.
“Molly O’Shea? Are you sure?”
“Yea,” I grunt. “Who does she work for? New York Times? Washington Post? Vice?”
A grin teases the corners of his mouth. “Beyond the Sheets.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He turns the laptop to face me, and sure enough, there are several posts under Molly’s name for a site called Beyond the Sheets. I click on one that says “Goodbye Funderwear, Hello Skid Marks,” and the page opens to the Beyond the Sheets website and an article about the underwear men wear on first dates versus after you’ve been dating for a year.
“What the hell?” I ask in bewilderment.
My father takes the computer back and starts typing again. “Maybe it’s a different Molly O’Shea.” Then, after a few seconds, he swings it back around to me. “Is this her?”
There’s an image of her standing in a barrel with a guy who looks like he’s three sheets to the wind and about to grab her ass. The caption says, Stomping grapes with Trevor. You think he’d notice if I pushed him in? She’s got an ornery expression in the photo, and there’s no doubt it’s the woman I met at the dog park.
“Yep, that’s her.” Just looking at her rankles my nerves, even more so because I recognize the fire burning in my blood. I mentally curse. Molly O’Shea is the last woman I should be attracted to. There’s no doubt that she’s a gorgeous woman, but as I dig around on her website, it becomes obvious her calling in life is to make men look like fools.
Jesus, this is all I need.
Finally, Dad releases a heavy sigh. “It looks like she’s pretty benign. She probably wants to do some kind of piece about dating the guy who started the Bad Luck Club.” He grins. “If you’d like, I’ll take the bullet on this one.”
I release an involuntary laugh. “She doesn’t even know for certain who founded the club. She’s grasping at straws because of that call Nicole made to the publisher.”
“But you said she plans to dig, right?”
I scowl. “So she says.”
He gives me a pointed look. “We both knew it was only a matter of time before someone started digging into the truth.” When I don’t say anything, he pushes his chair back and his chest puffs out. “Look, I understand why you’re cautious, but I’m pretty damn proud of what we’ve done. Look at all the people who have graduated from the club and are happier than they’ve ever been. Blue. Dee. Even Nicole’s been in a relationship for a year now.”
I snort. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a healthy one. It only works because they’re equally jealous of each other.”
He waves that off as if it’s a technicality. “All I’m saying is, sure, Augusta was disgruntled, and there might be a few more who were unhappy about being kicked out, but the good far outweighs the bad, son.”
I nod, because I have to give him that.
“Your mother would be proud of us. Alice too.”
That stings, and I have to look away for a moment.
“Now, have you considered that the best way of dealing with this might be to face it head-on?” my father asks. “Try to control the narrative?”
I gesture to the laptop screen. “You’re suggesting I agree to go on a date with her?” I ask in disbelief.