Extreme Exposure by Alex Kingwell

Author:Alex Kingwell [Kingwell, Alex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Forever Yours
Published: 2016-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Early the next afternoon, Matt surveyed the party-ready backyard at Mona Blackstock’s house. If this was informal, he couldn’t imagine what she considered formal. It looked like a setup for a fancy wedding, with four circular tables, each set for five people, arranged in the middle of the yard. They were covered in long white tablecloths, and crowded with plates, cutlery, and glasses.

Mona Blackstock and Celia Williams flitted from table to table, adjusting a plate here, a fork there, but not really doing much of anything that he could tell. Cold beer beckoned in a tub of ice on the ground next to a bar in front of thick shrubs at the back of the big yard. He’d wait until Mona and Celia cleared out. With no bartender yet, it might be against the rules.

In the house, a short hallway led to the kitchen. Emily, her hair tucked under a white cap and dressed in a white jacket, stood at a five-burner stove. She turned around to say something to a male chef working behind her at a granite-topped island in the middle of the kitchen, and they both laughed. Catching Matt looking, she smiled, turned back to the stove.

He walked over, leaned against the counter, and fingered the stiff fabric of her jacket sleeve, reached up and brushed her hair off her cheek. “How do you work in this? It looks like a straightjacket.”

Smiling, she stirred something in a small frying pan. “There’s beer in the fridge.”

“You want one? It must be ten degrees hotter in here.”

She took the pot off the burner and wiped her brow with a white bandana from her pocket, exposing the scar near her hairline. “Not allowed, I’m afraid.”

The kitchen was big, but not big enough for three chefs and two waiters and a guy emptying a steamy dishwasher. The male chef couldn’t keep his eyes off Emily but she didn’t seem to notice.

Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he popped the cap, leaned against the counter, his elbows touching her arm. “If you have some of mine, I won’t tell.”

“I wouldn’t dare. My mother has eyes on the back of her head.” She poured the ingredients from the frying pan—some sort of herb in a vinegary-smelling liquid—into a mixing bowl and added mayonnaise and diced pickles.

“Who’s he?” Matt gestured to the dishwasher guy, who was now scouring pots at the sink.

After a glance at the man, Emily turned and began slicing a bunch of green onions. “That’s Junior, at least that’s what we call him. I don’t know his real name. He’s worked for my mother at the hotel for a few years.”

“Parolee?”

She stopped cutting, shot him a quizzical look. “What makes you say that?”

“He’s got a tattoo of a spiderweb on his neck. That could mean he’s been in prison.”

Her eyes widened. “That explains a lot. He’s got some sketchy friends.” She added mustard, anchovy paste, and sliced green onions to the bowl. “But he’s okay. Not too sociable, but he works hard.

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