Underwater & Overtaxed (Time Travelling Taxman Book 7) by Rachel Ford

Author:Rachel Ford [Ford, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-10-29T16:00:00+00:00

“Oh God,” Nancy groaned.

“What?” Alfred glanced over, concerned until he saw that she was reacting to a social media post.

“Justin: he updated his profile picture to a blood-soaked bear. And he’s got a new post up: ‘Prey whines when life kicks ‘em in the teeth. Predators kick back.’ Hashtag: be a predator. Hashtag: I kick harder. Hashtag: Come at me, bro.”

The taxman shook his head. “I’m surprised he didn’t mention ‘the beast.’”

Nancy snorted out a laugh, pocketing the phone and grabbing a bag from the back of the car. “I mean, at least he’s still calling himself a predator. I was afraid he was going to realize just how creepy he sounded and stop that. But, no.”

He laughed, reaching out his hand for her bag of groceries to add it to his collection. “You get the door. I’ll hold that.”

“Okay.” They’d gone shopping after work.

As annoying as he was, Winthrop hadn’t been wrong when he’d said their fridge was empty. Between work and the mission, he hadn’t even thought about it – much less had time to rectify the situation. But now that all of that was done, now that Atlantis was safe, the taxman was looking forward to things returning to normal. “Hey,” he said, “you down for pancakes?”

“Always. But for dinner? You sure?”

He nodded. It did disorder the normal way of things to eat a breakfast food for dinner, but he could be flexible. “Yeah. Maybe those pumpkin ones you like? I got canned pumpkin.”

She smiled. “I saw that. I was wondering what you had in mind.”

He shrugged. Autumn had officially, by the calendar, started a few days ago. So he quipped, “Well, ‘tis the season.”

She laughed. “That’s right. Got to enjoy it before it’s peppermint season.”

He snorted. “What do you mean, peppermint season? You always get peppermint in your coffee.”

“True. But it’ll be official then.”

He laughed, shifting the refrigerated goods to their appropriate shelves while Nance tackled the other bags. “Hey, you want to give Satan his tuna? I’ll get the pancakes started.”

She sidled over to him, planting a kiss on his lips. “You got it.”

Alfred fell to mixing dry ingredients. He loved convenience as much as the next guy, but he was almost religious in his opposition to baking mixes for pancakes. The time saved did not justify the sacrifice of quality. Sure, Nancy swore she could barely tell a difference. But he could. The recipe for from-scratch biscuits wasn’t the same for from-scratch pancakes. So how could the final product be the same?

They couldn’t. It was one thing when Nance dragged him out camping. One was supposed to suffer when camping. That was the nature of the exercise. But in the comfort of his own home, there was no excuse for biscuit cakes.

Nance had been the one to introduce him to pumpkin pancakes. He’d been dubious. Very dubious. She was one of those people who managed to spoil all kinds of good food by adding pumpkin. She defiled her coffee, polluted her cookies, sought out toasting breads and even truffles – all with pumpkin.

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