A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery by Jeanne Cooney

smiled that half-smile of his—the nice one—the one that makes his dark eyes shine like polished stones. “Oh, come on. Do this for me.” He once more bent across the table, this time invading my personal space. He covered my hands with one of his own. “Please.”
    While his palm was calloused and his fingers, rough, his touch was soft and soothing. And for someone who had undoubtedly slept in his clothes and hadn’t yet cleaned up, he smelled good. I caught the scent of musk along with a hint of something else. Baby powder perhaps?
    I pulled my hand free as soon as I realized I had absolutely no desire to do so. “Did you sleep on the pool table last night?” A change of subject was definitely in order.
    “What? Where did that come from?”
    “Well, you smell like baby powder. You know, like people use when shooting pool. Plus, I’m guessing you didn’t go home.” I wagged my finger up and down, pointing out his rumpled appearance, which included the same clothes he’d worn the previous day. “And since I slept in one of the bedrooms upstairs, and I assume Margie took the other, you and Buddy were left with the booths or the pool table. And you’re too tall to stretch out in a booth, so you must have slept on the pool table. Am I right?”
    He regarded me with appraising eyes. “You are good at deduction.”
    He arched what must have been a sore back. And as his torso stretched and his tee-shirt climbed, I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at his abs. “I flipped Buford for it,” he said, relaxing his midsection. “I got the pool table. He got stuck on the bar.”
    “The bar?” I mentally scratched my head, determined to keep my thoughts trained on his words and nothing else. “Isn’t that a little narrow for sleeping?”
    “Well, you don’t want to do a lot of tossing and turning, that’s for sure.” He settled back on his stool, his half-smile again in place. “On the flip side, you’re close to all the bottles if you get thirsty before morning.”
    I found myself chuckling. It was easy to do around Buddy Johnson. My impression was he didn’t take himself too seriously.
    “So what do you say?” He tilted his head. “Will you hang out with me for a while? At least until Dudley Do-right shows up?”
    I stopped chuckling so I could scowl.
    “Sorry, no more snide comments about the esteemed deputy.” He flashed me the Boy Scout hand signal. “I promise.”
    “Yeah, right.” A grin betrayed my terse tone. “Like I’m going to believe you were ever a Boy Scout.”
    He adjusted the cuffs on his flannel shirt. “How dare you doubt me!” He was going for indignant, but it didn’t work. “Okay, come on,” he added, pretending total exasperation by my misgivings. “Let’s go to my place, and I’ll show you all my badges.” He waggled his eyebrows.
    “Does that line really work for you?”
    “No, but it made you smile.” He dipped his head toward me. “So? What’s it going to be?”
    His expression was full of expectations, which scared me, leaving my mind to jump around until, for some reason, it landed on Pudding Shots. Margie had made some to serve as an after-dinner treat for the adults at the beet banquet. From what I understood, they were nothing more than dollops of pudding in various flavors, all infused with alcohol. She said there were extra servings in the fridge. And I wondered, as I checked the time, if nine o’clock in the morning was too early to taste test a few.
    “Emerald? Are you going to help me out or not?”
    I sighed. I couldn’t get drunk. I was on the job. Besides, I owed Buddy, given what I had done to his family. So with yet another sigh, I replied, knowing full well I’d more than likely regret my words, “Yeah, I’ll help. I don’t know what kind of assistance I can provide, but I’ll try—at least for the time being.”
    “That’s all I’m asking.” He pushed his stool back, the legs scraping the wood floor. “How about some breakfast