Me, Myself and Why? by MaryJanice Davidson Page B

Love.
    “Alas, she knew you were on scene—I assume that’s a nod to your crime fighting, and not that you’re an actress—and wanted to make sure you knew why she was so callously blowing off your monthly Perkins breakfast of runny eggs and burnt hash browns.”
    “Crime fighters are actresses,” I said, “and the hash browns aren’t burnt. And thanks for the cupcakes.”
    The cupcakes! I’d been toiling over paperwork last night when a messenger was cleared to my floor bearing a delivery for yours truly. It turned out to be half a dozen devil’s food cupcakes frosted with lush, creamy buttercream frosting, each a different pastel shade. They looked like Easter eggs and smelled like Godiva. I’d nearly swooned right into the pastry box. And had gobbled down four of the six before having to call a halt due to an encroaching sugar-induced fit of frenzy.
    “ ’Twas nothing,” he said modestly, but looked pleased. “Cathie warned me you had hideous eating habits, that sometimes you skip meals for days in a row. I thought about sending you a salad, but where’s the fun? It’s salad.”
    “They were great.” I was still puzzled—why would he send sweets to someone he’d just met? Well. He was probably just a very nice man. I reached for a menu I’d memorized almost a decade ago. “And my hash browns aren’t burnt, they’re crisped.”
    “You say tomato, I say burnt. But back to our featured story: I, her trusty older brother, rode in on—”
    “An SUV hybrid.”
    “Yes, that’s—wait. How’d you know what I was driving?”
    “Because I work for the government, silly. I know all kinds of things. Supersecret things.” (Also, Cathie had mentioned a few months back that her brother was getting downright smug about all the gas he didn’t have to buy.)
    “Okay. Well, my SUV and I are here to treat the lady to breakfast. Any of the ladies,” he added.
    “You really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said kindly. “And I find it a little odd to be discussing family members—not to mention MPD and psychoses—with someone I’ve known less than twenty-four hours.”
    “I bring that out in gorgeous blondes.”
    I rolled my eyes—was it me, or was I hip deep in manure and still sinking? “I’m amazed Cathie told you anything.”
    “What?”
    “I’m amazed Cathie—”
    “Sorry, ‘what’ in this case meant incredulity, not ‘speak up, I’m losing my hearing.’ Why?”
    “What?”
    “Is that ‘what’ a request for more information, or—”
    I scowled at him. The conversation, which had been going on for only two minutes, was already exasperating me. Hmm. Guess they really were brother and sister.
    “Didn’t you know, Cadence? Cathie talks about you all the time.”
    “Nuh-uh!”
    “Yuh-huh. You’re in every letter and e-mail and LiveJournal entry she ever sent me. She adores you. Didn’t you know that?”
    “She does? How come? She’s the really talented one. She spends her days creating art out of nothing.”
    “Whereas all you do is stop serial killers from racking up the body count. My, my, how do you live with the horror? It’s so odd when a woman has no idea how wonderful she is.”
    And he reached across the table, picked up my right hand, and kissed the tips of my fingers.

Chapter Thirty
    I yanked my hand back—gently, let’s not bruise Cathie’s brother just yet—and leaned back in the booth. I could feel my face getting red. I wasn’t sure how to feel at all. Or, rather, I was feeling everything at once.
    I was embarrassed that a mysterious baker knew so much about me. I wasn’t exactly unthrilled that he was showing interest on short acquaintance. I was a little ticked at Cathie for her indiscretion while at the same time I was wildly flattered that she held me in such high esteem.
    And the thing was, if Cathie hadn’t met me on the grounds of my childhood home, the institute, I never would have told anyone. But we formed a bond almost