Page 23 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“Lovely,” she says, and walks in.

I step back because there really isn’t another option. Tess moves through the hallway and into the kitchen with familiarity, sets her canvas bags on the counter, and leans over to press a kiss to Vaughn’s cheek.

“Welcome home, honey.”

I’m not jealous. She’s just a friend.

Tess moves around the kitchen, opening a cabinet to retrieve a plate without asking where it is, shifting one of the grocery bags to make space without asking if that’s all right.

Okay, I’m jealous.

“Bread,” Tess announces, producing two large loaves from the first bag. “Sourdough and a seeded one because I know you prefer the seeded but Clayton always eats the seeded first if I make only one.” She produces a third item, wrapped in cloth. “Apple and cinnamon loaf cake.” A fourth. “Lemon drizzle. And,” a fifth, smaller item, “a little rosemary focaccia because I had the oven on anyway.”

Vaughn takes in the spread on his counter.

“Tess,” he says, “you’re a lifesaver. This is genuinely everything I needed today.”

She waves away the sentiment. “You seemed tired when I bumped into you at the Bookshelf, and that was before your trip. I can only imagine how tired you are now after the long flight and those time zones I can never get my head around.”

She begins transferring the baked goods to the plate she retrieved. “You’ll eat properly now and feel better.” She glances at me, then turns back to Vaughn. “I wanted to talk to you about the festival.”

“Yes, yes. I know it’s in three weeks,” he says.

“Did Clay tell you about Brenda?”

“He did. He thinks she’ll place.”

Tess nods confidently. “She’ll do more than place.” She leans against the counter. “But that’s not actually the latest gossip.”

“Do I want to know?”

She rolls her eyes, as if to imply Vaughn’s silly for even asking.

“Chris,” she says conspiratorially, “from Riverside Outfitters joined the festival organizing committee.” She pauses for effect. “And he’s proposed a new category.”

“What category?”

Tess straightens. Glances at me. Then, with the expression of a woman who has fully committed to this delivery, says, “A phallic gourd competition.”

I make a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a cough and is entirely involuntary. “A what?”

Tess turns to me. “Any vegetable grower can enter. The category is for vegetables that are”—she makes a hand gesture unambiguous in its meaning—“you know. Shaped like.”

Vaughn has gone slightly pink.

I, on the other hand, feel the first genuine smile I’ve had in several days breaking across my face. “That’s hilarious.”

“It’s a legitimate horticultural category, apparently.”

“Who wins?” Vaughn asks. “The one with the biggest … vegetable?”

Tess rolls her eyes again. “It’s all about size with men, isn’t it?”

Vaughn goes red. I shrug, because she’s not wrong.

“The winner,” Tess says, “is determined by realism. Not size. There’s a judging panel.”

“Who’s on the judging panel?” I ask.