Page 32 of The Cul-de-Sac War

And now? Now her number-one goal was to get him to fix the fence line while providing him with the least useful information possible.

Bree adjusted the inflated pillow beneath her tailbone. “Well, here is what I do know: Mr. Richardson is fairly bald. And short,” Bree said.

Chip paused in his shoveling. “Short.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“How short?”

“Oh, shorter than the average man. But definitely taller than some others.” She paused at his frown. “Think . . . LeBron James.”

His brow rose.

“Minus a foot or two.”

He set his foot on the shovel. “A foot. Or two. Right. Where’s he go around here to eat?”

“Why—are you planning to stalk him?”

He grinned. “I’ve got a business approximately four weeks old, and I’m working out of an empty bedroom. So, yeah, maybe. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Bree started to lean forward, then winced and straightened. “And how exactly is that going to work? You’re just going to slip your business card in his wineglass?”

“I was thinking butter plate, but something like that.”

“Oh good. And I suppose your girlfriend will do the distracting. With her looks she’ll make the perfect accomplice.”

There was more of an edge in her tone than she’d meant to convey. Bree shut her mouth. Chip opened his but then shut it again.

“So . . . back to Mr. Richardson,” he said.

Bree’s shoulders eased.

She paused for a moment, then lifted her finger as though stumbling across something of vital importance. “I’ll tell you one thing. I’ve never seen him eating chicken. Or steak.”

She also hadn’t ever seen him eat anything, but she wasn’t about to get tangled in technicalities.

His brow furrowed. “What, like, he’s a vegetarian?”

It was sad, really. You could practically see the wheels inside his head churning, flipping through his mental yellow pages for vegetarian restaurants in town.

She pointed at the ground. “Are you digging?”

He raised a brow. “Are you answering?”

“Yes,” she replied promptly, and he flung more dirt. “He is definitely a vegetarian . . . unless I’m incorrect . . . which is a tiny, infinitesimal possibility.”

“Right.” He dug farther down the line, then paused, eyeing her. “So he’s a vegetarian, unless he’s not.”

Bree nodded fervently. “Exactly. You got it.”

He waited a moment.

Then two.

Then he pushed the shovel into the sodden ground.

Resting one boot on the blade, he wiped his perfectly clear, sweatless forehead. “Well I’m beat.” He clapped his hands together. “Sun’s going down. I’d say this is enough for today.”