Page 79 of The Cul-de-Sac War

“I love that scarf, dear,” Bree’s mother said as she picked up her menu. “Nice to see young men who can dress up on occasion.”

“Oh, this?” Chip said, glancing down at it as if noticing it for the first time.

“It’s awfully hot in here,” Bree said, glancing at the crowded bar. She scratched her neck. Blinked in Chip’s direction. “Feels like it must be ninety degrees. Don’t you think?”

For three full seconds Chip’s innocent brown eyes stared back, his winning smile frozen on his face. “Not at all,” he replied. “Not. At. All. You know,” he said, snapping his attention to her parents, “I’ve been thinking about getting some floodlights for the house.”

Dan’s attention lifted from the menu. “Really? What’s the cause?”

“Oh, just a security measure. I feel no matter where you live, you can never be too safe.”

Her parents started nodding like this was sage wisdom from an old man. You could see the approval flooding Bree’s mother’s eyes. “That’s just what I tell Bree all the time. You never can be too safe. I say that, honey, don’t I?”

“Well, I’d be more than happy to install some at your house, too, Bree,” Chip said. Her mother’s eyes were now practically bursting with heart emojis. “Of course,” he continued, swinging back to face Bree, “the floodlights I’m getting put up tomorrow should be more than capable of covering us both. They’re the same 500-watt commercial-grade lights I used on the exterior of a gymnasium I helped build last year.” Chip picked up his menu and began a loathsome fake scanning motion.

Bree squinted. So Chip was going to put in commercial-grade motion-sensor floodlights tomorrow and no doubt have them face directly into her bedroom window, where she could be blinded at random, insanity-inducing intervals throughout the night. Every night. Terrrrific.

“That sounds expensive,” Bree put in.

“A little over five hundred dollars when I first bought them,” Chip replied. “But can you put a price on safety? . . . Especially yours?”

Bree’s mother put her hands on her chest.

“Five hundred. Talk about an investment.”

Bree was going to have to break out the BB gun Evie hid under her pillow.

“That is just so thoughtful,” her mother said.

“It’s nothing,” Chip said.

“You are our answer to prayer,” Bree’s mother persisted.

Oh, good grief.

Mom’s eyes were starting to water. Bree felt like ducking under the table and squeezing between their legs for the exit.

Her mother leaned in. Her voice was low as she looked at Chip. Her Bible-Belt, foothills-of-the-Smoky-Mountains accent grew as thick as the preacher’s of her mama’s country church. “And are you . . . well . . .” She shrugged to finish her words.

He lifted a questioning brow.

“Are you a religious man, Chip?”

Bree almost hid under the table.

This was excruciating.

“Yes, Mom,” she answered for him. “He goes to Abingdon Community Church, and he’s got a Bible at the head of his bed. You don’t need to add him to your prayer list.” Sure, she was 99 percent certain he was praying to God to destroy her, but still. “I feel like we can safely avoid you trying to convert him in this conversation. Okay? Okay. Who’s thinking brisket?”

Chip’s and Mom’s heads swiveled in her direction.

“How did you know I go to Abingdon Community?”

“Why have you seen his bed?”

Both asked their questions at the same time, with the same expressions. Terrific.

“You go every week to sit with your family before heading to family supper,” Bree said hastily. “Phone conversations carry. And I’ve seen his bed because he happens to have a bedroom directly across from mine.” She shifted uncomfortably. “And I’ve just happened to notice it. Once.”