Page 5 of Floored (Frenched 3)
“Well, I was at the studio until about seven, then I stopped at Kroger, and then I drove home. I parked in the garage and came in the back door. I usually lock it behind me right away—I’m very careful about security—
“Of course you are,” he interrupted, writing something down in his notebook.
I blinked in surprise. Was he being rude or sympathetic? It seemed like a bad sign that I couldn’t tell. “But I was carrying four big bags of groceries. Then as soon as I set them down, my cell phone rang.”
“What time was this?”
Automatically, I got up and looked around for my cell phone so I could check the time the call came in. Then it hit me—it was gone. “God, this is so annoying! I don’t know,” I said miserably, slumping in the chair again. “About seven thirty? Seven forty-five? It was totally dark outside.”
“And then?”
“And then I had a long and stressful conversation with one of the many dance moms who are intent on ruining my life, and when I hung up, I was very upset.” Just then I noticed some crumbs on my dark wood floor, beneath the stool at the counter where I’d eaten an entire bag of honey mustard pretzels earlier. The overwhelming urge to get a broom and dustpan and sweep them up bit at me like a bloodthirsty mosquito. I can’t stand crumbs or spills or messes.
“A dance mom?” Charlie picked up his head.
“A mother of one of the dancers at my studio. I don’t think she’s the one who robbed me, but I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to lock her up.”
He smiled slightly. “Why?”
“She’s crazy. They’re all crazy.” For the millionth time, I wondered if taking over the studio had been a huge mistake.
“So you’re a dance teacher. You used to dance as a kid, too, right?”
“Yes, I did.” I eyeballed him, one eyebrow cocked. “And you used to make fun of me and call me Twinkle Toes. Among other things.”
He looked interested. “What else did I call you? I mean, besides Red.”
“Teacher’s Pet.”
The smile widened. “You were.”
I pursed my lips together. Secretly I hadn’t minded being called Teacher’s Pet, but he didn’t know that. “Crybaby. You called me a crybaby, too.”
“I don’t remember that.” The look on his face said, Since I don’t remember it, it can’t be true.
“You did. I was nine. It was after you robbed my lemonade stand. Remember that? The one I was having to raise money for children’s cancer research?” I wasn’t normally so combative, but this was already a bad night, and Charlie Dwyer knew how to push my buttons. He always had.
“Oh, right.” He laughed. “I held it up with a squirt gun.”
My mouth fell open. “A squirt gun! You told me it was a Taser.”
“A Taser? Where the hell would I have gotten a Taser?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what you said it was. And you said if I didn’t give you all eleven dollars and fifty cents you’d zap me and I’d wet my pants.”
He laughed again. “You even remember how much money it was?”
“Yes!” I sat up taller, my spine rigid with anger. “It’s a very traumatic memory. And you don’t look a bit sorry for it.”
“Why should I be sorry? Serves you right for being so gullible.”
Yeah, this was old Charlie Dwyer all right. How totally unfair he got that jawline and those blue eyes! His hair was nice too—thick, sandy brown and close-cropped, all the better to showcase the symmetry of his handsome features. What a waste. “Can we get on with this, please?” I sniffed.
“Fine with me. So you hung up the phone,” he prompted. “What’s your cell phone number, by the way? And who’s your carrier?”
“Verizon.” I recited the number and went on. “I hung up the phone, and I was so upset I forgot about locking the door.”
“You forgot?” He shook his head, shaming me. “You’re a woman living alone, and there’s been a rash of home invasions in this area.”
