A Good Day for Chardonnay (Sunshine Vicram #2) - Darynda Jones Page 0,59
Big Red she is.”
“This town is so weird.”
She couldn’t argue with that kind of solid, fact-based logic. “And second?”
He waited as though contemplating if he should ask. “I know it’s none of my business, boss, and please don’t feel obligated to answer, but what happened to you?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious. “It was only a little box of wine and Quincy drank half of it.”
When he fixed a patient smile on her, she caved.
Poetry Rojas was direct, she’d give him that. She liked it. “You want the long version or the CliffsNotes?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with?”
Great answer. She told him what happened to her when she was seventeen. How she was abducted and held for five days while the kidnapper demanded every penny her father had, only for her to end up dropped off at an emergency room in Santa Fe with a severe concussion and covered in blood, most of it her rescuer’s.
Sure, she glossed over a few of the sticky points, but her story was out in the world anyway thanks to a few vindictive high school students. One only had to guess the sordid details, because nine months later, a fiery ginger with the lung capacity of a yeti clawed her way out of Sun’s nether region and her world had never been the same.
She also skipped over the amnesia part. She only remembered bits and pieces of her ordeal and was missing almost an entire month beforehand.
“Now can I ask you a question?”
Rojas sat contemplating her story. He swam back to her and said, “Of course.”
“Why did your mom name you Poetry? And how often were you beat up because of it?” she teased. “I love it. Don’t get me wrong, but it’s very unusual. I would think even more so for a boy.”
He smiled as he thought back. “I don’t think she did, in all honesty. She never admitted this, but I think she was going to name me Porter after a jazz musician she was in love with, but the woman entering the information at the hospital couldn’t read my mom’s writing and typed Poetry into the computer.”
“Poetry fits you,” she said. “At least she got your twin brother’s name right. Ramses?”
He shook his head. “His name was supposed to be Ransom.”
“Wow. Your mom was clearly very creative. Another jazz singer?”
“Blues.” A sadness came over him. His parents had died when he and his brother were kids.
“Well, either your mother had horrible handwriting or that nurse needed glasses.”
He looked out the window toward Zee for the fiftieth time in five minutes.
“I frown on office romances,” she said to him, “but not for long. It causes wrinkles. No one needs to see that.”
“What, Zee?” he asked with a scoff. “Never. She’s so far out of my league it’s like we’re not even playing the same sport.”
“Not true.”
“No, for sure. It’s like she’s an Olympic skier and I play stickball with miniature horses.”
“Is that a real thing?”
“I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
She disagreed. Rojas was a little younger than Zee, but only by a couple of years. He was incredibly intelligent, charming, and quite the looker. Zee could definitely do worse.
Then again, so could he. Zee was a goddess among mortals.
Sun wanted to ask him more about how he pulled it off. How he managed to do three years in the state pen in his brother’s stead without being found out, but a nuisance she was going to have to deal with soon walked into the coffee shop.
“Sunshine,” Carver said, strolling up to their table, his coveralls folded down to reveal a T-shirt underneath.
“Hey, Carver. What are you doing here?”
In the four months Sun had been back in Del Sol, she never once remembered seeing Carver Zuckerman. She could’ve just not noticed him, but for him to suddenly be there every time she turned around? Either he was stalking her or … Holy crap. She blinked up at him. He was stalking her. Even more reason to kill her parents.
“Just saw you come in here. Thought I’d come say hey.”
“Oh. Well, hey back.”
“Of course,” he said, growing serious. “I meant what I said. We have a lot in common. I’m here if you need a shoulder.”
What the hell did he think she went through on a daily basis that she needed a man’s shoulder to cry on? Besides, she had Quincy for that.
“I know you have a big case,” he continued. “How’s that going?”