sudden movement and elevated energy sent Wingman into a barking fit.
“Shh,” he hissed, sounding panicked, and not wanting to draw any more attention to his window. “Sit.”
Wingman obeyed and sat at his feet, waiting, with big doggie eyes, for his reward. Marc reached in his pocket, and Wingman inhaled the bribe without even chewing.
She’d seen him. He’d been spying on her like some kind of pervy teen, and she’d caught him. This was worse than the summer when he was supposed to build Mr. Weinstein a new shed and instead had spent most of his time watching his new trophy wife do her morning laps—naked. He’d been fifteen. Mrs. Weinstein had known he was there. And it had been thrilling.
This felt like an invasion of privacy, though. Which was why, instead of pretending it was a coincidence and waving like a normal neighbor would do, he slunk into the shadows. Now, on top of everything else, he was going to have to come up with an excuse, one that wouldn’t get him arrested, to explain away his behavior.
“Last boy I caught doing that found himself one peanut short,” Grandma said. Not his grandma, but Lexi’s.
Marc thunked his head against the wall because Pricilla wasn’t smiling and she wasn’t alone. No, all three grannies stood inside his office door, each silver coif shaking while they tutted simultaneously, their expressions ranging from amusement to threatening eternal damnation. But all of them seemed to imply the same thing: Marco DeLuca had been caught checking out the neighbor’s wears, and he was in trouble.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Marc said, casually walking around his desk to hug ChiChi and company, but going the long way so he didn’t have to pass in front of the window.
“Of course not, dear,” ChiChi said, giving him a peck on the cheek and taking her seat. “You were too busy peeping on the new neighbor.”
“I was not peep—” was all he got out before Pricilla pulled a piece of fudge out of that crocheted bag of hers and shoved it into Marc’s mouth.
“I don’t take well to lying either,” Pricilla said, penciled eyebrows arched so high they all but disappeared into her hairline.
Marc couldn’t respond. One, he didn’t want to lie, and two, the fudge was incredible. He wondered if this was one of Pricilla’s originals or if it was a Lexi creation. A smoky hint of bacon teased his tongue while a bite of cayenne warmed the back of his throat. Marc smiled—savory. Definitely Lexi’s, then.
“What can I do for you ladies?” Marc mumbled around the melting chocolate even though he knew he’d regret the question.
These grannies were professional busybodies with only two things on their corporate agenda: their grandkids’ business and the business of getting some great-grandbabies. Most of the time one goal overlapped the next, and when that happened everyone in town was bound to suffer. So if they were here before the lunching hour, something was up. And it wouldn’t bode well for Marc and his siblings.
“We hear you’ve gotten yourself into a fix,” Lucinda Baudouin said, taking a seat and opening her enormous bag. She pulled out a fluffy white cat wearing a sailor suit, complete with hat, neckerchief, and irritated growl, and set him in her lap.
Wingman jumped to attention, his ear going up and his eyes going wide. He lowered his body to the floor with his tail standing straight up, and then he went completely still.
Mr. Puffins’s tail, on the other hand, puffed out like a porcupine’s, ready for battle. Wingman barked once. The cat’s eyes narrowed on a low growl. Wingman ran behind Marc’s desk and hid.
“Harrumph,” Lucinda tutted, handing Marc a printed-out copy of an e-mail.
He took one look at the e-mail and almost asked Wingman to move over. The e-mail was one that he’d drafted and sent to the dean of the Napa Valley Culinary Academy, asking for a temporary chef for the Showdown. An e-mail that was supposed to remain confidential.
“How did you get this?”
All three women straightened with pride, but it was Lucinda who spoke. “Broke into Janice’s work computer. Regan helped us.” Two more things that Gabe never needed to hear about.
“What were you thinking, sending this,” ChiChi chided, grabbing the e-mail and waving it in his face, her head shaking in disappointment, “to that woman? You want the whole town knowing that you don’t have a chef for the Showdown?”
“I sent it to the dean. How was I supposed to know a