I pulled up in front of Deek’s, exhausted from sitting too long in the car, in search of refueling and commiseration. I needed to suck in the smell of griddle grease and Deek’s familiar acrimony. I needed to get back to normal. Quick through the door, I glanced over at my booth and pulled up short. Detective Eli Weber was sitting there, bold as you please. In my spot.

Of course, I knew the booth didn’t belong exclusively to me, but my preference for it, and the fact that I’d broken in the vinyl seats, in my mind, sort of made it mine. And now there was Weber sitting in it, reading the newspaper, his blazer off, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the forearms. I gave it a moment to see how I felt about that, decided I didn’t know, and lightly padded over to the counter, trying not to make noise or draw attention to myself. I slid onto a stool, my back to the booth. I knew he knew I was there. He didn’t miss a thing. Muna walked over. I cocked a thumb toward the booth, looked a question.

“What?” she said. “We’re supposed to rope it off when you’re not here? He came in and was looking for you. I sat him over there, and I don’t think he’s here to talk business.” Her gaze lifted over my shoulder. “Oh, he’s straightening his tie. Lovely. What I couldn’t do with a man like that. How’d you hook him?”

“I did not ‘hook him.’ We’re not hooked. We’re . . .” I took a moment to search for the right word, coming up empty. I smiled instead. I was an idiot, a grown-ass woman, too old for the flutter in my belly.

Muna grinned. “Well, if you’re not hooked, and want to be, you’d better get on it. Men like that don’t stay on the market long.”

“I need a cheeseburger,” I said.

Muna’s eyebrows flicked up. “Nobody needs a cheeseburger.”

“And fries.”

Muna peered over her half-glasses. “Who shot your dog?”

“My day didn’t go well, now there’s a dangerous man sitting in my spot, and, frankly, I’m not up for it today, all right?”

She looked at me like I was crazy. “And by ‘dangerous’ you mean?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“And you’re thinking indigestion’s going to fix that?”

I ran my fingers through my hair. Tough day getting tougher. “Ham on rye and a kosher pickle, then.”

“That’s more like it. What’s your beef with Mr. Just My Type?”