Confused, disappointed, I nodded numbly and hurried inside my building. It was only when I was inside the elevator that I slumped against it and whispered, “You are seriously, seriously in trouble, Parker Brown.”

Thirteen

Rhys

I have to admit, there was something immensely satisfying about rumbling up the guarded gate of some richie’s estate in my red 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS 454. My girl announced her presence with a throaty growl, drawing a sneer from the rent-a-cop on duty. My satisfaction multiplied as I handed him the gilded invitation to this trumped-up garden party and he immediately started kissing ass.

“A valet will meet you at the end of the drive, sir. Have a lovely afternoon, sir.”

I waved him off and gunned it up the drive. Much to Parker’s irritation.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” she muttered. She wasn’t a fan of the Chevelle. Well, not outwardly. I swore she got a gleam in her eye earlier when I’d hit the gas on the highway. She’d covered that little slip of enjoyment by complaining about the amount of gas we were wasting.

I glanced over at her and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I am. Did you see that guy’s face? Like he’d sucked a lemon through a straw.”

She sniffed and then turned to look over her shoulder at the winding drive.

“What now?” I asked. Ahead, the drive curved and a massive white clapboard house, sprawled out over a carpet of emerald green, came into view. Jesus.

“I was just checking to see if this fossil-fuel dinosaur was leaving behind a cloud of noxious black fumes.”

Laughing, I shook my head. “Cute.”

I’d taken the Chevelle because I didn’t want to subject her to the hour’s ride out to Manchester-by-the-Sea on the bike. Some thanks I got.

Parker crossed her arms under her pert breasts and glared straight ahead. “I’m serious. The greenhouse emissions this thing gives off is the stuff of nightmares.”

One thing I knew to be true about Parker was that she started in on her favorite subject when she was nervous. When Dean was a kid, he used to rattle off equations for the same reason. Thus, I knew the only thing for it was to offer a distraction.

“Hey, I didn’t see you throwing a fit when you told me to throw out those brown bananas at my place the other night.”

Her brows winged up and she looked at me as though I’d grown another head. “I’m not following. At all.”

Gotcha, babe.

I shrugged as I turned onto a circular drive where valets helped rich people out of their Astons and Jags. “Just that almost 11 percent of greenhouse gas emissions comes from methane created by rotting food. So, if you’re going to attack Ruby, you should probably side-eye all the food you throw out too.”