“Hey,” he said when he’d moved away.

“Hey back,” I replied.

“Does my son have a tommy gun in the Rover?” he asked and I smiled.

“This hairdo is better than the first, trust me,” I replied.

His eyes started dancing.

“If we can all take seats, we’ll begin,” someone said over a microphone.

“Let’s move,” Mickey ordered, shifting out of the way for us to precede him then following us.

As a pack, we moved down the center aisle of the angled bench seating that looked like a church but was much smaller and had zero decoration except a couple bulletin boards covered in fliers informing Magdalene residents of various happenings.

We shifted into a bench, Ash then Cill, me then Mickey.

We sat down and the minute we did, an older man who sat in the bench in front of us and had been watching our progress turned fully to Mickey. He had short cropped, metal-gray hair that was thinning on the top and red cheeks like Santa Claus.

“Mick,” he greeted.

“Bobby,” Mickey greeted back, lifting an arm and stretching it along the seat behind me. “You haven’t met Amy.”

Bobby turned smiling brown eyes my way and said, “Nope, but I licked the crumbs outta one of those plastic things, which gave me a hint of what has now become legendary brownies to the MFD.”

I loved that and showed him by smiling brightly and promising, “I’ll make more for Mickey to bring in when you’re around.” I lifted my hand to him. “It’s good to meet you, chief.”

He reached over the back of the bench and squeezed my hand, replying, “Likewise.” He let me go and his focus went to Mickey. “Quick question, son. You into somethin’ with Boston Stone?”

I felt my body get tight as I felt Mickey’s eyes move to me.

I turned my head, caught his, licked my lips and rolled them together.

“I see,” Bobby muttered and we both looked back to him.

“What’s up?” Mickey asked.

Bobby couldn’t answer because we heard, “The Magdalene Town Council Meeting is now in session.”

“Later,” Bobby mouthed before turning back around.

I turned my eyes to Mickey. “Honey,” I called.

He looked down to me. “Douche,” he stated. “Don’t worry, Amy.” He then gave his attention back to the front where there was a panel of five seated behind a long, tall, official-looking bench desk.

The one in the middle was saying something, but I was thinking that I was under the impression, considering I hadn’t heard from him in some time, that Boston Stone finally got the hint and stopped calling me. We’d had one date. We’d had one kiss (well, one and a half).

What we had not done was make avowals of love.

So whatever he was up to that had to do with Mickey couldn’t be about me.

Surely.