Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) Read Online Free Page B

the nerves,” Mom murmured. “They’ll go down just as soon as you’re comfortable and cooled off.”
    Unlike my mother, I have never been good at being glamorous. Even trying is an effort in futility.
    Pete and I waved good-bye as Alex pulled away and hurried through the remainder of our thank-yous and seeing people off. Then I practically dragged him across the campground to my — I mean our — fifth-wheel trailer. Tuppence bounded up the steps behind us.
    Once inside, I presented my back to him. “Unzip me. Get it off.”
    “Babe.” Pete sounded worried. “We don’t have to rush.”
    I flapped my hands. “I’m going to swell up like three-day roadkill if I don’t get this dress off.”
    “Oh. You are kinda red.” Pete set Mae’s pan and a few other loaded plates well-meaning friends had foisted onto us on the dining table. People seemed to think cooking would be nigh unto impossible for a staycationing, honeymooning couple, that we might actually starve without their attention.
    “Aaargh.” I hopped from one foot to the other. Tuppence whined and pressed against my leg so hard she almost knocked me off balance.
    “All right, Babe. All right.” Pete held me with one hand on my waist, the other hand fumbling with the zipper.
    Then he switched to two hands tugging on the zipper. His breath came in frustrated puffs against my shoulder blade. “Um, Meredith? We might have a problem.”
    “I don’t care what happens to the dress,” I gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m inflating by the second.”
    “Hold still.” He wedged a couple fingers — or his thumb? — under the top edge of the dress and started pulling.
    I grabbed the back of a dining chair for support. “I have scissors,” I wheezed.
    Then something popped, and the zipper let go, all the way down. I clutched at the fabric, but missed, as it slid to a pile around my knees.
    “Got it.” Pete said, sounding immensely pleased with himself. “Better?”
    I stood there, blinking and suddenly shivering, in the scanty scraps of fabric that pass for underwear when you’re wearing a tight, low-cut gown.
    He turned me around by the shoulders, grinned, and nodded. “Better.”
    I snorted. Then I giggled.
    “You know, I have an antidote for hives,” Pete said.
    “Really?”
    He scooped me up in his arms and nuzzled my neck. “Mmhmm.” He carried me up the steps to the bedroom, and things improved remarkably from there.
    The only comment I have is that I satisfied my burning curiosity on one point — if Pete had survived fifteen years in the Navy without getting a tattoo. He did. I know this because I checked every square inch of his skin.
     
    oOo
     
    I woke up in the dark to the sound of deep, steady breathing in my bed — and not my own. I grinned and snuggled closer to Pete. Hard to do as I was already wrapped in his arms, but I managed. 
    The happy reality that his breathing was going to become my primary comfort noise in the middle of the night settled on me. I have a list of all’s-right-with-the-world sounds — train whistles, the campground’s nightly rotation of sprinklers, the hooting of great horned owls, and now my husband’s breathing.
    It wasn’t completely dark. Orange light flickered on the wall opposite the bed, warm and soft, casting weird shadows that bounced between the tree branches outside the window. I frowned and squinted at the alarm clock — 3:36 a.m. — far too early for sunrise.
    Orange . After the past few weeks of fire warnings and choking smoke in the air, I no longer considered orange a happy color.
    I gently scooted out of bed and peered out the window. My heart stopped.
    “Pete! Pete.” I jiggled the bed. “Fire.”
    The word woke him instantly — the most dangerous threat for a sailor. He leaped out of bed and joined me at the window. One glance had him reaching for his pants.
    We pulled on enough clothing to be decent and stumbled to the front door. Tuppence must have heard us knocking