I unlocked her end of the cuffs and reached down, holding my hand out to August. "Want to come with me? Your mom puked all over my sneakers, and I need to clean them off."
His hand sliding easily into mine, August wrinkled his nose. "Ewwww, gross. Benji did that in preschool once after we had birthday cupcakes and it soaked into my toes before my mom could bring me new sneakers. It was squishy gross."
One last look at Scarlett before we left her to change. "Five minutes." She nodded and dropped to scrounge under the bed for her bag. She wasn't going anywhere. Not while I had her son. The mystery of Scarlett deepened.
I mulled it over as I listened to August chatter about puke and Benji and cupcakes. Taking off my sneakers, I rinsed them in the tub until they were mostly clean. I could wear wet shoes until we got to the Manor as long as I wasn't walking in puddles of puke. Squishy gross about summed it up. Done with them, I grabbed a bar of soap and took care of my feet.
Of all the scenarios I'd been building in my mind, Scarlett having a son tagging along hadn't made the list. She'd seemed genuinely distraught when we'd entered the cottage and she hadn't seen him. So distraught it was hard to imagine she'd endanger him without a good reason.
Leaving him on his own in a cottage she'd broken into while she snuck around the Inn? What would drive her to do that?
I wasn't a parent. Nicky was the only kid I knew on a first-name basis, but I was pretty sure you didn't leave an eight-year-old on his own in a strange place.
Sticking my feet back into my wet but mostly puke-free sneakers, I looked up at the knock on the door frame.
My mouth went dry. Scarlett had been gorgeous in a torn t-shirt and threadbare, baggy shorts. In a light yellow sundress and matching flip-flops, her hair pulled back on one side with a flower-shaped clip, she was absolutely stunning.
Fuck.
I looked down at the kid in reflex as if to remind myself that Scarlett was far more than a very pretty face. She was complicated. Likely up to no good. And my alibi. Definitely not hook-up material. But still. Damn.
She held up a hand, fingers gripping a blue toothbrush, a sheepish smile curving her pink lips. "Is the bathroom free? I won't make a mess, but I'd love to brush my teeth."
Nudging August ahead of me, I gestured back to the sink. "All yours. We'll just wait out here."
Scarlett nodded and squeezed August's shoulder. "You good?"
"Hungry. You said we'd get pancakes." His eyes were blue to her green, but I had a feeling that determined squint came directly from his mother.
Dropping a kiss to the top of his head, she smiled into his hair. "Why don't you talk to Mr. Sawyer about those pancakes? He's in charge now."
With a wicked grin and a wink that made my knees go weak, she disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door.
August rounded on me, his mind stuck on one track, and that track was called ‘Pancakes.’ I checked my watch. It was almost breakfast time at the Manor, and our current cook made pretty good silver dollar pancakes. "I bet there are pancakes at my house," I said. "And if not, we can make some."
It didn't look like I was going to work today. Or tomorrow. Might as well make some pancakes.
Chapter Six
SCARLETT
Tenn slapped the cuffs on my wrist just before he shut the passenger door to his SUV. The other end of the cuffs he closed over the door handle. So much for hoping he'd forget about them.
Did he think I was going to make a run for it with my son strapped in behind us? Not likely. Then again, he didn't know that. He thought I was a woman who'd left her eight-year-old alone in a stolen cottage while she planned a more nefarious crime.
Who was I kidding? I was that woman. Kind of. I hadn't been planning any kind of crime. If I was being honest with myself, I had no idea what I'd been doing. All I knew was that if I wanted to get Thatcher back, I had to come to Sawyers Bend and connect with the Sawyers. If I'd had any idea I was going to bump into one of them just after dawn, I would have figured out a cover story. And dressed better.
I'm not usually so slow. I'm a college professor, damn it. Generally, I'm considered fairly intelligent. Since the moment Thatcher had taken off, leaving me only increasingly cryptic messages, I'd been acting on instinct. When it came to intrigue, my instincts sucked.
I could teach the hell out of art history, create some pretty nice glass art, and sometimes did appraisals and verifications. Usually, I was a good mom. Usually. Not so much the last few days. Also, a halfway decent cook. Those were my main skills. Note that clandestine operations were not on that list. I might have been better at it if I'd had any idea what the hell was going on.