Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) by Gemma Halliday (books for students to read TXT) 📕

back to the four of us. "Or one of our suspects is lying about where they were when Connor Simon was killed."

CHAPTER TWELVE

To say I was not looking forward to dinner was an understatement. How had I gotten myself cornered into this? I should have tried harder to convince Mom otherwise. I should have contracted mono or broken a limb. Hmm…that last one wasn't too late…

I shook that thought out of my head and applied a layer of lip gloss in my bathroom mirror. It was dinner. A meal. Okay, so what if Chase happened to be present at it? We'd eat, he'd go, it would be fine. I mean, what could Mom possibly do in the span of one meal?

I paused, looking at myself in the mirror and watching the horror spread across my face as I conjured up all sorts of answers to that question.

Get a grip, Featherstone.

I capped my lip gloss with maybe a little more force than it deserved and shoved my feet into a pair of low-heeled boots.

Not, mind you, that I was dressing up for a dinner with a friend. I wasn't. Just, after a day of looking like a homeless person, I felt a little compensation was in order. For me. Not Chase.

I'd gone with a simple pair of jeans and a navy sweater, but I'd added a pair of silver hoop earrings with little crystal sparkles on them. After the long shower I'd enjoyed upon getting home from the con, I'd spent a little extra time blow drying my hair and attacking it with some mousse and a curling iron. The effect was pretty good if not straight-from-the-salon perfect. While the boots were new and had little rhinestone details along the top, I'd gone subtle in the makeup department, sticking with a little mascara, some blush, and lip gloss.

Overall, the outfit was casual with a side of bling that said I wasn't dressing up for a date but I wasn't a slouch either.

At least I hoped that's all it said.

I glanced down at my phone. 5:59. I could stall no longer.

I turned off my light and hit the stairs. Aromas of caramelized onions and garlic wafted toward my nostrils. It smelled good, but I knew that was a trick. It usually was. How many times had I salivated due to scent alone to discover Alfredo sauce made solely from cauliflower or chocolate cookies made from bitter cacao and dates?

I rounded the kitchen doorway and stopped short. Mom wore a knee length little black dress that dipped in at the waist, a pair of cute nude heels, and she'd tied a frilly pink apron over the top. She was bent at the oven, checking out whatever was inside. She looked positively housewifey.

She glanced over and momentarily frowned. She shut the oven door with her hip. "Jeans, Hartley? You couldn't find something a little nicer?"

I snorted. "Mom, it's dinner with Chase. It's not a big deal."

Too bad my knotted stomach didn't agree with me. I suddenly wondered if I should have changed. No, Chase would show up in a T-shirt probably depicting something gross or inappropriate in Mom's world. If I looked "nice," I'd be totally overdressed.

"What's with the apron?" I asked.

Mom looked down, smoothing it with one hand. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what 1950s housewife did you steal it off of?"

She shot me a look. "Ha. Ha. I think it's cute."

"Very…domestic."

"Thank you."

That wasn't a compliment. But before I could say more, she pointed to the counter.

"Can you set the table please?"

"Happy to," I said, with maybe a smidgen more relief than I meant to. At least with my hands busy, maybe my stomach would calm down.

That is until I reached for the plates and realized they were her good china—the white ones with a green ivy trim and a thin gold line around the edges.

"Why are we using these?" I asked.

"We have guests. I just thought it would be nice."

"Mom, Chase isn't really a fine china kind of guy." In fact, I'd only ever seen him eat off our cafeteria trays and out of paper fast food wrappers.

Mom shot me a look. "Indulge me, okay? I don't get to entertain a lot."

"Seems like you're entertaining Raley all the time," I noted, setting the plates on the table.

"That's not entertaining. It's—" She paused, floundering for the right word.

"Ridiculously too often?" I supplied.

She shot me that look again. "Just set the table, Hart."

I waited until her back was turned to roll my eyes. Was I a good daughter or what?

Feeling the trepidation grow with each passing second, I set Mom's good "entertaining" china down on the table, feeling like I was about to be on some sort of horrible double date. Maybe it wasn't too late to break that arm after all.

As I set down the last plate, the doorbell rang.

I took a deep breath. I did a quick makeup check in the mirror above the dining room buffet. And I steeled myself for what I was sure would be the most awkward meal ever as I crossed to the front door and threw it open.

Standing on the porch was not only Chase but Raley as well.

Raley wore a pinched expression, as if he'd just eaten a pickle. He was dressed in his usual cheap blazer and polyester slacks ensemble, but they looked newer and not quite as tight as his normal fare. Maybe he'd gone shopping, although I found it hard to picture him browsing through clothing racks at the mall.

Chase, on the other hand, wore a smirk that told me maybe there had been some interaction between the two before they hit the porch. As I'd expected he was dressed all in black—his usual black jeans and black combat