Free Money Shot by Susan Sey

him.”
     
    THE NEXT morning, before the sun was even a wish on the eastern horizon, Rush knocked on Goose’s door.
    “Rise and shine, di Guzman. Time to get hiking.”
    A noise emanated from behind the closed door, the creak of rusty metal mingled with the groans of a person jerked rudely from a sound sleep. Rush buried his grin in a cup of coffee and knocked again. Louder this time.
    “Come on, sunshine. Time to make hay.”
    The door under his knuckles opened a bare inch, and Goose squinted through the crack with one eye. “What time is it?”
    “Early.”
    “Too early for hiking, for sure.”
    “Never too early for hiking.”
    “Says who?”
    “Me. And I’m the authority on such things in these parts.”
    “Fine. Have a nice one.”
    The door clicked shut and Rush heard rusty metal shriek as she presumably crawled back into her cot.
    He knocked again. “Do I need to come in there?”
    Say yes . She didn’t.
    There was another chorus of cot springs and the door cracked open again. The eye returned, less squinty this time, more irritated. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice overly calm. “I had the impression you preferred to work alone.”
    “Normally I do.” He took a leisurely sip of his coffee. “But I find myself strangely desirous of company this morning.”
    That one dark eye narrowed sharply, sending a stab of warm interest through his gut. It utterly charmed him, the way her native crankiness defeated that sleek exterior sometimes.
    “Is that so?”
    “It is.” He stared her down. “I also prefer not to waste my time taking reports on, then chasing down, frivolous if not completely fabricated incidents that people dream up in lieu of anything better to do.” He gave her a pointed look. “It appears that we may not always get what we want.”
    “Tell me about it,” she muttered.
    Rush wondered abruptly what had really brought her all the way to Mishkwa. Because if an agent with Goose’s polished smile and fierce intelligence was really chasing down flaming pitchforks near the Canadian border, Rush would eat his proverbial hat.
    “Come on,” he said. “Mishkwa at dawn isn’t something you want to miss.”
    “Oh, but I do.” She fixed him with that baleful eye. “I really, really do.”
    He sighed. “Are you going to make me pull rank?”
    “What, it’s against the law to refuse a predawn hike on this island?”
    “It is when you’re the reason I have to take the hike in the first place.”
    She treated him to an icy silence. He had to hide another smile in his coffee cup.
    “You have to admit, you collected quite a list of random chores for me while chatting up my friends and neighbors.”
    “I don’t know, Rush. I think the moose with the Dumpster fixation is pretty obviously a public safety concern.”
    “Yeah? And what about Lila’s compost? Is outlining the correct manner in which to rot your food scraps compelling police work? And the Whitfords’ dreadful habit of keeping their trash barrel out front instead of around back? Mary Beth Swinton’s refusal to invest in shades? Or, good Lord, Hal Donavan’s tardy sidewalk shoveling? Heaven protect us from the peril of these lawbreakers.”
    She sighed. “Don’t forget the Samuelssons’ high school partiers.”
    “That, Agent Make Work, is where we’re starting.”
    The tiny slice of mouth he could see curled into what he suspected was a terrible scowl. The urge to kiss it was almost unbearable. His first taste of her lips the other day had been brief but viciously potent. Addiction, he realized, wasn’t out of the question.
    “Get dressed,” he said. “We leave in five minutes.”
    Her eye drifted south to his coffee cup. “Is there more of that in the kitchen?”
    He smiled and treated himself to a sip. “Nope.”
    “Aw.”
     
    SAY WHAT you would about rustic accommodations, Goose thought ten deliciously steamy minutes later. Rush’s hot-water heater was a champ. A thing of beauty. A joy forever. A stern