Free Without A Clue by Pamela Wilder Page A

had three cats. Anne, a double dipper who was nearing her second retirement, had a pug and a rather severe holiday sweater habit.
     
    “What about you, Amelia?” Anne asked. “I never see that handsome private detective around anymore. I thought you looked well together.”
     
    “Oh.” Her cheeks heated painfully. “I—that was just work. I got too busy to help him anymore.” I broke up with him, she thought. I broke up with the most amazing, hot and cold coward of a man I’ve ever known.
     
    “Too bad,” Jordan said. “Are you going to hook up with your author friend Mandie, then?
     
    Amelia almost choked on her iced tea. “No. No, I’m not—I mean, she’s married.” Amelia didn’t want to insult Jordan, so she left it at that.
     
    “Well, we’ll have to find you a nice fellow,” Anne said. “You need someone to keep you warm this winter.”
     
    Amelia laughed, the sound a little like a loud duck quack she was so surprised. “I’m doing okay on my own, Anne. How’s the chicken club here?”
     
    Somehow she managed to change the subject, but deep inside Amelia felt the ache she’s been trying to deny for the last few weeks. She didn’t want to start over by dating a bunch of nice, but not for her, men.
     
    She still wanted the one man she couldn’t have. Aden.

Chapter Twelve
     
    Aden felt as though he was slogging through mud. His days dragged by, even when he had really interesting cases. He found himself at home far too much, rambling around his brownstone and talking aloud to his dad. He’d talked to his dad more in the last three weeks than he ever had when the old man was alive.
     
    Time to get out of the house for a bit.
     
    He grabbed a light jacket and headed out for Back Bay Harry’s, which he’d never been to with Amelia, so he doubted he’d see her there. Comfort food sounded good about now.
     
    The place was jammed, and Aden glanced at his phone, surprised to see it was seven o’clock on a Friday night. Oh, man, he’d never get a table at this rate.
     
    “Aden!” Someone touched his arm, and he spun around. Diane, the art gallery ex. “Hi. How are you doing?”
     
    “Okay. Hi, Diane. It’s good to see you.” Aden surprised himself, because the words rang true. “You look great.”
     
    “Thanks. Do you have a reservation?”
     
    “No. I forgot it was Friday.” He spread his hands in a duh sort of gesture.
     
    “Well, my date got called in for emergency room duty, so come sit with me.”
     
    “Oh, that would be great.” He’d get his comfort food, they’d catch up.
     
    “I’m actually really glad you’re here. I’m craving the fried chicken and Bill and I are still at the point where I have to eat like a bird in front of him. Now I can pig out. Let me tell them I’m here.”
     
    Aden snorted. He was now the comfortable ex. Someday they’d end up sharing a quart of ice cream over chick flicks in her apartment.
     
    “Do you remember when we came here for brunch that time,” she asked him over queso fundido. “You got that pizza with andouille and gravy. I thought you were going to die.”
     
    “So did I. I’d just gotten over the stomach flu, but you dared me to try it, and I wanted to impress you.” He studied Diane, pleased he could do so without feeling bitter. “I guess I failed spectacularly on that front.”
     
    “Oh, Aden, you always impressed me. You’re bright, ambitious, and you love to learn.” She dipped a chip in gooey cheese. “Your problems had nothing to do with being charming or impressive.”
     
    He raised a brow. “My problems?” People had problems together as couples, right?
     
    She grinned. “Okay. Our problems.”
     
    “So, do tell.” He sipped at his scotch and soda. “What’s my problem?”
    Her green eyes met his, sympathy in her gaze. “Commitment. You run hot and cold like a tap. On again, off again. You were never all in on our relationship, so how could I go there? I really like you, Aden,