The One That Got Away Read Online Free PDF Page A

mundane question. “Were you just talking to Lloyd?”
    “Yes. He said to stay still and get better. If he sees you in the office before the six weeks are up he’ll do something nasty and unprintable with your corpse,” Trace said with a grin. “Sit down, David. You’re not even supposed to be out of bed.”
    David shivered at the idea of Lloyd doing anything “unprintable.”
    “Dirty old coot! It’s just my shoulder. If I have to stay in bed for six weeks, I’ll be certifiable.”
    “You’re supposed to be in bed to keep your shoulder stabilized.
    That’s why you’re wrapped up like a Thanksgiving turkey, ya goof.”
    Trace stood and went to pour David a cup of coffee, mixing it with cream and sugar the way he knew the other man liked. Turning back to the table, he surveyed David’s pale face. “You want something to eat? You should have something in your stomach before you take more painkillers.”
    “Wonder what I could get for them on the street?” David mused. “I could use a new laptop.” Trace laughed. Chuckling, David reached for the mug with his good hand, staring down at the pale tan liquid. Taking a tentative sip, he hummed his approval. Trace did a better job of fixing a good cup of coffee than he did. Watching as his friend opened the refrigerator and started pulling out sandwich fixings, David pondered the care Trace had shown him in the past twenty-four hours.
    “David, why do you have Miracle Whip in your fridge when you don’t like anything but real mayonnaise?” Trace asked as he set out jars of condiments and packages of cheese. “And tomatoes? Didn’t you tell me you don’t like tomatoes? Or was it tomato sauce?” His brow furrowed as he set the meat on the island with the bread.
    The blond thought back to a reception at the Williston Hills Country Club after the regional tennis tournament. Snatching a small patch of shade under a giant oak tree, David had complained to Trace about the chicken salad being made with Miracle Whip, and apparently he’d remembered. “Don’t you ever forget anything, Jackson?” he said, shaking his head. “The mayonnaise is in the door. The Miracle Whip was for—aw, hell—some guy I was seeing for a while. Should’ve known when he said he’d only eat Miracle Whip that he was a jerk. And I like tomatoes; just  not on sandwiches. I slice ’em up on a plate with salt, pepper, and vinegar.”
    Trace shrugged, grabbed the jar of Miracle Whip and tossed it in the trash before he nabbed the mayo and a tomato. “Just stuck with me, I guess. You don’t complain about much, usually,” he said, distracted as he pulled a knife from the block and started slicing the tomato on the butcher block.
    David laughed as the Miracle Whip went sailing into the trash.
    “Thanks. I should’ve had you over the night I threw him out too. You make it look so easy.”
    Both Trace’s brows rose as he started building sandwiches. “That doesn’t sound too good, having to throw him out,” he observed. “But I would’ve helped.”
    “Yeah, I think you would’ve. I kind of like having a built-in valet, cook, and chauffeur. Think I could afford you?”
    “I don’t know….” Trace drew out doubtfully. “Takes a lot to keep me in the lifestyle to which I’m accustomed,” he said, winking as he pulled a few plates out of the cabinet.
    “So what’s for lunch?” David asked, reaching for the silverware and napkins in the caddy on the table and setting two places, one-handed.
    “Turkey and Swiss,” Trace said, pulling a bottle of vinegar out of the cabinet. He walked over and set it on the table along with the plate of sliced tomatoes, then moved the salt and pepper shakers within David’s reach. “Drink?” he asked as he headed to the fridge. It struck him, all of a sudden, how comfortable this was. Of course, they’d hung out on free Saturdays quite a few times, cooking and talking and watching movies or something, so he supposed it wasn’t any big