All That Really Matters, Nicole Deese [best detective novels of all time .TXT] 📗

of men with three-letter names on staff at Salt and Light Community Church.

“Hey, so what’s all this about? You celebrating something?” He reached for the chocolate-covered raisins, tore the end of the box like a savage, and then seemed to reconsider his guess. “Wait. This isn’t one of your weird TV show premiere nights, is it? I’m not really in the mood to watch some self-proclaimed organizer guru tell a bunch of hoarders to find joy in their sock drawers tonight, Molly,” Miles said in an Eeyore tone.

“First of all, that’s not even close to what she says, but no. That’s not why I came over.” I chose the high road instead of chastising him for attacking one of my favorite guilty pleasures. “Second, why are you in such a bad mood? What was that phone call all about?”

“I’m not. And nothing.”

“Um, you are. And it was obviously something.” I swiped the box of candy from his grasp. “You don’t get to eat my snacks until you tell me.”

He gave me an are-you-kidding-me-right-now glare, but Miles couldn’t stay angry for longer than about six seconds. A tried-and-true fact I’d proven over and over again.

He shook his head, sighed. “It will all be fine. There’s just some turnover happening at work.”

“Turnover? How so?” Several alarm bells rang in my head at once. Turnover in a place of ministry was rarely positive. “Will it affect you? Your job?”

“Not at this point.” He shook his head and snatched the box right back out of my hand. “But it doesn’t help anything to borrow worry even if it does.”

“Don’t borrow worry.” A phrase our parents often said regarding, well, pretty much everything in life.

Miles swiped the Cheetos off the counter before slumping his lanky frame onto the sofa. He twisted to look at me in the kitchen. One of those long, assessing, brotherly looks. “You’re happy.”

I nearly burst at his astute pronouncement. “I am.”

His keen gaze continued to take my measure. “Did you hit a million followers on your Instagram?”

“Since last week? No, Miles.” I rolled my eyes, reaching into the grocery bag for my sugary treasure.

“Secure a cover shoot for Vogue?”

I laughed. “Try again.”

“Get an audition for a TV show?”

A guilt-ridden jolt zapped at my conscience. I still hadn’t told him about the opportunity Ethan had offered me with the Netflix executives, but I would in time. Just not yet. Once things were a bit more secure and I had all the experience the producers needed from me, then I would tell him.

“I’m still holding out hope for that one.” I riffled through his utensil drawer until I found a spoon.

“Then what? What’s the reason for all this?”

I weaved my way from the kitchen to his living room and plopped down on the ugliest chair in the universe to indulge in my treat of choice—a pint of chunky butter pecan ice cream. “I taught a class tonight. And it felt good.” I dug into the pint, fighting my way through the boring vanilla parts to the rich caramelly tunnels.

He looked utterly confused. “What class? You mean, online?”

“No, Miles. At The Bridge. Keep up.”

“How exactly am I supposed to keep up when you haven’t mentioned a thing about that place since you went in for your interview?”

I shrugged, unwilling to tell him the back-and-forth drama of it all. “It took a while for everything to be official—you know how it is, with background checks and such. Anyway,” I said, pausing to consume an unladylike bite, “I start Friday as a mentor. I’ll have six girls in my group during their summer program.”

“Wow, really? Good for you, Molls.”

Not gonna lie, it had been a long time since Miles had said something like that to me with such sincerity. “Thanks. I’m starting to see why you do this for a living.”

“Do what?”

“Look for people to help. It has an addicting quality to it.”

He eyed me as I kicked off my leopard heels and brought my knees up. I had a sudden urge to dish out all the rest—walk Miles through everything I knew about the residents, the program, Glo, and the director, who had to be one of the most difficult people to read on the planet. Maybe Silas Whittaker wasn’t actually a director for a transitional youth home at all. Maybe he was CIA or FBI or some other acronym that came with masking your emotions and talking like a nineteenth-century duke.

I backed out of that dead-end tunnel and instead steered my mind to something—or someone—a bit easier to figure out. “So there’s this girl who lives there—Wren. She’s super shy and quiet and doesn’t smile very often. But she’s also really sweet. I just wish I could scoop her up in my pocket and take her home with me. I’d do a room makeover for her in my house and give her unrestricted access to my closet and my pantry and my best bath bombs.”

I could almost imagine it—the delight all those gifts would bring to someone who’d had so little good given to them in life. And to be the one to give it to her! That feeling would be nothing short of elation. Is that how Silas felt every time he approved a new resident’s application into the program, too?

Miles stopped popping chocolate-covered raisins into his mouth and stared at me. “You do realize that kidnapping the residents isn’t a standard mentoring practice.”

I met his gaze. “I’m not actually being serious, Miles.” Though, technically, it wouldn’t be a proper kidnapping seeing as Wren was a legal adult. But that wasn’t the point. “Haven’t you ever had that feeling when you first meet someone and everything just clicks? It’s almost like you were supposed to know them. Like knowing them is part of some bigger, more purposeful plan? Well, that’s how I feel about Wren.”

“I do know that feeling.”

My eyes met his, and I knew his next words even before he spoke them.

“And it’s usually an indication that God has something to do