"Damn! I must have leaned up against the barbeque!" he said, rubbing the grease in. "The shirt's from the Ride the Rockies bike tour. It's my favorite."
"That dates back to before we were married. It's an antique. Frame it. Then put it in the attic. But don't wear it." She added, "It dates back to when you were in shape."
"What do you mean by that?"
"If the pot fits. . . " she stared at his belly.
"The expression is if the shoe fits, not the pot! That's a dangling something-an unfinished sentence."
"What should have been unfinished was the pie you had for last night's supper and all those Fat Tire Ales."
Dean looked down at the two holes in his belt, now rendered unusable. "Let's chalk it up to an inactive spring."
"A very inactive spring. Just because Jake Weller has a pot belly doesn't mean all sheriffs are supposed to be fat. If you're going to return to chasing bad guys, you'd better think about getting in shape or you won't be catching any of them."
Dean cringed at the word "fat." He knew his wife was right. Time to get cracking. If he was going to be serious about full time law enforcement, he should commit to doing it right. "The bike comes out tomorrow. A hundred miles a week. And I'll start cooking lean and mean Dean specials."
She bent down and kissed his forehead. Hopefully, Cynthia thought as she left, not 'third bottle' pork chops-meat doused with a shake from every third container on the spice rack.
Paul Dawkins wandered out as Dean was turning the meat, finishing his second beer, and planning his weight loss campaign. "You haven't seen Ginger, have you?" he asked as he sat in a chair next to the chaise and eyed Dean's last ale.
"No one out here but the cook," he answered as Paul reached for the bottle, ostensibly to look at the label. "Go ahead," Dean said, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. His diet was starting one ale early. Hell, as long as Dawkins was swiping his last brew, he might as well get his monies worth. The two drinks and lack of a third caused him to be more direct than normal politeness would dictate.
"What's so valuable about the Lucky Pup Mine? It looks like a hole in the ground that hasn't been touched in thirty years or more." He turned his back to Dawkins and returned to his cooking duties.
"You in cahoots with my bastard brother?"
"I'm just trying to run an inn and keep the guests from killing each other."