“Ah. I see.” I hedged, then faced him, matching his stance and stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets. “I’d like to think we can do better than an autopsy suite.”
“Oh?” His smile grew. “Suggestions?”
And just like that, I tumbled headfirst into everything Kobe. I couldn’t say I was sad about it. In fact, the light banter was a breath of fresh air under the circumstances. I considered options as I ignored the voice in the back of my head, telling me to politely decline. Walk away. Resist temptation.
But I didn’t want to.
“How early are you at the office in the morning?” I asked instead.
“Ordinarily, around eight. Unless we get called to a scene during the night.” He cocked a brow. “Why?”
“Well, I have a sitter who comes to the house a few mornings a week, so I can hit the gym. Normally, I’m back in time to shower and take Cosette to daycare before I head to work. I could possibly convince Danica to stay and take Cosette to Miss Heather’s instead, shower at the gym, and meet you for a morning coffee. There’s a wonderful café near me. I discovered it last month. They make an exquisite spinach and egg croissant breakfast sandwich. The raspberry and white chocolate scones are good too. I haven’t tried everything.”
“That sounds like a much more appealing date than watching you dissect a human cadaver.”
I inadvertently chuckled, which made Kobe’s dimples pop as he pumped a fist. “Score. It’s not easy to get you to laugh. Not gonna lie. I like it. You should do it more often.”
I sobered, remembering why I rarely laughed anymore, but I shook free from those tainted thoughts before they impeded the progress I’d made.
Kobe and I stared at one another for a long time until his partner called, “Haven. We’re out. Move your ass.”
Kobe thumbed over his shoulder. “I gotta go. She outranks me and will put me in time-out if I don’t listen, so… We’ll talk again?”
“Yes.”
“Text me the name of that café, and we’ll make plans for that breakfast date.”
I didn’t respond as Kobe winked and spun, heading to the crime scene tape and his partner.
It was official. I was going on an unquestionable second date with Detective Kobe Haven of the Ottawa Police. Excitement and nerves burbled in my low belly, warring with a hefty dose of guilt and fear. This was it. I had to take a chance. I had enough could-haves, should-haves, and would-haves in the rearview mirror to last a lifetime. I didn’t need more. Maybe things would work out. Maybe they wouldn’t. The ashy remains of my heart couldn’t possibly incur more damage.
A long time ago, be it in a university textbook, on a podcast, or while watching a documentary on TV, I heard a quote. “To live without risk is to risk not living.” I couldn’t recall who said it, but it had been rolling around my brain a lot lately.
Perhaps Kobe Haven was a risk worth taking.
9
Kobe
In the pre-dawn hoursof Wednesday morning, as the moon kissed the horizon, I parked in a mostly vacant parking lot outside a café I’d never heard of in the Hintonburg area near Wellington Park West.
I may not have been an Ottawa native, but I was familiar enough with the city that it was rare I came across an establishment I’d never noticed or heard of. Overwhelmed on either side by trendier restaurants that catered to tourists and drew in a nightlife crowd, the squat, family-owned café was easily missed.
Most eateries along this popular strip of road were closed at this hour, but bright interior lights shone through the half-curtains covering the two bay windows of Sin-A-Latte. The sign featured a cartoon devil in a cozy chair with a steaming beverage in his hands. His forked tail curled on a woven rug between two devil children, who ate cookies. It was cute and mischievous at the same time.
A pleasant warmth hit me when I opened the door, erasing the December chill that had settled inside my bones in the short walk from the car.
I spotted Dominique at a round table near the back of the café, staring into space as he absently rotated a yellow packet of sweetener end over end, tapping it sporadically against the laminate surface. Deep craters marred his brow, screaming his discomfort.
The handsome pathologist looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Had I made a mistake?
No. He invited me, I reminded myself.I didn’t push for this. I was careful.
Two other customers were present. One in a booth, wearing jeans and a canvas Carhartt jacket, reading a newspaper. The other at the counter in business attire, scrolling on his oversized iPhone. The warm scent of cinnamon and yeast filled the air, and my tummy growled.
Various treats, from muffins to Danishes, tarts to eclairs, sat behind the window of a display counter. Above the counter were several wicker baskets, overflowing with flakey croissants and plump bagels of every variety. A covered carousel spun beside the register, three tiers of muffins rotating and taunting customers. The sign next to it read,Add a muffin to any beverage for $1.
The server, a squat woman with wide hips, plump, rosy cheeks, and a coffee-stained apron, greeted me with a hearty and heavily accented, “’Ello. Bienvenue à Sin-A-Latte. How are you, Monsieur?”
