“Coming?”
“Gah!” I yelled, whirling around to find the police chief standing behind me.
Good grief. Were all the men here good-looking? Was it a vampire thing? Were only the handsome ones allowed to be turned?
He didn’t have the dark beauty that Daniel did. His face was too roughly hewn, with a prominent brow, strong cheekbones, and hard, square jaw. But there was something about him that I couldn’t look away from. His dark blonde hair was a tousled mess around his face and his blue eyes were so light that they reminded me of a wolf’s eyes. In fact, there was an air about him that made me think of a predator.
I scowled up at him, pretending I wasn’t shaking in my boots.
“Listen, Chief. I had no idea where you went. It’s not like you waited on me.”
He sighed again. “Follow me, then.”
I marched down the hall behind him toward what I assumed was the kitchen.
When we walked in, I said, “This isn’t fair.”
Daniel Ayres had a fireplace in his kitchen. A small brick one with an arch. Just like the one I’d pinned to my Dream Kitchen Pinterest board.
The man in question stood at a six-burner range, stirring something in a saucepan. He must have changed because he wore a dark green sweater and a pair of faded jeans that fit him as though they were made for him. Thick, dark socks covered his feet.
He looked utterly comfortable and completely unconcerned that he had both the police chief of the town and his victim in the same kitchen.
I half-wished I’d brought that gigantic acorn with me so I could throw it at his head.
“Have a seat, Garrett,” he murmured, his eyes on the pan.
The hulk also known as the police chief settled at the kitchen table. To my shock, the chair didn’t creak.
Without waiting for an invitation, I took a chair at the table also, putting my feet up on the chair next to me. Now that I wasn’t in a fog of blind panic, my feet were beginning to hurt. I suspected that I had a couple of blisters and more than a few scrapes, but I wasn’t about to show weakness in front of these two.
“Whipped cream?” Daniel asked.
“Yeah.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“You’re going to drink something I made?” he asked without turning around from the stove.
“I figure it’s safe if Chief over here drinks it, too.”
The chief grunted. “I’m Garrett.”
“Is that your first name or last name?” I asked, turning to study him.
“First.”
“What’s your last?”
“Kent. Why?”
“So, I know who to tell the F.B.I. about when I finally get out of here.”
He grunted again and, this time, I could tell he was amused. Mostly because the corner of his mouth twitched into a split-second smirk.
Ayres brought three cups to the table, each topped with a mound of whipped cream and grated chocolate.
“Thanks,” Garrett rumbled.
