I sigh. “Investigative stuff. Environmental justice, pipeline protests, grassroots activism, whistleblowing when no one else will. You know. The usual ways to become a broke pariah.”
He lets out a low breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Of course you have.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means… you haven’t changed.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, I mean… you’re still you. Even after everything.”
I look away, swallowing hard. “Yeah, well. Being me hasn’t exactly worked out lately.”
“Maybe you were just… being you in the wrong places,” he says softly.
I snort, biting off another corner of toast. “That’s poetic. Did you learn that at fire captain school?”
“Nope,” he says, leaning forward with that infuriatingly calm steadiness of his. “Learned that from watching you burn yourself out trying to save this town when you were twenty.”
My throat tightens. I force another sip of tea to keep from choking on emotions I don’t have time for.
His forearms are exposed. Veins, and hair, and everything that always made him feel so… Alpha. My gaze falls to the wayhis elbows rest on his knees. Just that small movement toward me has flames licking up my spine.
“You always did like watching me,” I say lightly as I force my gaze to his, hoping the tease will cover the crack in my voice.
His gaze darkens, dropping to my mouth for half a second before meeting my eyes again. “Yeah. I did.”
Silence coils between us, heavy and hot.
For a second, I forget the pain. Forget the exhaustion. Forget that I’m a broke, half-conscious disaster in a stranger’s borrowed sweats.
For a second, it’s just us. Him and me. Beck and Lo. Sparks and gasoline.
Then I clear my throat and force a grin. “So, Captain Calloway, you got any leftover hero calendars lying around for your favorite washed-up investigator?”
His lips twitch. “Eat your toast, Lo.”
I do. Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not eating alone.
CHAPTER 4
Ford
The bell above the door at The Honeycomb Café jingles when I push it open. Too damn cheerful for this early. Place already smells of burnt espresso grounds and cinnamon buns.
I inhale slowly, counting heartbeats, letting the steam and sugar settle in my lungs.
Vee Sinclair’s behind the counter, floral crown crooked on her curls, apron smeared with what looks like frosting. I wonder if that happened by accident, or did her baker husband smear it over her playfully?
She grins when she sees me. “Morning, Ford. Flat white, extra shot?”
“Yeah,” I say, low and scratchy. Haven’t used my voice yet today.
I shift to the side while she punches it in. Lean my elbow against the counter. Run my fingertips over the wood grain, just to feel it.
Good maple. Old. Finished too fast, the corners rough under the sealant.
I’ll mention it to Knox Rylan later. He’ll take it as an insult since this is his handiwork.
