She reached across the table, brushing her fingers against his hand. “I’ve always chosen men who aren’t going to be around forever. Trent?—”
“I can’t believe you dated him.”
“Correction,” she said with a half-smile. “I lived with him for a few months. It was right after my parents died. He was there when I needed him. It was more convenience than anything, but we did have a connection. A bond. And we both cared—still do—for each other. He saved me from myself.”
“You should know that I have jealous tendencies.”
She laughed, the sound shaky but genuine.
He squeezed her fingers gently. “Whatever this is—whatever we are—it’s good. It’s real enough for now.”
“There’s a part of me that wonders if this is more about you needing to protect me, because you feel more responsible than anything else.” She considered herself a good reader of people. And she’d figured out some of Buddy’s tells. But his expression gave away nothing.
“I won’t pretend that I don’t want to take care of you. Make sure nothing bad happens. I’m sorry if I’ve made that feel like the only reason, because it’s not. I do care for you. But my career has always been about protecting people. I can’t change that part of me.”
“That’s fair, and for now, that’s enough.”
“And until whoever’s behind this mess is caught, that’s all we can ask for.”
Fallon looked at him, really looked at him—the gray at his temples, the tired eyes, the man who carried too much. “You sure you can handle me? I’m told I’m extra.”
“Not a chance.” There was warmth in his words. “But I’m dumb enough to try.”
They sat there in the cafeteria with their bad coffee and worse timing, holding hands across the table like the world wasn’t still coming for them.
And for that one fragile, ordinary moment—it almost felt like peace.
Chapter Eleven
Massey’s was thinning to a hush when Buddy slid into one of the back booths—lunch rush fading, TV on mute over the bar, forks clinking in twos and threes. Sterling sat across from him, scanning the room with the kind of focus that only a trained operative used until his gaze landed on Juniper.
She was an attractive woman in her early to mid-thirties. Buddy was told she’d come to town a month ago and offered Holly Massey a deal she couldn’t refuse. This was long after Holly had given up selling and taken it off the market. Part of Buddy found that odd. Too good to be true.
But Juniper seemed to fit into the town like chocolate chips fit into ice cream.
Juniper wiped down the far end of the bar with the brisk, no-nonsense rhythm of someone who’d already broken up one argument today and wouldn’t tolerate another. On some levels, it contradicted her bubbly, always-happy personality. This place could use someone like Juniper. Someone who could handle a rowdy, drunk fisherman while wearing a smile and carrying a rainbow. The only thing that really made the situation odd was that Sterling had become interested.
Not that the women he dated weren’t inherently easy-going or happy. They just weren’t over-the-top about it, and Sterling had a type. Sophisticated, high-heels, designer everything—the kind of woman who demanded things be perfect and pitched a fit when they weren’t. They drank dirty martinis, ate caviar, and went to the country club for weekly gossip.
Juniper wasn’t that.
“He’s late.” Sterling shifted his gaze to the front door and stared at it as if a magical puff of smoke might appear and seconds later, Flager would watch through it.
“He’s FBI,” Buddy said. “Late’s a performance choice.”
Flagler came in a second later, as if on cue—tall, tailored, the same unflinching eyes Buddy remembered from when he’d been a special agent, and they’d worked together on a few cases. Flagler clocked exits first, then them, and crossed with the easy stride of a man who’d been told a bar was a perfectly acceptable interview room.
“Buddy Ballard.” He shook once, firm. “And you must be Sterling.”
Juniper showed up out of nowhere and dropped off water without being asked. “You need menus?” She smiled sweetly—at Sterling.
Maybe he hadn’t crashed and burned as hard as the man had thought.
“We’re good, thanks,” Buddy said.
“So, how’s the private sector treating you?” Flagler leaned back, loosened his tie, as if he needed to breathe a little.
“I like it,” Buddy admitted. “Especially the part where I don’t have to file paperwork to save lives.”
