Dove slid into the third chair without waiting to be asked, flashed a grin that could talk its way past most locked doors, and said, “You saved a life today.” She lifted two fingers to Juniper and asked for two beers and one basket of fries. Juniper nodded like they’d known each other for years.
Despite herself, Fallon found herself smiling. “I had help.”
“From where I stood, you ran the show,” Buddy corrected.
“Is that your way of not saying you’d know how to follow orders if it was you out there in the gator-infested water with me?” Fallon teased, trying to act like this was a normal conversation with an old friend. Because in a way, it was.
Dove laughed. “I’d like to see Buddy take an order from anyone.”
“Just remember, I’m lead in this satellite office,” Buddy said. “You answer to me.”
Juniper delivered beers and fries for them and Fallon’s sandwich. Buddy didn’t touch his glass. Dove did, lifting it in a little salute. “To not dying in the swamp,” she said.
“I’ll drink to that.” Fallon lifted her glass.
They ate and talked around the edges of the day. Dove told a quick story about a drone that got chased by an osprey, and Buddy asked the kind of neutral questions that showed he cared without delving too deeply into her past in front of present company. She appreciated that. Not that she’d care. Everyone knew because she ran the annual Tessa Project. However, Fallon often got emotional or intense about it, making others uncomfortable.
He also didn’t mention her text. She didn’t either.
When his phone buzzed, he checked it and stood. “Need to confirm tomorrow’s vendor drop,” he said. “Don’t buy the whole bar a round—on me.”
“I make no promises,” Dove said.
He threaded through the crowd toward the back hall and was gone.
Dove watched him go and shook her head. “He’s got a tell when he’s pretending not to worry.”
“Oh?” Fallon stabbed a fry. “What’s that?”
“His shoulders go very Marine—like. Stiff, you know? But he was never a Marine,” Dove said. “It’s his ‘I’m fine, we’re fine, everything’s fine’ posture. Only, he’s coiled too tight to be fine.”
“Do you know what’s bothering him?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Dove said. “It could be the girl you found earlier. It could be the fact the case he worked today dropped us before the job was even done, and right now, our load is light. Buddy hates being idle. Drove Timothy, our boss in the Jacksonville office, nuts.”
Fallon hadn’t seen Buddy in two years, since the opening of the Crab Shack. And before that, only when he’d been in town working a case. But they had some text chats, a bunch of late-night phone calls, though that didn’t mean she knew him well. However, she could tell he wasn’t the kind of man who took to relaxing easily. “How long have you two been—” she glanced toward the direction he’d gone in “—an item?”
Dove choked on her beer and laughed so hard she had to set the glass down. “Me? With Buddy?” She wiped her mouth, eyes bright with wicked amusement. “He and I work together. He’s technically my boss, and he’s… well… not my type.”
“That felt like a very diplomatic pause.”
“It was me deciding whether to say, ‘he’s too earnest’ or ‘he commits to furniture.’”
“Furniture?”
“He had this chair in the Jacksonville office, and he had to bring it with him. He couldn’t buy a new one. It had to be that one, and rumor has it, he brought it from the FBI,” Dove said. “That’s a man who wants a harbor. I’m a storm. Also, I like ’em rougher around the edges.” She glanced around the restaurant, “Like—oh, hello.”
Trent Mallor walked in, hat in hand, hair damp from a shower or the river. Either way, he looked like he’d been carved out of sun and bad decisions. He clocked the room, saw Fallon, and tipped his head with a grin that had gotten him out of at least three minor infractions in the last five years.
Dove’s smile turned feral. “That right there is more my style,” she said. “Who is he, and is he single?”
“Name is Trent, and be my guest,” Fallon said, contemplating warning Dove. Trent wasn’t the worst person—actually, he was just misunderstood. And while he was a decent man, at the end of the day, he wasn’t going to ever settle down. Like ever. Then again, Dove seemed like the kind of woman who could handle herself. Besides, watching Trent try to wriggle away from a woman who could read his tells from sixty yards might improve her evening.
Dove stood, smoothed her tee like she was about to give a TED Talk on heartbreak, and slid toward the entrance. She intercepted Trent cleanly with a “Hey, you look like trouble,” and he laughed, which was the wrong move because Dove’s eyes lit like a cat spotting a laser pointer.
Fallon took a bite of the sandwich and pretended she wasn’t watching.
Buddy returned a minute later, rolling his sleeves like the air had gotten warmer.
