One
LAURENPATTERSON ENTRENCHEDherself in the corner table of Jane’s Sweet Tea House, barricaded behind her laptop, a latte, and a Glorious Morning muffin.
Facing a blank computer screen wasn’t nearly as terrifying as confronting three masked men with guns, she told herself firmly. She hadn’t frozen then. There was absolutely no excuse for her to be paralyzed now.
The July sun pushed past theHELP WANTEDsign in the window to pool like syrup on her table. Beyond the shade of live oaks and loblolly pines, beyond the shrubs and shingled rooftops of the harbor, the waters of Pamlico Sound gleamed. Vacationers seeking an air-conditioned respite from the North Carolina heat packed the eclectic bakery. A young couple, broiled pink by the sun, held hands on a sofa. A father in line lifted his little daughter onto his shoulders. All of them happy. Together.
Lauren’s muffin stuck in her throat.
Behind the counter, a pretty teenager in geek girl glasses struggled to meet the stream of orders for iced espresso drinks. Before Lauren’s fifteen minutes of fame, she’d moonlighted as a barista to make ends meet. The psych department frowned on its graduate students taking outside jobs, but her stipend had barely covered her living expenses. Not to mention all the things her little brother Noah needed that Mom couldn’t afford. Luxuries like game controllers. Athletic shoes. Meat.
Lauren swallowed hard. She couldn’t do anything that would plunge her family into that state of financial uncertainty again. The advance from her publisher was already half spent, the publication date set. Late October, so the book would be shelved in time for Christmas but not lost in a sea of cookbooks and gift books. It was already selling briskly online.
She just had to finish it.
The cheerful silver bells on the door chimed, announcing the arrival of another customer.
She looked up, seeking a more positive direction for her thoughts. Or maybe, she admitted, she was simply searching for a distraction.
A man stood silhouetted against the brightness outside. Thick, close-cut hair. Lean, muscled body. Dark mirrored sunglasses.
Her heart beat faster. A cop.
Save me, she thought.
She took a deep breath and looked away. The sudden sight of the law was never good news. A uniform at the door, blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror... Anybody could get sweaty palms and a dry mouth. She wasnothaving a panic attack.
She put her hand on her belly anyway, under the cover of the table, and drew a careful breath.In through the nose...
He entered the shop, moving between the artfully mismatched tables and chairs with a contained authority more menacing than a swagger. Among the pink, chubby, underdressed tourists, he stuck out like an assassin in a ballroom.
He promised safety. He promised danger. An irresistible combination.
She exhaled, pushing on her stomach.Out through the mouth...
He nodded to the young woman behind the old-fashioned register, the one with the fat blond braid and sleepy gray eyes of a princess in a fairy tale. The blonde nodded back, never losing her rhythm or her smile.
Lauren didn’t understand why she wasn’t melting into a puddle at his feet. Okay, so he wasn’t Prince Charming. Not the kind of guy you wanted to meet at midnight, unless you intended to lose a lot more than your shoes.
But hot. Very hot. Smoldering, in fact.
Given the slightest encouragement, Lauren would have followed him home like one of the island cats that seemed to hang around the bakery’s back porch, lean and hungry and hoping for handouts.Pet me. Rescue me.
She shook the thought away. She was not turning into a police groupie on top of everything else. She could take care of herself.Without getting anybody shot in the process.
Anyway, she tended to attract guys who needed her. Sensitive souls with lousy home lives or unsatisfying jobs, with full-sleeve tattoos and pierced tongues and nipples. Not law-and-order types.
“This isn’t peppermint schnapps,” complained a thin woman at the head of the line.
“No, it’s Irish cream syrup and whipped cream,” the blonde said.
“But I ordered Irish coffee. There should be peppermint schnapps.”
Not in Irish coffee, Lauren thought. She noticed her heart rate increasing and took another deep breath.
The blonde blinked. “I’m afraid we’re not licensed to serve alcohol,” she said with doll-like calm. “But I can add a touch of mint syrup if you’d like.”
“I don’t want any damn syrup,” the customer said loudly. “I want my drink. I want to speak with your manager.”
