Jane nodded and reached for the stack of cups.
Lauren glanced from the coffee on the counter to the cop’s hard face. Humor tickled her mouth. “I guess you don’t worry about stereotypes, huh?”
For a moment she thought that he wouldn’t answer. That he didn’t get it. And then his smile flashed, white, electrifying. “I didn’t order donuts,” he pointed out.
She tilted her head, enjoying the lightening of tension, like the drop in air pressure before the rain. “You don’t like sweet things?”
He surveyed her coolly from behind his mirrored glasses. “I like them fine. I’m watching my weight.”
Was he joking? Her gaze dropped to his lean waist. He had the flat stomach and disciplined body that came from serious gym time.
After the robbery, Lauren’s faculty advisor had suggested she try exercise as a way to manage her anxiety. But every time she left her hotel room to go for a run, she started to gasp. Her shortness of breath, her rapid heartbeat, felt uncomfortably like a panic attack. She had visions of collapsing by the side of a road miles from home, followed by headlines:HOSTAGE GIRL SURRENDERS. BANKHEROINE PARALYZED BY PANIC DISORDER.
She didn’t run anymore.
“Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem,” she said dryly.
“Occupational hazard,” he agreed, straight-faced.
She was almost sure he was kidding. She smiled back uncertainly.
“Jack is our chief of police,” Jane put in from behind the counter.
Not just a cop. The top cop.
“I’m impressed,” Lauren said.
“Don’t be. We’re a small department.” He removed the glasses. His eyes were sharp and dark in a hard-featured face. Square jaw, strong cheekbones, bold, prominent nose. She sucked in her breath.
“Jack Rossi.” He introduced himself.
Italian. It figured with that face.
“Lauren.”No last name. To make up for her omission, she offered her hand.
His hand enveloped hers, sending a shock of warmth up her arm. Lauren swallowed, resisting the urge to tug back her hand. He did not recognize her. She’d made sure of that. Her new look bore little resemblance to the fresh-faced inset that had appeared at the bottom of the news footage or the polished, smiling image on her book jacket. Her hair was darker and longer, past her shoulders, and she flaunted her new piercings like self-inflicted battle scars.
His gaze skated over the tiny jeweled nose stud before focusing politely on her eyes. “What brings you to Dare Island, Lauren?”
“Oh, you know,” she said vaguely, waving her hand. “Work.”
“What is it that you do?”
Even after all the media interviews, she hated that question. At thirty-one, she should be able to answer with certainty,I’m a cop, I’m a baker, I’m a doctoral candidate in psychology. Anything other than,I’m famous for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She couldn’t be sorry that her presence in the bank that day had saved lives. But the whole hostage thing had changed her in ways her family couldn’t see, her friends refused to accept. After her appearance onDr. Phil, her bookHostage Girl: My Storyhad spent forty-eight consecutive weeks on theNew York Timesbestseller list. She was as isolated by her fame as she had been by her captors.
“I’m a writer.”
Who couldn’t write. Her stomach cramped. Her follow-up book,Hostage Girl: My Life After Crisis, was scheduled to release in less than four months. Before—her agent had explained with brutal honesty—no one was interested in her anymore.
That sexy little indent at the corner of his mouth deepened. Even his smiles were cool and controlled, she thought wistfully. She was jealous. Everything in her life felt so out of control these days.
“Guess you don’t worry about stereotypes, either,” he said.
What?She followed his gaze toward her table before understanding clicked.The latte. The laptop.Her lips eased into an answering smile. “The whole coffee shop scene is kind of cliché,” she admitted.
Jane looked up. “We’re a bakery. We’re not a coffee shop.”
