The interior is pure steampunk romance—exposed brick walls lined with copper pipes that actually function, vintage machinery that hums and clicks in perfect rhythm, and tables that look like they were crafted from repurposed ship parts. But what catches my attention immediately are thespecial tables in the center of the room, massive wooden discs that rotate slowly like lazy gears, giving diners a 360-degree view of the restaurant throughout their meal.
Fish and Chip are immediately swarmed by restaurant patrons who’ve apparently been waiting their entire lives to meet celebrity theme park mascots. I let an employee set them up on an ornate brass pedestal by the fireplace, where actual flames dance behind a screen of etched glass gears.
Soon, half the restaurant is lined up for photos, and I can practically see the dollar signs floating over their furry heads.
The door swooshes open with a hiss of steam, and Detective Hot Stuff shows up looking like a tall, dark, and brooding dream wrapped in denim and dangerous intentions. He’s traded his uniform for dark jeans that fit him in ways that should require permits, boots that have seen some action, and a charcoal sweater that hugs his shoulders with the kind of precision that makes me forget how to form complete sentences.
His lips twitch just south of a smile—apparently, they’re too stubborn to commit to actual happiness, but his dreamy blue eyes are doing all the heavy lifting in the charm department. Plus, there’s his far too delicious cologne doing things to my higher brain functions that are probably illegal in several states.
“Josie,” he says, slightly out of breath as if he ran all the way here from the sheriff’s department. “I have something for you.”
He reveals what he’s been hiding behind his back—a bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed red roses that are clearly the premium variety from an upscale florist.
I gasp, actually gasp, because apparently, I’m seventeen again and this is my first prom. “You shouldn’t have.”
“You met my mother,” he says with the kind of rueful expression that suggests he’s fully aware of the trauma I’ve endured. “I had to. I wanted to,” he quickly corrects, and the sincerity in his voice makes my knees forget their primary function.
“Thank you.” The words come out softer than I intended, and suddenly we’re lost in one of those moments where the rest of the world fades away and it’s all hearts and confetti and the kind of eye contact that should come with a warning label and maybe prophylactics.
“Table for two?” asks a waitress dressed like a Victorian engineer, complete with brass goggles pushed up on her forehead and a tool belt that probably contains actual functioning instruments.
We’re led to an exclusive corner table on one of the rotating platforms—dark, dreamy, and private, save for the steady stream of people snaking past us on their way to Fish and Chip’s impromptu meet and greet.
We peruse the menu quickly and place our orders before the waitress can escape—clockwork Wellington for him (beef wrapped in puff pastry with mushroom duxelles), steam-kissed salmon for me, and we start with gear grinder stuffed mushrooms because the name alone is worth the risk. And, of course, the requisite fun, fruity mocktails are on their way as well.
“So,” I settle back in my chair as our table begins its lazy rotation, “you go first. How was your day?”
“Full of stale donuts and even staler homicide investigations.” His brows rise a notch as he says it.
“Seriously, that sounds like an everyday occurrence. What about today specifically?”
His lips twitch again—that almost-smile that’s becoming my new favorite expression. “Well, let’s see. I spent most of the afternoon explaining to my captain why my mother was found standing over a dead body with a bloody rolling pin. That was followed by two hours of paperwork that somehow made less sense than my family dynamics. And you?”
I recap my day, playing down the Delora interrogation part but focusing on the parade’s success. “Oh, and I met Emma and Jack. They’re amazing kids. You did a great jobraising them.”
“As did you with your daughters,” he says, tipping his head my way with something that might actually qualify as a full smile. “Emma texted me seventeen times about McKenna and Riley. Apparently, they’re ‘organizational queens’ and ‘basically running the entire universe now.’”
The waitress returns with our mocktails. His is called the brass monkey and involves ginger beer and actual steam, while mine is the copper dreams, a fruity concoction that changes color as I drink it. Our appetizers arrive moments later, and the stuffed mushrooms are actually incredible.
“These are dangerous,” I say, taking another bite of the mushroom. “I might have to steal the recipe.”
“Good luck with that,” he replies, his eyes crinkling slightly. “I’m pretty sure they guard their secrets better than I guard crime scenes.”
“Speaking of guarding things,” I lean forward conspiratorially, “how do you manage to look that good after a day of paperwork and family drama? It’s not fair to the rest of us mortals.”
His cheeks actually color slightly, though he tries to hide it behind his drink. “Clean living and good genetics, I guess.”
“Oh please.” I laugh. “Clean living? You probably survive on coffee and whatever’s left in the break room vending machine, not to mention an endless parade of stale donuts.”
“Hey, those stale donuts have character,” he says with mock seriousness. “They’ve been building resilience since last week.”
“Character,” I repeat, grinning. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
He studies me for a moment, his expression shifting to something more intense. “You know, when I first met you, I thought you were going to be trouble.”
“Were you wrong?” I ask, batting my eyelashes with exaggerated innocence.
His lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close. “No. You’re definitely trouble. The best kind.”
