He felt it too, didn’t he?
A quick glance showed his face was as enigmatic as ever.
Grr. Hiss. Boo.
The custom motorcycle shop was exactly as she remembered it: huge and loud and full of hand-built machines that made dollar signs dance in front of her eyes. Hair metal boomed from the speakers on the second floor. The smell of grease guns hung in the air. And Britt’s coworkers were all hard at work with grinders, paint sprayers, and TIG welders that spat out sparks like mini Fourth of July fireworks.
“It’s a crazy day!” Britt yelled above the chaos. “We have three custom orders that need to ship out by the end of the week and a half dozen production bikes that are on backorder! Why don’t we take this into the kitchen!”
She nodded her consent. One, they needed a quiet place to talk about his brother. Two, surely the kitchen was where they kept the coffee.
Ever the vigilant fed, she took note of the half-bath they passed on their way down a hallway decorated with rusty motorcycle license plates.
No Knox Rollins in there.
Her eyes darted around the industrial—yet somehow still homey—kitchen as soon as they entered. There was a large center island, a commercial-sized refrigerator, and a gas oven that looked like it belonged in a chef’s house. But…
No Knox Rollins here either.
Therewasa rather large coffee maker on the counter, though. It sent up a siren’s song, and she wondered if Britt would think her rude if she helped herself.
“Agent O’Toole! Agent Douglas! What are you two doing here?” Looking as classy and put together as always, Eliza Meadows emerged from a pantry while wiping her hands on the cherry-red apron tied around her waist. “Has there been some new information about Senator McClean or?—”
“No, no.” Julia shook her head. “Nothing like that. We’re here to talk to Sergeant Rollins.”
“Britt?” Eliza glanced at the man in question. “Why?” Her gaze swung back to Julia. “What did he do?” Her tone turned matronly. So did her stance as she shoved her hands onto her hips and pinned Britt with a dour look. “What did you do?”
Britt threw up his hands. “Nothing! I swear! They’re here about Knox.”
“Oh.” Eliza grimaced. “Right.” She untied her apron and left it atop the counter. “I’ll make myself scarce then.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Britt told her, but she was already on the move.
Once she pulled even with him, she patted his shoulder in consolation, went up on tiptoe to hug him, and whispered something in his ear. Julia assumed it was words of comfort or encouragement.
“I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” she called over her shoulder once she reached the doorway. Then she disappeared through the opening, and Julia, Britt, and Dillan were left alone in the kitchen.
“Take a seat. Both of you.” Britt waved to the barstools shoved beneath the lip of the island. After Julia snagged a seat, his gaze caught hers and held. “You wanted coffee, right?”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she said nonchalantly, although the gleam in her eye when she darted a glance at the carafe probably gave away her desperation.
Well, that and the drool hanging off my bottom lip.
Britt poured the fragrant, steaming liquid into a mug and slid it her way. “You take it black if I recall.”
She had the urge to preen and bat her lashes because he remembered how she took her coffee, proving how ridiculous her obsession with him was.
Note to self. Try fantasizing about someone else the next time you reach into the top drawer of your bedside table.
“Agent Douglas?” Britt held up a second mug, but Dillan waved him away.
“This one drinks enough for both of us.” Dillan hooked a thumb in Julia’s direction as she took her first swallow of the thick, rich brew. The smoky, carbony flavor melted over her tongue and tickled the part of her brain that was addicted to the lovely buzz of caffeine. “Besides, I try to stay away from all psychoactive substances. My body is my temple, after all.”
Julia refrained from rolling her eyes.
But just barely.
Britt pointedly poured himself a cup of coffee while eyeing Dillan—she fell a little bit in love with him for that—and then hitched his chin toward the pie stand topped with fresh muffins and scones. “Help yourself.” His accent made it sound more likehelp yahself. And all the times she’d imagined him shirtless and sweaty and telling her about the unspeakable things he planned to do to her naked body slid through her mind and liquified her bones from the marrow out.
