“I wasn’t sure you’d be open this morning. I’m living across the way for a bit, thanks to Mr. Simmons. He said you guys have a killer coffee cake.”
“Sure do. Want some coffee to go with it?”
“A large, please.”
Franny watched with open curiosity. She didn’t even bother to look away when the deputy flicked a glance at her while Lia got his order ready. Why shouldn’t she observe?
“Here you go, Deputy. On the house.”
“Oh, don’t do that. I’ll pay.”
“It’s on the house,” Lia repeated firmly. Then turned away and walked into the back room, not giving him a chance to argue.
Franny heard the deputy sigh, then he turned and glanced at her. He gestured at her with his coffee cup. “Guessing you had a long night.”
Franny smiled thinly. “It was certainly long.”
“You were still at the station when I left.” He moved over to her table, set his coffee down on it. “Royal Campbell,” he offered, holding out a hand for her to shake.
Franny didn’t know what to make of the fact he’d introduced himself to Lia asdeputy, and to her he’d given his first name. A first name she immediately wanted to put in a book.
But she didn’t say that, though it was on the tip of her tongue. She shook his outstretched hand and noted the tiniest hint of something dark at his uniform shirt cuff. A tattoo? Well, maybe that explained the long sleeves in this heat. He had big rough hands, a tall rangy build. Even though she didn’t associate tattoos with cops, it fit something about him. That edginess she’d noted yesterday. He didn’t hold himself like Copeland or any of the other cops she knew—though she supposed she was more familiar with detectives. Maybe that was the difference.
“Franny Perkins,” she returned. Then wrinkled her nose. “I guess you knew that.”
“I guess I did. You always work from the coffee shop?” he asked casually before taking a bite of the coffee cake.
“Uh, no. It’s usually too distracting to write here. But I’m pretty sure if I stayed in my apartment today, I’d rot in bed all day.”
“You probably earned it. Yesterday was a lot.”
“Maybe, but if I let myself bed rot too much, I don’t surface for weeks. And I can’t even blame work. I won’t write. I’ll watch one-minute videos on how to make elaborate cakes that I, myself, will never make.”
His mouth curved. He had very blue eyes, and his nose was just a shade crooked. There was a faint scar that ran down his jaw on the left side. And she shouldnotbe cataloguing the features of a deputy no matter how attractive he was.
“You mind?” he asked, pointing at the chair across from her.
She didn’t think he wasflirting, but she couldn’t quite decide what this was. Still, she gestured at the chair as a sort ofhaveat, and he settled himself in it. Every once in a while she could hear the faint sound of someone talking from his radio, or a crackle of static, but he didn’t pay it any mind. He ate his coffee cake and drank his coffee.
“So, you’re a writer,” he said, eyeing her computer.
She nodded, dreading the next question.
“What do you write?”
It was an understandable question, and if it could just be that easy, she wouldn’t mind it. But it was never justthat.
“Mysteries,” she answered, bracing herself for the next comments.
Like so and so? Have I heard of you? I don’t like books with xyz in them. You can’t make a living off of that, can you?
“That’s cool. I guess Bent County has a lot of inspiration.”
She stared at him for a full beat. Because…he didn’t even say it sarcastically. “It does,” she said, probably with a little too much earnest fervor, but so many people—her parents included—didn’t understand why she found living here so inspiring.
“Plus you’ve got Beckett at your disposal, right? Probably pretty nice having a direct line to a detective.”
Franny nodded. “I’m not sure if he’s at mydisposal,” she said, biting back a laugh at the thought. “But he’d probably jump off a cliff if Audra told him to, so itishelpful.”
