He leans back in his chair. "I’ve been doing private-eye work for just over five years."
"What did you do before that?"
"I was a detective with the Denver PD for about a decade.”
I nod. That explains a lot. "Why did you leave?”
He considers the question for a moment. "I got tired of playing the game. So much of police work in a big city is political. Funding depends on who is in office, and keeping politicians happy isn’t what I signed up for. All I ever wanted was to be a good cop and solve cases.”
When he speaks about Denver, there is no bitterness in his voice. Just a statement of fact. It wasn’t making him happy, so he left.
I’ve had that feeling a lot lately, too. Being an accountant for a major company isn’t satisfying me—and that was before I discovered my supervisor’s been embezzling money.
Gideon and I continue to work through the documents together. He explains what he is looking for. I point out discrepancies I recognize. The process is methodical and focused, and we’re making fast work of it. But there is something else brewing underneath the surface. Anawarenessof each other. A zip of electrical current seemingly hovering in the air between us.
Our hands brush when we both reach for the same page. He does not pull back immediately. And neither do I. The contact lasts only a second, but I feel it long after.
The fire crackles in the background. Outside, the light shifts as clouds move across the sun. It is quiet here. Peaceful. Freeof the constant hum that exists in the city. There’s just the wind through the trees and the occasional birdcall.
"You hungry?" Gideon asks after we have been working for over an hour.
I realize I am. "I could eat."
He stands and moves to the kitchen. I watch him pull ingredients from the refrigerator. Bread. Cheese. Tomatoes. He works efficiently, slicing and assembling sandwiches without wasted motion.
He grins at me. “And now, for the secret ingredient that really elevates a sandwich…” He holds up a mason jar with a flourish. “Homemade Sweet Habanero Dill pickles.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You make your own pickles.”
He chuckles heartily. “Heavens, no. I buy them at the local farmer’s market. That’s where I get most of my ingredients. I go every Saturday.”
I smile. “You’re a bit of a conundrum.”
He cocks his head. “How so?”
“Well, you have a remote cabin way out the woods suitable for the Unabomber. But you seem totally engaged in small-town life, too.”
He shrugs. “Best of both worlds.”
He sets a plate in front of me and takes his seat again. We eat in companionable silence. When I finish, I notice he is watching me again. Not staring. Just looking. Like he is trying to decide something.
"What?" I ask.
"You're a conundrum, too, you know.”
I smile. “Oh?”
He grins. “Well, on the one hand, you’re a nerdy accountant.” He holds his hands up when I start to protest. “I mean that as a compliment, I promise. But on the other hand, you’re a badasswarrior on a mission for justice. The way you stormed into my office the other day… you were a little scary.”
I glare at him. “Scary?”
He barks a laugh. “Also a compliment. You can hold your own, that’s for sure.”
The air between us shifts just enough that I notice the weight of his attention. The way his gaze lingers a fraction longer than necessary. The appreciation in his eyes as he sizes me up.
I want to throw myself at him, to be the badass he seems to think I am. But the nerdy accountant in me wins out. I’ve never been the first to come onto a man, and I’m not brave enough to try it today.
So, instead, I clear my throat and say, “I can get more documents to you in a day or two.”
