“No. To the left.” Laurel’s voice emerged from a room down to the right.
The sound of her soft tenor shot right to his groin, and he nearly pounded his head into the wall. Last night had been a mistake he would not make again. Clearing his throat, he walked toward the doorway and stopped in the entrance, where Laurel was holding one end of a battered blue door while the blonde he’d seen in the parking lot struggled with the other side. They were trying to center it over a stack of firewood fitted together tighter than any Jenga puzzle. No doubt Laurel’s doing.
He stepped inside and grasped the edge of the wooden door smack in the center. “Need help?” He lifted easily.
“Yes,” Laurel grunted, her hair in disarray. “Just a little to the . . . left.”
Huck lifted and moved, centering the door. “You need a table.”
“This will do until we acquire one.” Laurel released her hold and stepped back, dusting off her pale-colored pants. “Thank you for the help. Huck, this is Kate. Kate, Huck.”
Kate wiped off dust from her forehead. “Hi.” So much clung to her hair that it looked almost gray instead of blond.
“Hi.” Huck studied the pictures and arrows on the case board. There were too many blank boxes for victim names as well as suspects. His senses flared awake as Laurel’s spicy, strawberry scent wafted over him. He had to get away from her before he did something stupid like ask her out. “I forgot my coffee in my office—I’ll meet you by the truck.” He took off.
Not only was she gorgeous and smart, but she wasn’t high maintenance. The woman had just created a conference table out of firewood and an old door. He did not want to like her, but he couldn’t help it.
* * *
Ten minutes later, travel mug in hand, Huck met Laurel at his truck. She’d apparently dropped into the ice cream store for a latte. The day was clear and bright but cold, and her nose had already turned pink. In the soft, cream-colored pants and feminine blouse beneath her coat, she looked put together and sexy in an understated way. Obviously she still hadn’t bought her own clothes.
News vans perched at the end of the parking lot, where Monty had told them they could be. Cameras pointed at him, and his skin itched. A couple of reporters called out questions, but neither he nor Laurel turned toward them.
“Pastor John had better be home this time,” she muttered. Her auburn hair was up in a ponytail and pink, natural-stone earrings matched a necklace that nestled beneath her collarbone. An area he’d spent plenty of time exploring and kissing the night before. In the soft light, her blue and green eyes stood out more than ever, making her appear every bit as intriguing as he was discovering her to be. Although that was irrelevant.
Laurel walked around the front of the truck to the passenger side, slipping twice. With any other colleague, he’d get in his truck and wait for them to do the same. But she was different. Different from all the rest. The colleagues, the women, the townspeople. Very different from other women he’d dated, even after just one night. But he had to get over that. They were working together and that had to be all. He forced himself to open his door, letting Aeneas in before getting inside himself, rocking the entire vehicle.
Laurel tossed her laptop bag on the floor, reached for the handle, and pulled herself up and in.
He started the engine, wanting to get the afternoon over as soon as possible.
“The snow finally stopped,” she murmured, taking a sip of her latte through a straw.
“For the day,” he said, glancing at the weather app on his phone. “In fact, it’s going to warm up and drop very nice freezing rain on us before snowing again tomorrow.” It was December in the mountains, so that was par for the course. “I called ahead and told Pastor John’s secretary that he needs to be there to speak with us this time or I’ll put out a BOLO for him. Very publicly.”
Laurel smiled around her latte cup. “Good move. He’ll be there.”
“He’d better be.” Huck drove out of the parking lot and down Jagged Rock Road, heading toward Main Street and out of town. His tires turned up gravel covering the ice. “I wanted to make sure we were okay.” He’d probably been a little too direct with the one-off comment earlier.
She turned toward him, her eyebrows raised. “We’re fine.”
The woman was being sincere. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Okay. That was good, right? He kept silent as he continued to drive.
Laurel turned and watched the world outside, seeming comfortable and relaxed. “Before I forget, I need to make a phone call.” She dug her purse out of the bag. “Siri, call the Bearing Law Firm.”
Huck glanced her way.
Somebody apparently answered. “Yes, hello. This is FBI Special Agent Laurel Snow, and I’d like to make an appointment with Steve Bearing at his earliest convenience.” She waited several moments. “He would? Wonderful. I’ll see him then.” She clicked off.
“Bearing?” Huck asked.
“Yes. Casey Morgan worked for him, as I’m sure you know. I just met him while interviewing Meyer Jackson.” She sipped more of her drink and kicked her laptop bag to the side with her boot.
The name jolted memories through Huck. “I take it you’re aware I dated Casey?”
“Yes,” she said. “Jackson told me.”
Great. Huck slowed down for a blind corner, his ears ringing. The mention of Meyer Jackson had come out of the blue—nicely done as an interrogation tactic. “What all did Jackson have to say?”
