The sizzle of bacon in the kitchen caught her unaware and she turned to see Huck’s bare back as he flipped a piece over. There were scratches down his infraspinatus muscles, disappearing beneath his black sweatpants. He turned, his eyes a tawny brown in the early light. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” She moved for her clothing. “I won’t be long.”
He turned and used tongs to place the bacon on a paper towel. “I made breakfast and have coffee on. Come eat.”
Coffee? Her mouth watered. She hesitated and then walked to the small round table by another sliding glass door, where he’d already placed scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice, coffee, and plates. “Thank you.”
He chuckled and put the tray of bacon in the center of the table. “This is about all I can cook, so enjoy.” He reached into the fridge and brought out peppermint-flavored creamer. “I think this is still good.” His feet and chest were bare and his hair ruffled, and in the morning light, he looked younger, even with the scruff on his jaw. Perhaps freer. He sat.
The sex had been good for both of them. Mentally as well as physically. She relaxed and reached for the creamer, then sipped her coffee with a small hum of enjoyment. “I was not expecting breakfast.” In fact, she wasn’t expecting anything.
He paused with a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth and then put it back on his plate. “Are we still fighting?”
“No. I would like to ask you to refrain from speaking with reporters for the remainder of this case.” The toast was slightly burned in a way that melted the butter perfectly.
He sat back in his chair, his gaze still lazy with a hint of intent. “Agreed.”
“Good.” One more obstacle out of the way.
His smile revealed a rarely present dimple in his right cheek. “You know, you’re even more beautiful when you’re angry.”
She liked his dorky side. “That’s a lovely cliché,” she said, digging into the scrambled eggs covered in cheddar cheese.
“Do we need to talk about this? About last night?” He swept a large hand out. “You’re very likeable, but I feel like we should concentrate on finding this killer and not start something up right this second.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Most people don’t like me.” They were intrigued by her, sometimes enjoyed her, but she wasn’t accustomed to people actuallylikingher. Oh, they didn’t dislike her, but she was difficult to understand or relate to sometimes.
“Most people do like you, but you remain unaware of that fact if they don’t say the words.” He took a bite of his eggs.
Interesting. “I am rather literal,” she agreed, her heart warming. It was nice to be liked.
“That’s why I said the words,” he said. “I was a jerk last time, and I don’t want to be that this time.” He drank half of his coffee in one gulp. “I’m a bad bet. Still have PTSD, don’t like being around people, and get obsessed with searching when somebody is lost. I take it personally if I fail, and I’m pissed about losing three women to the psycho we’re chasing right now. I’m also generally grumpy, I’ve been told.”
Her feet tingled. Was that a hormonal reaction? How odd. “You are remarkably self-aware.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Most definitely.” She chewed thoughtfully and then took a drink of her orange juice. “I agree that we should focus completely on finding this killer and not dwell on last night.” Although it had been good for them both. “The dead women deserve that.”
Now his face moved into lines she’d learned to recognize as relief.
Her mind drew connections, saw conflicts, possibilities, and pitfalls. This was the intelligent decision, so they could concentrate more fully on the killer before another woman died.
Huck looked down at his food, his brow furrowing. “We’re in agreement. Good. I can’t get the picture of Christine Franklin in that field out of my mind.”
“Me either,” Laurel said softly, haunted by those dahlias surrounding the frozen and beaten body.
He glanced back up. “This guy is speeding up, isn’t he?”
She set down her glass, no longer hungry. “Yes, and he’s probably angry he didn’t get the time with Christine that he wanted. The entire situation was out of his pattern. We forced him to make a move and kidnap her.”
“How long do you think we have?”
“I think he’s already found his next victim, and those urges are going to rule him soon.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
After dropping by her mother’s house for a shower and change of clothing, Laurel returned to the office and sat in her conference room looking at the murder board. Connections were everywhere, but they didn’t lead to any conclusions. Her phone rang and she lifted it off the glass tabletop. “Snow.”
