He helps me toward the ladder, his hand on my elbow steady and warm in a way that makes me feel both safe and entirely too aware of how close he is. “Ms. Julep?”
“Yes?” I try not to sound breathless, but between the heat and his proximity, I’m not sure I succeed.
“Why don’t we go somewhere and have a little chat?”
It’s not really a question, but the way he says it—low and careful and maybe a little bit warm—makes my stomach do interesting things that have nothing to do with being trapped in an attic and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me.
“What kind of chat?” I ask, though I’m already following himtoward the ladder like I’ve been hypnotized or possibly suffered heatstroke.
“The kind where you tell me what you’re really looking for, and I decide whether to arrest you for obstruction of justice or just shake my head in bewildered resignation.”
I pause at the top of the ladder, one hand on the frame, looking back at him in the dim attic light. “Those are my only two options?”
He looks back at me, and there’s definitely something that might be warmth in those brown eyes. “We’ll see how the conversation goes.”
And despite the heat, the humiliation, the Christmas lights still clinging to my hair like tinsel, I find myself smiling.
Because for the first time since arriving in paradise, I’m starting to think maybe—just maybe—not everything here is a disaster waiting to happen.
CHAPTER 12
The beach behind Coconut Cove Paradise Resort proves that Mother Nature has a sense of humor, as if she made this stretch of coastline absolutely gorgeous just to mock the falling apart resort that sits on it, like she wanted to make sure we all knew what we were missing out on.
I’m planted on a piece of driftwood that’s probably older than my marriage was and definitely more stable, waiting for Detective Hale to finish whatever important police business called him away after our attic rescue that I’m still trying not to think about.
“Give me twenty minutes,” he’d said, his hand still warm on my elbow as he helped me down the ladder. “I need to make a call, then we’ll have that chat.”
That was forty-five minutes ago, and I’m starting to think he’s stood me up, which would be a new low even for my track record with men.
The waves roll in with a steady rhythm as if to say they’ve got all the time in the world and no murder investigations to solve, and a warm breeze carries the scent of salt, plumeria, and my own lingering embarrassment from this morning’s food truck disaster that I’m pretty sure is now permanently documented on the internet.
The sun is starting its slow descent toward the horizon, painting everything in warm golden light that makes even our decrepit resort look almost romantic. My shirt finally stopped sticking to my back like a desperate ex, and I’ve managed to get most of the powdered sugar out of my hair, though I’m pretty sure I’ll be finding it in weird places for weeks.
“Sorry, I’m late.”
I don’t turn around, even though that voice makes my spine straighten in ways that should probably concern me and possibly require a chiropractor.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Important detective business that couldn’t wait? Someone needed urgent help with their parking tickets?”
“Something like that.” Detective Koa Hale’s footsteps crunch on the sand as he approaches, and I can hear the smile in his voice even though I’m determinedly staring at the ocean. “Mind if I sit?”
“It’s a free beach. Technically. And you did promise me a chat.”
He settles onto the sand beside my driftwood throne with an ease that lets me know he’s comfortable in his own fit body, and I catch that scent again—soap, ocean air, and something indefinably masculine that makes my brain forget how to formcomplete sentences or remember why I was annoyed about the wait to begin with.
He’s changed out of his uniform into fresh jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’s built like someone who takes physical fitness seriously and possibly has a gym membership that actually gets used.
“Nice view,” he says, gesturing toward the water with a hand that I’m trying very hard not to stare at.
“It’s the one thing Mr. X got right. Hard to mess up an ocean, although I’m sure he tried.”
“From what I’ve seen of this place, he might have found a way if given enough time.”
I snort. “Given time, indeed. I’m sure there’s a plan to drain it for parking spaces or fill it with concrete for guest safety.”
We sit in companionable silence for a moment, watching a sea turtle surface about fifty yards out, its shell catching the light as it comes up for air before diving back down into the blue. The sun is painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would make a sunset photographer charge extra for prints.
“So,” he says eventually, “want to tell me what you were really looking for in that attic?”
