Her eyes sparked, and for a moment some of the tension eased from her face. “Good to know you’re still the voice of reason.”
“Reason, no. Self-preservation, yes,” he countered, leaning back in his chair. “The last thing I need is explaining to Sheriff Raines why my partner in this mess got herself tossed in federal lockup for hacking.”
Garrett knew he should not be watching the way Isla’s hair slid over her forehead when she leaned toward her laptop. Or noticing the shape of her mouth when she smirked at his comment. Heat stirred low and sharp, the kind that had no business flaring now. He forced his gaze back to his screen, back to the useless lists of names that blurred together.
“Anais’ accusation and info could be a dead end,” he muttered. “Or it could be the one break we need. Either way, we’ll never get there if we imagine you in an orange jumpsuit. Or I keep thinking about kissing you.”
Hell. Hell. Hell. Why had he blurted out that last part? Because he was toast, that’s why. Because he couldn’t be around Isla without thinking of this inevitable, searing heat.
Isla’s head came up, her eyes locking with his. “Then, we need a distraction from thoughts of, well, us,” she said with mock solemnity. “How about pickles and peanut butter? No one thinks about sex while eating that.”
He groaned. “You underestimate me.”
She grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “Let me add another parameter to my search, then we’ll raid your kitchenwhile I let the search run in the background. If Marion Cole ever bought property twenty-two years ago, give or take a year, it should be buried somewhere in the county databases. We’ll just have to dig it out. Thousands of hits, most likely.”
Garrett stood, stretching out his aching shoulders. “Thousands of hits and jars of pickles and peanut butter. Perfect evening.”
Isla carried her laptop into the kitchen and set it on the island, the search window still open and humming in the background. She rooted through his fridge like she owned the place and came up with a jar of pickles. From the pantry she snagged the peanut butter.
Garrett grabbed forks, spoons, and a pair of Cokes. What he really wanted was a beer or maybe the whiskey, but the last thing he needed was something strong dulling his edge.
She unscrewed the lid on the peanut butter, dug out a spoonful, and slid it between her lips. Garrett’s mouth went dry. He told himself to look away, but instead he closed the space between them and slipped an arm around her waist. His body brushed hers, not a kiss, not yet, but the temptation buzzed like a live wire.
“If I kiss you,” he said, voice low, “work stops.”
She swallowed, a little smile tugging at her mouth. “Agreed. Now eat a pickle.” She shoved the jar at him.
He cracked the lid, the vinegar scent sharp in the air.
Her grin widened. “Tell me, Garrett. Do you ever regret that we never got to the… advanced placement part of teenage romance? You know, the lovers’ elective course?”
Garrett bit into the pickle, crunch sharp in the quiet kitchen. He chewed slowly, his gaze fixed on her as she twirled the spoon in the peanut butter like she had all the time in the world.
“Regret?” he said at last, his tone dry as dust. “Every damn day. But if we’d gone that far back then, I don’t think either of us would have made it out of high school alive. Too much heat, not enough sense.”
Her eyes sparked, a challenge and an invitation all at once. The space between them tightened, his arm still at her waist, her breath mingling with his. His lips hovered close to hers, and for one reckless second, he almost let go of reason.
Then her laptop gave a sharp beep, cutting through the tension like cold water on fire.
The sharp sound had Isla jerking back, her spoon clattering against the jar. She hurried to the island, eyes locked on the glowing laptop screen.
“Damn,” she muttered, her voice a mix of shock and triumph. “I got a hit. Twenty-two years ago, a Marion Cole bought a small rural house about thirty miles from here.”
Garrett stepped in close behind her, scanning the lines of text. His pulse kicked harder, the fire from their near-kiss now feeding the edge of adrenaline. “How far is that from Paula’s place?”
“Only about twenty miles,” Isla said, her fingers flying across the keys. She pulled up another document, her expression tightening. “And according to the current land records, the property is still in Marion’s name.”
Garrett let that sink in, his gut tightening. If Marion Cole was real, and if Paula was hiding behind that alias, then they were closer than ever to the truth. “I want to check out the place now.”
Her gaze flicked up to his, steady, determined. “So do I.”
That was all it took. They snapped into motion, shutting down the laptop, gathering their gear. Garrett strapped on his sidearm and checked his backup weapon while Isla secured hers.The familiar rhythm of preparation steadied him, though the unease in his gut didn’t ease.
Once ready, Garrett pulled out his phone and tapped out a quick message to Noah and Sheriff Raines.
We might have a lead. Isla found an address that could belong to Paula. Might be worth checking out.He sent the location pin before adding,We’re en route.
The sheriff’s reply came fast.Good.I’ll meet you there. Quiet approach. We go in together.
