“Mm-hmm?”
“I’m glad you called.”
Her chest felt tight in the best way. “Me too.”
They hung up, and Brooke stared at her phone. Dinner at her place. She’d actually invited him to her house.
This was either brave or incredibly stupid, and she wasn’t sure which. Not because she thought he was guilty, she didn’t. But rather because inviting a man to her house was...was what? Something her mom had told her she should never do? Especially not on a first date. They should go out to a public place. Oh, well. Too late now.
The rest of her shift crawled by. Brooke kept checking the clock, counting down the hours until three. They were slow, so as soon as the next crew arrived, she scooted out about fifteen minutes early, stopping at the grocery store on the way home.
Lemon chicken pasta—light and quick, and just fancy enough to impress Tyler. She grabbed the ingredients, plus a loaf of sourdough bread, and hurried home to start cooking.
By 3:45, her house smelled amazing and she was second-guessing everything—the menu, the bread, and the fact that she’d invited him over instead of suggesting somewhere more public.
The doorbell rang at exactly four o’clock.
Brooke took a breath and rushed toward the door. She checked herself in the entryway mirror, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered.
Tyler stood on her porch, in jeans and a salmon-colored button-up shirt, his hair damp like he’d taken time to wash up before coming over. He held a small bouquet of flowers.
“Hi,” he said, offering them to her.
“Hi.” She took them, and something warm spread through her chest. “These are beautiful.”
“They have them at the gas station. You know, the one on the corner down the road. Thought you might like them.”
She found a vase for the flowers while he looked around her living room.
“Nice place,” Tyler said.
“Thanks. It’s on the small side but has two bedrooms upstairs and an office on this floor.” She blinked a few times. Why in the world had she mentioned the bedrooms? “Um, and, you know, the main space downstairs.” She gestured toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready. I hope you like lemon chicken.”
They moved to the kitchen, falling into an easy rhythm as Brooke plated the food and Tyler filled water glasses. The domesticity of it felt natural, comfortable, like they’d done this many times before.
At her small dining table by the sliding patio door, they settled in, the view of the yard lending a pleasant ambiance. She should’ve suggested eating outside, but it was too late now. For a few minutes, they ate and made small talk about their days, the tension still there, bubbling beneath the surface.
Finally, Brooke set down her fork. “Deputy Boverman came by the coffee shop this morning.”
Tyler’s expression tightened. “What did he want?”
“To warn me about you. Again. He heard you were there last night.”
“Of course he did.”
“I defended you. He noticed. I think it made him uncomfortable, and he admitted maybe he was wrong.” That wasn’t exactly what he said, but it wasn’t an outright lie either.
“I don’t want to cause problems for you.”
“You’re not causing problems. He is.” She reached across the table, her hand covering his. “Tyler, I believe you’re innocent. I’m happy to tell everyone. Not because I’m naive or because I want to believe it. Because I’ve looked at the evidence, listened to Phil, and talked to you. I believe you.”
Tyler turned his hand over and laced his fingers with hers.
“Tell me about her,” Brooke said softly. “About your wife. Not about the fire. About before. About when things were good.”
Something shifted in Tyler’s expression. Not pain exactly, but a bittersweet warmth. “Jen was amazing. Smart, funny, completely unimpressed by my attempts to be cool.” He smiled at the memory. “We met at a car show. She was there with her dad, and I was working a booth, helping out a friend. She asked more intelligent questions about engines than half the guys there.”
“Sounds like she was perfect for you.”
