Wednesday, and Trevor wanted to see if you want to go for a sail.”
“Is that why you’re here, to play assistant?”
“Victim has been identified,” he said. “Seth Owen.”
Grateful to Jacob for breaking the news first, she nodded and hugged herself. “Date number two.”
Ethan pulled a small pad from his pocket and wrote something down. “From Eight Dates in Eight Days.”
“Yes.”
Ethan made another note. “And you hadn’t seen nor heard from him since you went out?”
“I didn’t say that.” She sighed when Ethan lifted his hand and looked at her. “He called me, asking for another date. I reminded him of the rules, that we weren’t supposed to go out with anyone again until all eight dates were over.”
“And?”
“And he said he’d call after all eight dates, if I was interested.”
Ethan was watching her carefully. “To which you replied…?”
She sighed. “That I’d be moving out of the area.”
Ethan arched a brow. “You blew him off.”
“I-” She hesitated. Yeah. She had. “He was a perfectly nice guy, I just didn’t feel any sparks.”
And now he was dead.
“So why was he at Edible Bliss?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good enough, thanks.” Ethan pocketed his pad. “I’ll be in touch.” He moved past her, and when Bella turned to watch him leave, found Jacob behind her.
The two men exchanged long looks. There was some sort of silent communication, then Ethan nodded and walked away.
“What was that?” Bella asked. “That whole conversation you just had without words? And you followed me.”
“Yep.” Ignoring her first question, he brushed past her, grabbing her hand as he did, pulling her up the stairs. At her door, he held out his hand. “What?”
“Your key.”
She stared at him.
“I want to look inside,” he said. “And make sure you’re safe.”
The thought that she might not be hadn’t occurred to her. She stared at her door and shivered.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” he said quietly. “But you need to be aware of your surroundings. Have an escape route, always. When you walk up these stairs alone at night, you don’t have a lot of choices on this small landing.”
“I can defend myself.”
“How?”
“I’d kick him in the nuts.”
He nodded. “Good. But you might need a backup plan. I can show you some moves, if you’d like.”
Yes. She’d like to see some of his moves.
Especially if they were anything like the moves he’d shown her last night.
“Key?” he repeated.
She hesitated, knowing he wasn’t going to like this.
He took in her expression. “Tell me the door’s locked, Bella.”
“It’s locked.” She let out a low breath, then stooped and pulled the key out from beneath the doormat.
He stared at her as she dropped it into his hands. “Are you kidding me?”
She lifted her chin. “I’ve always felt safe here.”
Until now…
“Jesus.” Shaking his head, he unlocked her door and handed her back her key. Hands on hips, he silently dared her to put the key back beneath the mat.
She didn’t. She almost wanted to, just to see what he’d say.
Or do.
She was pretty sure he could see that particular wheel turning in her head, so she resisted.
He looked at her for another beat, then shook his head again. “Stay here.”
She pictured him walking through her tiny seven-hundred-square-foot apartment like something out of a 007 movie, and wasn’t surprised that when he came back to the opened doorway, he was tucking his gun into the back of his jeans. “Any boogeymen?”
“All clear.” He stepped aside to let her in, nodding to the two huge duffel bags lined up against the wall in the living room. “Going somewhere?”
“Not quite yet.” She nudged one of the bags with her toe. “I don’t usually unpack.”
He lifted a brow.
She was used to that look. It was the genuine bafflement of someone who’d centered his life around one place, someone who’d made a home for himself. And she’d seen his house. It was big and open and…guy. There was a large, comfy couch and a huge TV. He’d had sports equipment lining his foyer and dishes in his sink. It’d been warm and lived in, and had reflected his personality.
It’d definitely been a home.
She’d not really had a home in years, and never one she’d made for herself since she tended to leave before she wore out her welcome. She realized that she was a contradiction-wanting to belong, yet doubting it would ever happen. But it was who she was. “It’s easier,” she said. “This place came fully furnished. I’m just borrowing the space.”
He absorbed that, looking as if he might say more, but he didn’t. And she was glad. She thought maybe they could have a good thing, and she was afraid to hope that this one time, she’d be able to stick around for a while.
He walked past the tiny kitchen table, upon which sat her ratty old notebook.
Last night, she’d written in her journal. It wasn’t a typical journal filled with thoughts and expressions, but held notes of her cooking adventures. Desserts were truly her happy place, and she could think about them, or write about them, all day. She’d meant it when she’d told Jacob that she didn’t follow recipes, instead using ratio, temps and conversion rates permanently in her brain. Mostly she went with her gut, and with the formulas she knew worked, things like her 1-2-3 method for sweet-crust pastries, which meant one part sugar, two parts butter and three parts flour.
But at the end of the day, if she’d done something new, she liked to scribble it down, and she did mean scribble.
Since she was always in a hurry, her handwriting was pretty much chicken scrawl, and illegible to anyone but her.
“Practicing your Greek?” he asked, raising a brow, proving her point by being unable to read her writing.
“Make fun of my writing all you want,” she said, lifting her chin. “Maybe those are
He flipped the notebook closed. Beneath it was a shopping list.
Also nearly illegible.
He grinned. “So you do have a fault. You can’t write worth shit. Ever think of taking up medicine?”
“Hey.”
He just smiled at her, and it pretty much diffused any righteous indignation she might have mustered.
He came up close and swept a stray strand of hair back from her face. “You’re going to lock up behind me.”
She saluted him. Her little attempt at levity. When he didn’t smile, she rolled her eyes and nudged him in the chest. His very hard, very warm chest. “I’m a big girl,” she said softly, leaving her hand on him. Maybe she even gently ran her hand from one pec to the other. She couldn’t help it, he was built. And the way he was standing over her, big and bad and protective, doing his cop thing…
“Bella.”
And God, his voice, all low and warning, and completely sexy.
