The Heat Is On

“Retired and living in Palm Springs. I try to see them several times a year.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Sweet?”

He said this as if it was a dirty word, and she smiled. “What’s wrong with being called sweet?”

“Not something I’m accused of all that often.”

She bet. Hot? Yes. Big and bad? Yes and yes. But the sweetness he had buried pretty deep. Still, it was undeniable. “I have to tell you, I’m sitting here, trying to figure out why your friends thought you needed help enough to set you up with the singles club.”

“It was a joke.”

“Rooted from what?”

“Christ, you’re persistent.”

“Uh-huh, it’s my middle name. Spill, Detective.”

He let out a low, slow breath. “I live the job.”

“Lots of people live the job. Hell, I live and eat the job.”

“Cops are…different. We go to work and tend to see the worst in people every day, and sometimes we face things that make it hard on whoever’s waiting for us at home.”

“Things like a bullet?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Or the business end of a knife, or a hyped-up druggie determined not to go in peacefully, whatever.”

“That makes you very brave,” she said softly. “Not a bad relationship risk.”

“But there are the long, unforgiving hours. People really don’t like the hours.”

“By people you mean women,” she said.

“I’ve had two serious, long-term relationships, both of whom walked away from me because of the job.”

“Were you a cop before you dated them?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then that was their fault.” She squeezed his hand. “Not yours. You shouldn’t have to change who you are for a relationship, Jacob.” She cocked her head and studied him for a minute, seeing more of the story in his eyes and taking a guess. “So, actually, when it comes down to it, a blind date is right up your alley. Little to no danger of getting too attached, the anonymity of being strangers, et cetera.”

“Yeah.”

Ironic. Here was the first guy who’d tempted her to stick around in a damn long time, and he wasn’t looking for more.

The pizza arrived, steaming hot and smelling as delicious as Jacob. Almost.

She dug in with a huge bite, and moaned again. “God, this is good.” She licked cheese off her fingers. “So why were you waiting for me on the beach? I doubt it was to find out how many siblings I have, or that I have a healthy appetite.”

He was watching her suck the cheese off her fingers, but he answered her question without trying to bullshit her, or misdirect. “There’s news on the case.”

She swallowed and looked at him. “Tell me.”

“Have you had any odd phone calls or letters or anything out of the ordinary going on?”

“No. Why?”

“Did you know a Seth Owen?”

The name took her a minute, and she stared at him as shock hit her. “The dead guy. It was Seth?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know his last name,” she whispered, covering her mouth. “Seth was date two of eight.” Oh, God. He’d been a nice guy, friendly and sweet. He loved puppies and his mom.

And he was dead.

Dead on her back stoop, holding flowers. Her stomach rolled, and she pushed away her plate.

Jacob waited, eyes warm and patient while she struggled with control.

“I keep thinking I could have prevented this,” she finally said quietly. “If I’d only looked earlier, maybe called 911 sooner-”

“No. Bella-”

She looked away, toward the ocean, her happy place. The sun was a huge ball of orange fire on the horizon. The late breeze was soft and gentle, but still she shivered.

Because suddenly she was cold, very cold.

“I didn’t recognize him this morning,” she murmured. “But I never really saw his face, just his back.”

And his blood.

“He was so nice. I just didn’t- We didn’t click.” She met his gaze. “I was looking for the click.”

She hadn’t found that until date number eight, as they both knew.

Jacob’s eyes held hers, dark and filled with things, things she didn’t intend to spend a lot of time thinking about if she could help it. “I’m sorry. Thanks for dinner, but I have to go.” She surged to her feet, needing to bake, needing to be anywhere but here.

He stood up with her, but she shook her head. “I’m okay, really. I just have to…go.”

Now.

Yesterday.

He was standing close, looking a little protective and a whole lot intense, but when he reached for her, she took a step back.

He dropped his hand. “Bella.”

“I’m okay,” she whispered.

Not arguing with her, he nodded slowly, his see-all eyes taking her in carefully.

“Look, I’m sure you’re used to this…murder thing,” she said. “But I’m going to need some processing time.”

“Understandable.”

She ran her hands down herself, realizing she didn’t have any pockets. Or money. Hell, she was barely dressed. “I don’t have any cash, but I’ll-”

“I’ve got it, Bella.”

“See? Sweet.” She hugged herself, her fingers brushing over the material of his shirt. “And your shirt. I promise I’ll get it back to you-”

“It’s okay.”

She nodded, grabbing her towel and backing away from him and the table. “Thanks for…” Everything. “You know. Coming by, feeding me, et cetera.”

“Bella-”

She didn’t stick around to hear what he had to say.

Couldn’t. She needed to blot out the images of that innocent man bleeding on the shop stoop. She needed some time to untangle the newly complicated knot that now represented Jacob. She needed to breathe, to find some sort of center.

She needed to bake.

5

BELLA WALKED BACK TO Edible Bliss to find Ethan sitting on the steps that led up to the two apartments above the shop. Unable to summon the most basic of manners, she stared at him and sighed. “Didn’t I already give you the better part of my day?”

“You had two calls.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you left the window open in the shop’s kitchen-” He gestured above his head. “So when the phone rang, I could hear the machine pick up. Mrs. Windham wants a three-tiered lemon birthday cake for her pug for next