She sat on the long end of the dark blue L-shaped sectional that took up most of the space in the living room. “Then what’s the point of meeting them at the pub? Unless you think they know something? Jesus, who buys such a big-ass piece of furniture?” Abandoning it, she stood and started to pace.
“Hell, girl, the man is Bluelick born and raised, as is Lou Ann.” He detoured to the kitchen to get a beer. When he held a bottle up and raised a brow at her, she shook her head, so he put the rest in the fridge. “I think they know a whole lot of things and a whole lot of people. We spend a few hours at the local watering hole with them on a Friday night, and by last call, we’ll know a whole lot of people, too.”
“Maybe. At the very least, I guess it’s a chance to observe the clientele and see if there’s anything illicit going down at Rawley’s. Buchanan said one of his deputies’ girlfriends was attacked behind the pub last month by an unidentified man. It could be that she stumbled into a deal and somebody panicked.”
“Could be.” He eased past her on the way to the bedroom, stripping off his shirt as he went. A toss sent it through the open door of the small laundry room/mudroom at the end of the hall. It landed in the plastic basket sitting atop the boxy white washing machine. After a long draw from the beer, he bent at the waist, pulled his boots off, and left them against the wall opposite the machines. Popping the first two buttons of his jeans, he turned and…paused. Eden stared at him from the other end of the hallway, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.
“What?” He looked over his shoulder but saw nothing except the somewhat battle-scarred back door with the short, synthetic white curtain covering the window set in the upper half.
“It’s, ah, a small space. One bathroom, one bedroom. We should work out a schedule.” And then, with a reluctance even he felt, her gaze slid from his face to his shoulders and down his chest. It lingered at his half-open fly before she blinked and jerked her attention to the unadorned hallway wall.
Every part of him from the neck down went tight and hard. He forced a grin to his lips and pushed his voice past his dry throat. “What’s the matter, choux? Afraid you might see something about me you like?”
She tossed her head. “I’m not afraid of you at all, cooyon, but I don’t intend to share a bed or a shower. Our cover doesn’t go that deep.”
He tipped the bottle and took a long, very necessary swallow, then walked a slow step toward her. “You sure?”
She straightened but held her ground at the other end of the hall. “Positive.”
“Then there’s no issue. My work schedule kind of settles the shower situation, most days. That big-ass sectional out there”—he gestured to the living room—“is mine, and I’ve got no problem sleeping on it.”
“I’ll sleep on it every other night. Fair’s fair. And we can agree that whoever is on the couch gets first use of the bathroom at bedtime.”
“What if I want to stay up late and watch a ballgame on TV?” The only one in the house hung on the wall opposite the sectional.
“Then fine”—she flung her arms out—“you’ll take the sofa that night. I’m just trying to establish some basic order. The schedule doesn’t have to be etched in stone.”
He took another step along the hall, drawing even with the bathroom door. “You can be flexible from time to time?”
“Of course.”
“Right on.” He braced a shoulder on the doorframe. “Well, Eden, I’m gonna have me a shower now, if your schedule permits.”
“You’re an ass.” With that pronouncement, she turned on her heel and headed back to the front room.
He laughed. “An ass who brought you flowers. They’re in the kitchen. Do me a favor and put them in water like you would if they meant something to you.”
The impatient clip of her ballet flats on the time-worn hardwood served as her answer.
Chapter Five
Eden refused to take her temper out on twelve innocent red roses, even if they had come from the biggest, most arrogant…words failed her…cooyon to ever cross her path. She filled a tall vase she found in the cupboard under the kitchen sink with water and trimmed the stems using scissors from the Henckels block knife set she’d brought down from a storage bin in her parents’ garage. They were nice knives. Sharp. If worst came to worst, she could murder Swain with one and still have nine others to prepare meals with.
But that would be taking the easy way out. From the other side of the kitchen wall, the pipes moaned for a moment, and then the shower started. She sighed and arranged the velvety clichés into the kind of showy display a girl who thought beer and roses equaled the pinnacle of romance would favor. Then, because he might actually have a valid point about her car—not about denting it, but about doing a few things to make it look more lived-in—she went outside and moved it into the small, detached garage beside the house.
Swain was still showering when she returned. Since she didn’t want to picture him in that 1940s time capsule of a bathroom, with a hand braced against the seafoam tile, sipping a beer and letting a steady spray of warm water sluice over his face, shoulders, all those rippling muscles of his tapered torso… Nope. Since she wasn’t going to spend any time thinking of him, she made a beeline to the bedroom, opened the closet, and chose a “drinks at the pub” outfit.
From beyond the minimal buffer of interior walls, Swain started to sing. Loudly. Something drawly and achy and unquestionably country. She closed her eyes and prayed for patience. Not that he had a bad voice. He managed to stay on key. But it highlighted the fact that she’d never have a moment’s peace with him around.
How kind of him to unintentionally provide her with additional motivation to wrap this assignment up as quickly as possible and move on to serving and protecting proudly—and openly—as a member of the Bluelick PD. Which meant making tonight count. Doubly determined, she changed into a western-cut short-sleeved plaid blouse with pearloid snaps up the front and at the pocket flaps. The blouse wasn’t a style she’d normally keep in her wardrobe, but the department had given her a small stipend to purchase appropriate items for her cover. She tucked her skinny jeans into black cowboy boots she’d bought off her roommate at the academy when she’d learned about the assignment. Alvarez’s feet were a half-size smaller, so the boots were a little tight but nicely broken in. They struck her as appropriate for the circumstances, unlike the other item her roommate had gifted her—a lacy black bra-and-panty set Alvarez hadn’t bothered cutting the tags off because they’d been a present from a guy she’d broken up with after finding him banging her cousin
on the back patio during the huge graduation dinner her parents had hosted.
Classy.
Swain’s rendition of “Tequila” by Dan + Shay pulled her back to the matter at hand. After adding a narrow, black leather belt she’d had since college, she stepped up to check her reflection in the long mirror some thoughtful inhabitant at least twenty-five years ago had affixed to the inside of the closet door. Everything worked, in her estimation. The ensemble fit the occasion. Nothing about her stuck out. Her eyes narrowed on the “engagement ring.” Except that. The shiny eyesore encircling her finger refracted light like a freaking disco ball. It screamed “Look at me!”
It was wrong. All wrong. Despite herself, she smiled. Now she could give Mr. Devil-in-the-Details a little critique of his own undercover instincts. Obviously, she wouldn’t wear it tonight. If anybody asked to see her ring, she’d say she was getting it sized. Then she’d take the ring issue up with Buchanan. She trusted his judgment. Maybe she got too deep into the enjoyment of imagining schooling her partner on his jewelry choice, because she never registered the sound of the shower stopping or even the end of the Stagecoach Festival Swain had performed, but all of a sudden, the bedroom door creaked. She turned to find him standing there, freshly showered, wearing nothing but a blue-and-white towel around his lower half. The blue in the towel made his eyes pop. The way it rode low on his hips made everything else pop. Frustrated at herself for noticing—and well aware he was flaunting his Magic Mike body for the express purpose of getting under her skin—she fired back at him with a terse, “This ring won’t work.”