To Catch A Player

“Who’s your friend?” Nina asked the question, and I wasn’t surprised at all.

“I’m Agent Witherspoon, but you can call me Andrea.” She shook each woman’s hand, disarming Nina, Mikki and Hope instantly. Ginger was more circumspect.

“What kind of agent, Agent?”

“U.S. Marshal’s. I’m sure some of you are familiar with Jarrod Lyons before his recent notoriety?”

“Yeah we know ’em. Know he’s always been no good, and now he’s the worst kind of crook to boot. Just look what he put poor Ginger through!” Hope folded her arms and shook her head, clearly disgusted. “What do you need?”

“Can any of you say whether or not Lyons has any identifying features?”

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” Mikki said and looked away.

Hope shook her head. “All I can say is he’s good looking in that sleazy sort of way.”

Agent Witherspoon said nothing, but her body language spoke volumes about her frustration. “He’s got some kind of skin discoloration,” Nina said with a shrug. “I don’t have an official diagnosis or anything, but he hit on me once and I told him I didn’t date dudes who wore makeup.”

Preston chose that moment to interrupt and wrap an arm around his wife. “You never told me that.”

Nina cocked a brow at him. “You want me to tell you about every man who hit on me before you came along?”

“No,” he growled and turned to us. “Where’s Reese?”

Nina smacked his stomach. “He’s here on official police business about Jarrod. Agent Witherspoon is a U.S. Marshal.”

“Now that everyone is all caught up,” Andrea’s frustration was clearly mounting. “Does this man look familiar.” She held her phone up and Bo took it first, examining it carefully, zooming in and in before zooming out and handing the phone to Preston.

“That’s him,” Bo said, her words sure and confident.

“How can you be sure?”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Remember when he tried to get Molly Sanders’ attention and dressed up like a lumberjack?”

Preston laughed and Hope joined in. “That green beanie and red flannel. He looked like the guy from the paper towel ads.” Preston took a closer look at the photo. “She’s right, Agent. That’s him, that’s Jarrod.”

Ginger took the phone and carefully perused the photo. “Yes, that’s him alright. I spent some time interviewing him…and being held hostage. I’ll never forget his stupid face.” Andrea seemed a surprised at this bit of information.

“Great, thank you guys for the assist.” I flashed a smile that I hoped would soothe any ruffled feathers, but Ginger’s stare said it wouldn’t work.

“Detective Slater. Some news to share with the Gazette readers?” Her arched brows and the mischief that swam in her eyes put me on alert, not to mention the fact that she was friends with Reese, as much as Reese allowed herself to have friends.

“Just doing some good old fashioned police work Ginger. Got any tips for us?”

“I’m afraid you’re on your own today. I’m on cook-off duty.”

Witherspoon turned to me with a frown, a question in her expression. “That’s Ginger Scanlan. From the case file.”

“Right. Good call.” Her gaze bounced around the bar and I knew what the rest of my night would look like, chatting up the whole town while listening to stories of how they all knew that Lyons boy was up to no good.ReeseI felt like an idiot. The worse kind of idiot, a delusional one who’d been blown away. Over a kiss. A kiss that was hot enough to singe my skin and dry out my throat, hot enough to make me shudder and shiver. Hot enough to make my body beg for more. But less than a minute after that, Jackson had walked away with a gorgeous woman who did crazy things to a pair of jeans.

And that had made me angry—not at Jackson, though. He was free to do what and who he pleased without any input from me, I knew that. Still, I felt that anger down to my bones, and that just pissed me off. In the end, after spending a night downing mid-range wine while I binge-watched horror movies, I realized that I was I mad at myself. Mad for allowing myself to forget, even for a second, how this would go.

Again.

I woke up the next morning feeling better. Still angry at myself, but a lot better than last night when I was angry and hurt and ready to set the world on fire. Like a good small business owner, I decided to channel those emotions into my work. I came in early to make a few batches of Reese’s Famous Biscuits. They weren’t famous outside of Tulip, but every talked them up enough that tourists always bought some for the road.

Might as well help out my bank account if I couldn’t do anything about that empty spot in my bed. Not that I wanted to do anything about it. I didn’t. At least, I was pretty sure I didn’t.