Page 4 of Playing With Fire

Jodi tapped her bottom lip with a manicured finger.

What was it she had heard on the grapevine? Which of the usual triumvirate of love, scandal, or money had brought the hunky hero back to his hometown?

Ricky turned, coffee in hand. His dark, deep-set eyes gleamed with amusement at catching her thoughtful gaze.

Jodi, aware that she was probably blushing like some gawky teenager, threw him a fake smile as he carefully wove through the crowded space.

He set down the mugs and slid awkwardly onto the miniscule stool, folding his long limbs carefully under the table.

“Welcome to the world of tiny cafés,” she said brightly. “The entrepreneurs in Temple Mountain have figured out that they can cram a café into an alley just like the folks in New York City—and charge you more for the experience.”

A couple of high schoolers squeezed past in on-trend puffy vests, even though the air was still languid with late summer warmth. The small table rocked alarmingly. She grabbed it, banging his knees in the process. They were both too tall for micro furniture.

“I usually get takeout from here,” Jodi continued in her chatty tourist-information voice. “The newspaper office is just opposite. I’m the acting editor.”

She nodded at the large shopfront window across the busy street, the new fancy font proudly proclaiming The Temple Mountain Monitor, then clamped her lips firmly shut to choke off any more babbling.

Ricky sipped his coffee in silence. He looked at her and then across the street. He nodded.

“So the former editor—that dude who’d been here since Moses was a boy...”

“Gus Randall. Passed away before last Christmas,” Jodi said quietly. “He was found at his desk one morning.”

She cleared her throat. She’d been fond of the old guy, who’d given her a “temporary” job a few years back and drummed into her his version of good old-fashioned journalism—double check your sources and never give advertisers (or the newspaper owners) the upper hand.

She tried for nonchalance. “So I took the job of keeping the paper going until they find someone willing to drag The Temple Mountain Monitor kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century.”

He nodded, and drank coffee. His eyes were full of questions, but he said nothing.

Jodi relaxed a fraction. Finally, a man who didn’t feel the need to ask why a cute babe like her wasn’t married with a couple of youngsters.

She sipped her brew, covertly studying the strong lines of his face. He looked back, unblinking. His dark eyes were hooded, the intensity of his gaze a little disconcerting.

No doubt he had his own secrets.

The silence lengthened until it felt awkward.

Jodi considered chugging back her coffee and making an excuse to leave.

Not that she needed an excuse. Her eyes strayed across the road. It was deadline week, and there was a pile of stories to edit and headlines to write. And it was not a great idea leaving that new graduate Dougie Moon, who thought he was a cut above covering the council debate over recycling bins, to his own devices.

She breathed in the beguiling café aroma of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon sugar and scorched milk, and tried not to worry about that overdue quarter-page advertisement and whether there were too many or not enough letters for the opinion page.

Her nostrils twitched. A faint, chemical smell, somewhere close. An acrid scent she could almost taste. Definitely not aftershave.

“That’s...me. Sorry.” Ricky frowned down at his well-scrubbed hands. The edges of his dun shirt cuffs were stained black.

Jodi silently raised an eyebrow, a trick of which she was modestly proud. One of Gus’ secret weapons that they didn’t teach in journalism school. It worked a treat.

“It’s the chemicals in fire retardant. Basically, stuff like ammonium and diammonium sulfate and ammonium phosphate.”

Ricky was leaning forward in his intensity. He stopped, smiled sheepishly.

“Too much information?” He went back to drinking coffee. “I know it looks like my job is chasing stray pooches, but in my spare time I’m supposed to be tracking down a firebug who thinks it’s fun to start random fires in trash cans—and then watch while the new council assistant—that would be me—runs around with a fire extinguisher.”

“Is that so?” Jodi’s newshound antenna flicked to full alert. As Gus would say, one fire in a trash can was a nuisance. More than one was a crime spree.

“The Chief thinks it’s a couple of teenagers.” Ricky didn’t look convinced.

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