Page 32 of Conrad

“Let’s go,” Conrad said softly. “I think maybe you need a cookie.”

She glanced up at him, turned, frowned. “Acookie?”

“Trust me.” He gestured with his head to their cars, and she followed him, stood at her open car door.

“Where are we going?”

“Follow and learn.” He got into his sleek Charger and backed into a driveway, pulled out. Like a woman hypnotized, she obeyed.

And yet, her heart banged in her chest, her breaths hard, her thoughts tangled as she pinned her gaze to his taillights, red and glowing like a beacon in the night.

She followed him through the maze of streets leading to St. Louis Park, and weirdly, just south of her own neighborhood, then over to Lake of the Isles and, tucked back a couple blocks off Hennepin, into the lot of a vintage-train depot. Yellow awnings over the windows, decorated with twinkle lights that lit up the space. He was waiting by the door, holding it open as she walked up. “What is this?”

“Ironclad Desserts.” He wore a grin, and she frowned but headed inside.

The aroma of chocolate baked goods filled the eclectic space. Small wooden tables with votive centerpieces, a long, high wall shelf crammed with used books, and hanging industrial lights gave the place an easy vibe. Leather chairs circled around wooden coffee tables, creating conversation nooks by the windows.

He stopped at the order station. “Hey, Marcie. I’m going to need a chocolate toffee-chip, stat.”

The woman—pretty, in her twenties—grinned, a few stars in her eyes as she took his card, swiped it, and handed it back. “Right away, Mr. Kingston. And your regular coffee order?”

Huh.

“Times two, but make them unleaded,” he said. Then Conrad gestured to a leather chair grouping.

She sat, leaned back, closing her eyes. “It’s late. I should go home.”

“Me too. I have practice in the morning.”

“You’re going to practice even though you’re suspended for two games?”

Marcie came over with a couple decaf coffees. “You forgot these.” She winked at him.

“Thanks, Marce.” He picked up the coffee. “I come here after games sometimes. Habit. My mom used to make me chocolate chip cookies after every game . . . Sort of a lucky charm.” He took a sip of coffee. “Best late-night brew in Minneapolis. And I’m not suspended. Just . . .” He made a face. “Let’s call it a mental time-out.”

She took a sip of the coffee. “This is good.”

“They call it the late-night latte. Decaf, milk, a hint of vanilla.” He set the cup down. “Now what?”

“Now what?”

“If that body was Beckett, then clearly whatever he wanted to tell you is dead with him, so . . . what’s next?”

Oh.She had the weirdest sense that this might be a continuation of that hug he’d given her. Only without any contact. Because hello, no cameras. But she’d met him—this was Men’s-Bathroom Guy, and maybe Carry-Her-Up-the-Stairs Guy. Not I-Am-into-You Guy, socalm down.

Marcie walked over again, this time carrying a sizzling skillet that she set down, along with two plates and forks, on the table between them. A giant chocolate chip cookie with whipped cream melting over the top. She cut the cookie into pie angles, then lifted one onto a plate, gave it to Penelope. The other onto a plate for Conrad. “Enjoy.”

Penelope picked up her fork. “How do you stay in such good shape with this kind of late-night sugar?”

“Sometimes I don’t eat the entire thing.” He took a bite. “At once.” His eyes closed, and he made a deep, rumbly sound in his chest.

Dangerous man, with the cookie, and the hug, and now a lion grumble.

Good thing this was all just pretend. And maybe, right now, therapy.

She took a bite. “How do you not eat the entire thing? Holy cats.”

“Right?”

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