Page 8 of Fiona and the Fixer

“Hoping to meet someone,” I replied, knowing he was eager for an answer.

My goal now was to track down Hannah Highcliff.

“Don’t tell me you’re staying in a hotel all by yourself.”

I shook my head. “No. I’m staying in a house on Candy Cane Lane. Are all the streets named like that?”

I didn’t make a practice of telling someone where I was going to stay, but Pops wasn’t a threat. And Candy Cane Lane? Seriously? I’d heard about Coal Springs and wondered if it was as quirky and perky as everyone said.

He clucked his tongue as he poured water into the back of the machine. “Yep, sure are. A pretty girl like you all by yourself? I don’t like that one bit. You should come to dinner. I know my wife, Marge, would love to have you. She’s making her famous pot roast tomorrow. You said you’re hoping to meet someone. We’ve got a grandson you can meet who–”

I held up my hand, cutting off his matchmaking. “Notthatkind of meet. Pops, the dinner invitation is super sweet. Please share my thanks with Marge, but I’m a vegetarian.”

He paused in his progress on scooping grounds into the filter.

My brain was pounding its fists on a table repeatingcoffee, coffee, coffeeover and over.

“You don’t eat meat?”

The look on his face was the same as if I admitted I just arrived from space and I was here to take him back with me, without the pot roast.

I shook my head. Fortunately, that stunner had him forgetting he wanted to fix me up.

He grinned and winked. “You’re the perfect guest then. I won’t have to share any of the roast with you.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t tell Marge you heard I’m so greedy.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Marge must have been an amazing cook.

“My lips are sealed.”

He nodded, then set the glass carafe in the machine and pushed the start button. “There. A fresh pot. Just give it a few minutes to brew and you’ll be good to go.”

“Thanks, Pops.”

He patted my shoulder, gave me that grandfatherly smile and went back to the front and behind the counter.

As the pot quickly filled, I stilled and let the noise in. Started to hear everything around me. The phone rang and Pops answered it. It was Marge. She wanted him to bring a gallon of milk and a variety of ice cream treats from the freezer because the grandkids were having a sleepover.

Back by the wall of refrigerated drinks two younger guys–who’d come in while Pops and I had been chatting–were debating cherry versus vanilla soda. Out in the parking lot, a car needed a new power steering belt based on the loud screech.

As soon as the pot finished, I eagerly poured some into a to-go cup and sighed. The constant chatter was exhausting. I took a second, closed my eyes, and focused on tuning it all out again. I’d gotten pretty good at it but–

“Gonna share?”

The voice, deep and rumbly, came from my left. It startled me, making me jump, the coffee sloshing in the carafe I still held.

I whipped my head around and there was a man.Right there.

How had he snuck up on me since I could now hear adog fart a block away? I worked in law enforcement where being aware of my surroundings was ingrained.

So was doing a perp assessment.

Male–obviously. Gorgeous. Early thirties. Six-two. Wearing a suit with the tie loosened and the top button undone. Built like a runner… no, a rich, cocky lacrosse player, except his knuckles and hands were rough as if they’d seen a few too many fights. His eyes, blue and piercing, were blisteringly focused squarely and completely on me. My ovaries exploded, a confetti parade invitation for him to get me pregnant.

Jesus, he was that potent, like I was standing on a live electrical wire.

He seemed to be doing the same onceover in return. His gaze cataloging everything about me, although hopefully not that my nipples were instantly hard, or my panties had caught fire.

Did his visual interrogation make him law enforcement, too?

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