Page 37 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

She was thankful for the stack of firewood Garrett had delivered. She was clearly going to need it.

Sunday morning, she felt like a new person. Her house was clean, she had everything she needed to survive, all neatly organized in scrubbed and lined cabinets. She’d had two good nights of sleep in a row and no sign of the stalker.

She dabbed the last of her makeup on, then checked her reflection in the mirror over the sink, half wishing she’d bought a full-length one so she could see how she looked in her slacks and boots.

She’d gone to the same church for as long as she could remember. The thought of trying a new one sent not butterflies to her stomach but killer bees in a turf war.

In the bedroom, her phone rang, the old-fashioned sound loud and jarring. Pressing a hand to her pounding heart, shehurried that way and snatched the cordless handset, pressing the button before she brought the giant thing to her ear.

So weird.

“I thought I’d pick you up for church,” Garrett said after her hello. “Are you almost ready?”

“I can drive myself.”

“You saw where I live. It’s not like it’s that far out of my way.”

True. He was about ten minutes down the mountain. She hadn’t gone into his condo the other night when he’d grabbed the handguns—he’d brought out three so she could decide which felt the best in her hand—and the complex seemed new and well-kept.

“Besides,” Garrett added, “we got a little snow last night. I thought you might chicken out on driving.”

She stepped to the window and looked outside. Sure enough, her driveway was white. “You’re sure it’s safe?”

He laughed. “I’m almost there.”

Five minutes later, she climbed into Garrett’s pickup, where tall coffee cups steamed in cupholders. She’d made her own that morning, but the temperature hovered somewhere in thewhat kind of idiot would live hererange, so a second cup of something warm was perfect.

“On your website, it says you’re a full-service general contractor, but this still seems outside your sphere of responsibility.”

He let out a low chuckle that had her insides thrumming with a reaction she wasn’t ready to name.

“I do like to please my clients.”

She clicked on her seatbelt, then reached for the cup nearer her, looking at him for permission.

He nodded, and she grabbed it.

“You’ll have to tell me your preference,” he said. “Personally, I love Josie’s lattes, but she makes everything.”

That must be the owner of Cuppa Josie’s, where Aspen had gotten coffee her first morning in Coventry. Which meant he’d driven to town, gotten the coffees, and then headed back up the mountain. In other words, he’d gonewayout of his way.

“Caramel macchiato. What’s yours?”

“Vanilla latte.”

“I’ll buy next time.”

“Deal.” He backed onto the road and headed toward town.

As Garrett had said, his was an old-fashioned white church, steeple and all, that looked like it’d been there for a hundred years or more. There were many such churches in Hawaii. The first white settlers to the islands had been missionaries from New England, so the building weirdly reminded her of home.

Rather than enter at the front, they walked into a lobby area beside the church—an addition, Garrett explained, that connected the sanctuary with the building next door, which housed classrooms. Garrett’s friends made a beeline their way. James introduced his wife, Cassidy, who was cradling their newborn, Hallie. Reid introduced Jacqui and his daughter, Ella, who Aspen would guess was about six. Thomas was there too. She also met Andrew and Grace, who were engaged, and Fitz and Tabby, who’d just moved back to town. And Dylan and Chelsea. Apparently, Chelsea owned Hamilton, a big clothing manufacturer located in Coventry.

The company that made the gloves Garrett had insisted Aspen buy. She might suspect he’d steered her that direction out of loyalty, but the gloves really were very warm.

Tabby, the curly-haired brunette, said, “Hey, we’re having a girls’ night tomorrow at my house. Do you want to come?”

“Oh, uh…” Did she?

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