Page 13 of Colton's Secret Weapon
So why was he checking his phone?
He asked the question silently, not seeking an answer, as his thumb pressed the screen to open his messaging app.
Dove St. James.
A contact he’d added that afternoon. Just in case she needed him to put in another call to Eli. To use his influence with the ABI major crimes office in Shelby regarding the ongoing investigations into Fletcher and the studio break-in. Not that there’d been a major crime.
Yet.
Prevention was Mitchell’s job. One he took to heart with utmost dedication.
She’d sent two messages. One a single sentence:Dad’s on board.Followed by the second, which was a photo of a rudimentary contract, giving Dove St. James power of attorney rights for St. James Boats. It wasn’t notarized but had two witness signatures.
Without the notary, Whaler could argue the validity of the contract in court. But unless the older man could argue convincingly that he’d signed under duress, he’d have a hard time winning.
And with a local cop as one of the signatories, a duress claim was unlikely to fly.
Another text buzzed against his palm. Dove’s name flashed on his screen. As though the woman really did have some kind psychic connection and knew he’d been thinking about her.
Stopping that thought before it could settle, he shook his head against illogical intrusions and read.
I’ve been cleared to get back into my studio. I plan to be there at 7 tomorrow morning. Can you meet me afterward? Say, 9? At your office?
On a Sunday?
Seriously?
He read the missive a second time.
Hesitated to answer.
Then it hit him. Her timeline was good. Best that he get her taken care of and out of his hair before regular office hours on Monday.
In the event that urgent business hit his desk at the start of the week, he’d have his little sidebar done.
Sunrise was scheduled for just after five Sunday morning. He could bed down, get several good hours of rest and make it back to town and shower by nine, easy.
Unless he just met her at her studio at seven. No one should have to face the devastation he’d witnessed there alone. He could talk to her about St. James Boats while they straightened her place up. And then he’d have the rest of the day to head to the glaciers. Strap on his new crampons and head out on the ice.
He should test out the cleats before embarking on a longer solo ice adventure with them.
Decision made through logical choice, Mitchell was in his bed at home by one in the morning and up at six. Was showered, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt and leaning against the back wall outside of Repo, waiting for Dove when she arrived at five to seven.
He couldn’t help but watch as she approached him. In purple leggings with a lighter see-through purple skirt made out of some kind of thin netting and a purple long-sleeved tightly fitting top that ended just above her belly button.
Did she dress purposely to make people stare at her? Her aim every morning when she looked in the closet was to appear as bizarrely as she could?
Had she any idea how sexy she looked?
Her purposeful stride spoke of determination, not a come-on.
She was about three feet away from where he stood in the doorway when she asked, “What’s up?”
He shrugged. “I figured we could talk while you clean.”
With a raised brow she glanced at his clothes. “You don’t look dressed for business.”
Looking her straight in the eye, he cocked his head at her and asked, “You want my help or not?”
