Page 18 of Slow Burn
Her chin trembled, another right hook to his stomach. “Fine,” she managed, but it wobbled so hard, he worried she might lose her balance.
“Come on.” He wrapped a hand around her arm, ignoring the heat that shot into his palm at the feel of her skin. “Don’t make me drag you—we’d get the rumor mill rolling.”
She shot him a look but let him steer her toward the only decent coffee spot in town—Gert’s place, just a couple doors down.
The next town over had a chain grocery store with a Starbucks inside, but folks in Cedar Hollow would never be caught dead buying that over-roasted bean water. Not with Gert pouring shots of espresso at Southern Comfort.
He found a corner table, just in case Jocelyn wanted space to cry it out, though the place was quiet this late in the morning—after the work rush and before the teens that swarmed once school let out.
He opened his mouth to ask, but she beat him to it: “Iced latte.”
The misery in her voice twisted him up, but he gave a short nod and went to order. Gert—half-covered in tattoos, dreadlocked, and entirely out of place in small-town Tennessee—gave him a pointed look toward the table. He didn’t bother explaining, and she left it alone.
They’d gone to high school together, raised a little hell in some of the same circles. Both of them straightened up around the same time, though she’d lit out for some hippie farm up innorthern California before drifting back home to take over her aunt’s old bakery. Turned it into the coffee shop folks kept in steady business.
Most everyone kept their mouths shut about her appearance these days. There were the gossipy old biddies who kept their pearls nice and shiny from clutching too often, but nobody with sense paid much mind.
When he came back with the latte and his own Americano, Jocelyn had dried her tears, but her attention was still fixed out the window. He slid her cup over and sat.
“If I ask again if you’re alright, would you give me a straight answer?” he asked, brow raised.
She looked down at the cup in her hands. “You already know the answer, whether I say the truth or not.” Finally, she lifted her face, meeting his scrutinizing look with a certain glint in her eyes.
Damn, she was beautiful like that—heat in her gaze, steel in her spine.
“What got you all worked up?” he asked. He’d already noticed the boutique bag by her feet; maybe she’d run into Natasha. He couldn’t picture Natasha being unkind, but stranger things had happened.
Jocelyn blew out a breath, the sound wobbling. “Oh, just Lydia Abbott.”
That tracked. Lydia wasn’t one for outright rudeness, but she could be as vicious as Kiki Womack. Just more subtle.
“What’d she say?” Cole’s tone was flat, but his blood was already warming at the possibilities.
Jocelyn rotated her coffee on the table to keep her hands busy. “She made a comment about how much I look like my mama.” Her lips flattened. “‘I suppose some things just can’t be helped,’ she said.”
Cole’s jaw ticked, but before he could speak, Jocelyn added, “It is what it is. She made it clear she suspects why I’m here.”
“What makes you say that?” His hand was tight around his own coffee cup, the heat seeping into his palm steadying his mind.
“‘Your mama had secrets, Jocelyn. Some women do.’” She nailed Lydia’s nasally drawl. “Like I should let them lie.”
“You’re not giving up, are you?”
She jerked to look at him, brows up.
“Ma thinks you deserve your answers.”
“Do you?”
The question hit him square in the chest. He shifted in his seat. “Isn’t the case closed?”
Her gaze stayed locked with his a beat longer before she looked away. “Never felt like it added up.”
Cole tapped a rhythm against the side of his cup, curiosity getting the best of him. “Like what?”
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, drawing his attention to her mouth. He’d been ready for a list of reasons, but his mind went tripping over the thought of what those lips might feel like against his.
“It doesn’t make sense that my mama didn’t get out of her room that night.” Her eyes narrowed on that coffee cup, the clear plastic sweating almost as bad as he was trying to steer his thoughts somewhere safer. She worried at the edge of the lid with those long, easy-moving fingers of hers.
