Page 43 of Unraveling Charlotte

“What’s in the bag?” My stomach growls, reminding me I left the omelet on the kitchen table, along with the Band-Aids for my finger.

His smirk throws me. It’s the kind of smile that holds secrets, and his dimple pops out.

I’m a slut for dimples.

“So when I got your message this morning, I wondered what kind of woman you are, Charlotte Hart.” He walks around my L-shaped couch, then he lowers himself into the opposite corner, where he toes off shoes that are not FBI approved. They look like old man slippers for outside, and I stop myself from pointing it out. “And I couldn’t decide if you are the sweet or savory kind of lady.”

“What’s in the bag?” I repeat and inhale slowly, trying to catch even a small hint of what he brought.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he says playfully, curling up in the corner and tucking his legs beneath him. This version of Agent Hayes seems worlds apart from the one I encountered the other night. He’s utterly disarming, and right now, I’d dub him as Matty, but I’m not quite ready to give him that nickname yet. “So sweet or savory, sweetheart?”

“Both,” I reply, relief washing over me that he’s positioned a safe distance away. I’d be tempted to wrestle the bag from him if he were any closer. “My mom used to bake these chocolate chip cookies that were out of this world,” I confide softly, the fatigue perhaps loosening my tongue in front of this stranger. Uncertainty looms, but the words continue to spill. “She’d crush pretzels and fold them into the dough along with the chocolate chips. And the finishing touch? Coarse Himalayan salt sprinkled on top. Those cookies were a sensation.”

“Those sound like heaven.” His voice carries a softness beneath his words. “Maybe we can make those.”

Is he asking me out?

I tilt my head, mulling over this unexpected overture, but hesitation blankets me. He’s an FBI agent, ensnared in the investigation of Sal’s murder. Eventually, when the case is solved, he’ll depart, leaving behind only empty spaces. I’m not certain if I can invest time and emotion into someone who’s destined to be transient.

“What’s in the bag, Special Agent Hayes?” I stress his title, but the way his eyes soften as he meets mine shatters the intended divide.

Moistening his lips, he uncurls from his position and stands. He approaches with deliberate steps, placing the bag in my hands. His gaze focuses on my injured finger. “That looks painful.”

I clutch the bag, my eyes momentarily fixated on the offending stitches. There are six of them. “First time I’ve ever had stitches,” I admit, leaving out the detail that a man I barely know administered them in my own kitchen. Doubt lingers about his nursing credentials. “Just a cooking mishap.”

“Isn’t burning yourself a customary part of cooking?” he jests, reclaiming his seat at the opposite end of the couch.

“Well, I was chopping peppers.” I pry open the bag and nearly weep. “Where did you get these?” I moan as I dig the stuffed pretzels out of the bag. “Sunshine pretzels.” I moan the name. I have only experienced sunshine pretzels once in my life, and it was my one and only semester in college. “They are still warm.”

“Well, now I know the way to your heart,” he says, and I know he’s teasing me, but it still hits me just a little differently than his earlier words.

I opt for silence, my attention on the bag’s contents—six pretzels, each cradled in its designated sleeve, flaunting its distinct variety.

“Cream cheese,” I say succinctly, revealing the core. My excitement gains momentum. “Raspberry, chocolate, Nutella.” I almost exclaim the last, my dilemma evident. How will I ever decide? “Cream cheese and chives, and finally…” I elongate the word, savoring the anticipation. “Everything bagel and cream cheese.”

“So which will you choose?” He drums his fingers on his thighs, waiting patiently for me to decide what I want.

“Cream cheese and chive.” I pull it out and hand Hayes the bag for him to choose.

Is he a sweet or savory kind of guy? And why does his choice matter so much?

“Everything bagel,” he says, pulling the thick pretzel out and placing the rest on the coffee table. “For now.” He winks.

He exudes a smoothness akin to that of a golden retriever, yet there’s a subtle undercurrent, a difference in his energy. He lacks the carefree exuberance of a retriever. His demeanor is more nuanced, almost calculated.

I tear off a piece of pretzel and pop it in my mouth. Chives explode on my tongue with the perfect balance of cream cheese, just like I remembered. So, so good.

I don’t even ask how far he had to go to get these, because the fact of the matter is, I’m not sure I care. They are the best pretzels I have ever had, and they are a complete experience.

“Farmer’s market,” he says, answering me, even though I didn’t ask and I’d already mentally decided I didn’t care. “About a half hour east. Every Wednesday, there’s this enormous market. Last time I was in New York, I was investigating and found them.”

“They are worth the drive,” I tell him around a mouthful of pretzel.

“Yeah, they are,” he says, looking right at me. He toys with his pretzel before he finally says something. “So, you texted me.”

Sighing, I rip off another piece of pretzel and chew while I think about my words. I want to tell him about the man in my basement, about the hitman who seems to look out for me, but I don’t bring up any of that. “Sal wasn’t who I thought he was, was he?” I almost whisper the words, feeling a chill dance across my skin at the admission.

“I’m sorry.” His voice carries empathy, a gentle touch that resonates. “I feel like he meant a lot to you.”

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