He’d been awkward at the party, shifting foot to foot in his wet sneakers, letting Carter do most of the talking. Stage fright compounded by an overwhelming sense of what the fuck was going on. He had a better grip on the latter this morning, but the former would never go away. Not unless he completely knew his role, inside and out, like when he was teaching or working on a case. Then he could push down the anxiety with the confidence of his expertise. But a café full of strangers . . .
“I need your expert eyes in there. Like the party last night, it’s another gathering, another sample of the Apex population. You may notice something forensically or genetically relevant.”
“Or I may make an awkward fool of myself.”
“You’re supposed to be the nerdy librarian.” Carter flicked one end of the argyle scarf Lincoln had snagged on the way out the door. “Awkward works for you.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Come on, I’ll be your designated extrovert.”
Lincoln couldn’t stop his laugh. “No shit.”
Carter flashed him a grin, then climbed out of the car. Lincoln followed, the two of them walking side by side across the parking lot. Just shy of the entrance, Carter halted Lincoln with a hand on his shoulder. “One more thing.”
“Now what?” he snapped, more harshly than intended. “Sorry.” He pointed at himself. “Requires more coffee.”
“Is that all?”
Lincoln glared, Carter smiled, crisis averted.
“We were in our home last night,” Carter said, still grinning. “Displays of affection seemed appropriate. But how do you want to play them in public? Even real couples have to have this conversation.”
There was that damn kindness again, and it caught Lincoln off guard, same as it had last night. Carter was definitely flirting—Lincoln would be a fool not to see that—but he was also respecting the boundaries Lincoln had set. Like a good partner.
“L, you with me?”
And he respected that rule of Lincoln’s too.
“Sorry, you just surprised me,” he admitted.
“In a good way, I hope.”
“Yeah.” Heat climbed his neck to his cheeks. Because of the cold, that’s all it was.
Carter wasn’t buying that any more than Lincoln did, but Carter thankfully let it go. “So, where do you want to draw the line for PDA? Hand-holding, touching, making out . . .” He grinned wider, and Lincoln took back every good thought he’d had about him.
“Cocky,” he muttered.
Which earned him another smirk, except Lincoln could tell when it shifted from genuine to practiced. “We’ve been spotted,” Carter said, gaze gliding to the side. “So you’re on the clock.”
Lincoln peeked the same direction. Susanne, her wife, Jennifer, and another woman were in the pale-yellow booth, all of them watching him and Carter with rapt attention. He held his hand out to Carter before he could reconsider. “I think you better take this before I run away screaming. As for the other two, TBD, and no, I’m not an exhibitionist.”
Carter’s big warm hand closed around his. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”
Fucking maddening.
“So, how’d you two meet?”
Lincoln jolted at the question voiced by a Jerry Garcia lookalike who’d stepped to the end of their booth. It was an abrupt interruption in the conversation he and Carter had been having with Susanne, Jennifer, and their friend Lydia Osler, a psychologist at the county hospital and adjunct professor at Apex U. Carter had been skillfully extracting information out of them—about the university, Apex, and the who’s who of townsfolk who weren’t at the party. He’d deftly directed the conversation so that Susanne, Jennifer, and Lydia did most of the talking. Saving Lincoln from his fumbling awkwardness. Until flour-covered Jerry crashed the party.
“Barry,” Susanne hissed.
Because that wasn’t confusing or anything.
“What?” the older man said. “Y’all been giving them two”—he waggled a finger at Lincoln and Carter—“all kinds of information, and they’ve given you jack shit.”
The women tittered and Carter chuckled. “You’ve been listening,” he said to Barry.
