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Her eyes widened. “No.” But was there? There must be. She would swear—yes! Dots began to connect. The fleur-de-lys, connected to the legends of gold. She had seen the symbol before, or something like it, somewhere. But where? The gold exhibit? Her family’s records? Both? Neither?
Conrad leaned over and gently nudged her shoulder with his own. “C’mon. Finish your soup, and I’ll show you what I ordered for dessert.”
Dessert! Gimme! Jane blew on a spoonful of broth before tasting. An explosion of flavor drew a moan from her. She closed her eyes and savored. Warmth spread through her.
A thought caught her off guard, and she couldn’t not ask. “Why are you being so nice to me, Special Agent Conrad Ryan?”
He lifted a brow. “Am I usually cruel to you?”
“You’re usually closed off. Which is cruel to someone like me. So yes. You are usually cruel to me.” But there had been those few glimpses at an ooey-gooey center beneath his hard candy shell.
“Let’s say my job leaves me unnaturally suspicious of everyone I meet. The actions they make. The words they use. Having a traumatic childhood doesn’t help matters.”
An ache stung the back of her throat, and it had nothing to do with her waning cold. What terrible things had young Conrad survived?
That he was opening up to her, sharing even the smallest bits and pieces about his life, affected her. Something told her he didn’t do this often. But what had brought on this change? And how should she respond? Would he shut her out if she pressed for more?
“Conrad—”
“Nope. I’m done.” Motions as brisk as his tone, he closed what remained of his soup.
Fine. Maybe he’d finished talking, but Jane had only begun to offer comfort. She reached out slowly. He let her. Contact. Her breath hitched. They were skin to skin. Heat to heat.
She trailed her fingers from his knuckles to his forearm, lightly stroking him. The muscles tensed beneath her touch. Conrad readjusted, moving out of reach, and her hand plopped to the counter. Where it belonged. She’d overstepped, hadn’t she?
“Ready for dessert?” he asked as her cheeks heated. Once again, he donned an emotionless mask. And yet, he flexed his hand before leaning over to free a batch of old-fashioned peanut butter cookies from the tote.
Trying to stop himself from touching her? Wait, who cared about illicit caresses right now? Cookies! “It’s as if you can read my mind,” she said, snatching a cookie from his grip.
The corner of his lip quirked. “I think I can do anything but that. Reading you is tough. You show too much and too little at the same time. I’ve never struggled to read anyone like this.”
He must be teasing, and she laughed. Her? Difficult? She was an open book.
A knock sounded on her back door, and she jolted. Dang, she startled easily lately.
“Beau?” Conrad asked with an arched brow.
“Hopefully.” Cookie in hand, she hopped off her chair and opened the door. Sure enough, Beau stood there, shifting from leg to leg, discomfort stamped on his features. He held a small container.
“Hi,” she said, happy to see him. “Please, come in.”
“No, thank you.” He looked at Conrad, who leaned against the kitchen wall, watching, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. “I saw his car and thought you might need support.”
Well. There he was again. The sweet boy determined to protect his childhood friend. She smiled in thanks. “That’s so kind, but I’m great. Conrad brought my favorite soup. We’ve been discussing the case.”
“How are you feeling? Truly?” Beau asked.
“Good enough to remember our deal. Don’t think you’re getting out of it. Oh! While I’ve got you, we need to discuss the bill you haven’t given me.”
He rocked on his heels before stepping back. “Just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
Or he had no plans of charging her? “Beau, I insist on paying. And don’t forget to put your sign at the gate. If you haven’t already.” She hadn’t checked the grounds for days. No telling what changes awaited her out there. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in? We can discuss the coming date—”
“This is for you,” he interjected. He thrust the round container her way. “I brought you soup as well.”
Super sweet? No. The super sweetest! “Thank you, Beau. I love it.”
He blinked at her. “You haven’t even tasted it. It’s not from Daisy’s. I, uh, made it. On my own.”
From scratch soup? Super sweeter than the super sweetest! “It smells delicious, and now I have dinner. So about that deal. You’re keeping your end of the bargain, yes?”
“I’ll call you about the date, okay?” he said, spinning and hurrying away. He disappeared around the house. Heading for the front, where his truck was parked?
“I consider that a definite yes,” she called after him. Before he could reply with a refusal, she shut the door.
