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“What’s wrong with sugar?”
“Nothing. But it’s not as healthy as veggies.”
“Depends on how you define healthy.”
She set the notebook on the table. Squinted at him. “How doyoudefine it?”
“Same way the World Health Organization does—complete physical, mental, and social well-being, not merely the absence of disease. And part of my mental and social well-being comes from indulging my sweet tooth.”
One corner of her mouth quivered. “That’s an interesting take.”
“Works for me. Have I convinced you to join me in a sugarfest to launch the weekend? Or were you born without a sweet tooth?”
“Sadly, no. My sweet tooth is alive and well and very demanding.”
“Not based on evidence.”
She broke eye contact and brushed an invisible speck of lint off the arm of her sweater. “Trust me, it’s a constant battle. Usually I win. But you managed to pick one of my splurge items.” Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she surveyed the plate. “They have amazing blueberry muffins here.”
He took the scone, set it on his napkin, and eased the plate with the muffin toward her. “It’s all yours.”
“Bri, your drink is ready.”
As the barista called out her order, he rose.
So did she.
“Why don’t you let me get that for you while you dive into the muffin?” He indicated the plate.
“No. I’ll grab it. Thanks.”
Before he could protest, she was off again, winding through the tables as he watched her progress.
While the County fire investigator wasn’t model-skinny to go with her model-like height, she appeared trim and fit. In light of how she’d hefted and toted debris and heavy equipment with ease at the fire scene, any extra weight she might carry was likely muscle.
Did she frequent a gym? Bike? Swim? Lift weights? She could also be a runner—unless her slight limp was more than a temporary inconvenience due to an injury rather than a permanent condition.
Was it?
She rejoined him less than a minute later, broke off a bite of muffin, pulled out a pen, and opened her notebook. “You said on the phone you’d had a chance to review all the material I sent.”
So much for small talk and exploring his growing list of personal questions.
“Yes. As I mentioned last night when we confirmed this meetup, I agree the findings are a bit suspicious, based on your conversation with the victim’s daughter. Beyond that, I don’t have much to offer. No new insights have come to mind, but I hoped a face-to-face conversation would produce a few ideas. Maybe we could walk through our experience at the scene again, factoring in everything you’ve found in the interim.” While that might prove useful, it wasn’t his sole motivation for this in-person get-together. In fact, with any other woman who made the air around him crackle with electricity, he’d initiate a little flirting about now.
But the wariness in Bri’s eyes, the sudden tautness in her shoulders, sent a clear keep-your-distance message.
She set down her pen and picked up her coffee. Took a slow sip. “I doubt that will help.”
If she wasn’t inclined to pursue his idea, pushing could be a mistake.
“So what’s your next step?” He took another bite of his scone.
Her brow crinkled. “I’m going to find out what clock County gave Les for his retirement and see if I can verify that the piece of crystal you found in his yard could be from that.”
“What if you do? That doesn’t prove anything.”
“No, but it would be very suspicious.” She set her cup down, folded her hands, and leaned forward. “Why would a broken piece of Lismore crystal be in Les’s yard? If the pattern is a match, it has to be from the clock. His daughter said that was the only Waterford item he owned.”
