French Roast

by Ava Miles

  “Then maybe it’s better to focus on the personal stuff.” Peggy grabbed a napkin and spit on it, reaching across. “Last night’s macaroni.”

  Jill lurched back. “Gack, did you just do the mommy thing?”

  Her eyes narrowed like Jill was a murder suspect. “Don’t make me hurt you.” She threw the napkin aside. “I need to get back to work. Cuff some drunk and disorderly college students or something. God, I even miss the paperwork. I love my kid, but he’s no fun sick. And now I’m afraid he’s given it to me. I had a sore throat this morning. I can’t get sick!”

  “Well, don’t get any closer. I can’t get sick either.”

  “Like I was going to lay one on you. I may be a single mom, but I’m not that desperate.”

  A laugh huffed out, and it felt good. “If I were a guy, I’d totally marry you. Then I wouldn’t need to worry about Brian. We could raise Keith together. Plus, you know how to use handcuffs.”

  The corners of Peggy’s mouth tipped up. “I can get a resisting suspect cuffed in five seconds. Made the guys hang their heads in shame.”

  “Not that you’re not competitive or anything…”

  “Like you’re not? Okay, wise ass, back to Brian. What are you going to do if he decides to open a restaurant with her?”

  Brian leaving? God, the thought hurt. Jill leaned back in her chair. “Well, I have another option.” Even without knowing the details, she didn’t think Peg would approve of Mac Maven. “Not sure how viable it is though.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Peggy asked, drumming her fingers on the table.

  Was she that transparent? “Do you have ESP?”

  Her friend leaned back in her chair like she had all day. “Comes with the job. Now spill.”

  Jill threw up her hands. “Fine, but I don’t really know much. He won’t discuss it without a confidentiality agreement. The one thing I do know is he’s smoking hot.”

  Peggy’s eyebrow arched. “Single?”

  Jill made a trilling noise, this conversation a welcome distraction. “Have you decided it’s time to join the land of the living and dance the horizontal mambo?” The thought sent a few bars of laughter bubbling through her, easing the tension in her diaphragm. “He’s so not for you.”

  “Just because I look like Mommy slime doesn’t mean I don’t clean up well. What’s his name?”

  Jill cocked her head. This wasn’t prurient interest. “You’re planning on running him in your whatchamacallit police database, aren’t you?”

  “Guy wouldn’t make you sign a confidentiality agreement if he’s up for citizen of the year.”

  Jill grabbed her hand. “Peg, seriously, he’s a good businessman. I’m sure there are excellent reasons for the confidentiality.” Even if she didn’t know them. “One of my regulars vouched for him.” Jack had been using a soft-sell strategy on her each time he came to the coffee shop, telling her how incredible Mac was and how much he wanted to work with her. But his lips had remained zipped about the nature of the business, which frustrated Jill to no end. Didn’t a girl at least deserve to know what she was being courted about?

  “If that were true, you would have told Brian about it, and you wouldn’t balk at giving me his name.”

  Dammit, she never should have said anything. “How did you know I didn’t tell Brian?” Jill popped out of her chair. “I wasn’t planning on pursuing it.” Until now. “Please leave this alone.”

  Peggy stood. “I don’t like you holding out, but back to Brian. What do you want to do?”

  God, what did she want to do? Jill rubbed a hand under her tingly nose. “Honestly, Peg, I don’t know, but I’m done waiting for him. I’ve done that most of my life.”

  What could it hurt to inquire about Maven’s offer? If nothing else, it would keep her mind off Brian. If he left, at least she’d have something else to pour her broken heart into.

  ***

  Peggy shut the door after Jill and headed upstairs. Poor girl. Men could really mess you up. She’d had her quota of that with Frank; as far as she was concerned, she was done for life.

  Tanner was reading Keith another story, and her kid was curled against him like bread dough in a pan. Too bad her camera wasn’t handy.

  She ducked into the bathroom to clean up. Her eyes had a glassy shine like she’d been on an all-night stake-out. Were those dark circles? She really did look like Mommy shit. Thank God, she wasn’t the type to go mirror, mirror, on the wall…

  But her T-shirt smelled, and that was pretty bad even for her. When had she last done laundry?

  She eyed her badge, propped on the vanity. Frank thought she was weird for keeping her badge in the bathroom when she was off-duty. For Peggy, it was a reminder of the kind of woman she was. Far more than just cold cream and hair products. She twirled the plastic slinky Keith had left on the side of the tub when he took his bath. She was a mommy too. Sometimes the two people inside her seemed incongruent. Staring at her reflection, she wondered where the woman had gone. The cop and the mom seemed to have taken up all the space inside her.

  She reached for a new shirt and pants. At least she could wash her face. Brush her hair and teeth. For today, it would be enough.

  When she came back out, Tanner was waiting.

  “He’s out cold. Poor kid didn’t even make it through one chapter with me.”

  She walked downstairs with him. “This virus has zapped him.” Her sore throat spiked her worry quotient. Sometimes being a single mom was as nerve inducing as bursting through the door to a perp’s house.

  Tanner put his arm around her. “Meredith and I can help.”

  She knew she was having a girl moment, but she wanted to lean on her big brother and let him take care of everything. “I think I’m coming down with it too.”

  “It’s no wonder. You’ve pushed yourself to the max. You bought this place and set it up faster than anyone I’ve ever seen; you started a new job, where you’ve had to clean up after a dirty cop; and you got Keith settled into a new school.”

  “When you put it that way…” she said. “You coming over here every day means so much to Keith.” She patted him on the arm. They weren’t sentimental people, but she wanted him to understand. “It means a lot to me, too. I missed you when you were overseas.”

  The hug he gave her was oddly comforting. He’d never been into hugs before meeting Meredith. Then again, neither had she.

  “I missed you, too. It’s funny. With you guys and Meredith, I don’t have the itchy feet I was so worried about.”

  “I’m glad. I didn’t know if you could stay state-side.”

  His arms fell away so she stepped back.

  “I need to head back to the university for my class.”

  “My brother, the journalism prof.” When he reached the door, she called out his name. “Could you do me a favor?” she asked when he turned around, going with her infamous gut.

  “Anything.”

  “Could you get me a list of people who’ve bought property in the area over the last six months?” Time to see if she could find a thread to pull. She didn’t have much to go on from Jill.

  He tugged on his navy coat and leather gloves. “Are you going to tell me why?”

  His intense gaze didn’t make her squirm like it would other people. “It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  “Is this about this French woman?”

  She almost laughed. “Not at all.”

  Silence filled the hall for a full ten beats. “Okay, but if you want to let me know why you can’t run this at work, you can trust me.”

  She nodded. She was too new at The Justice Center to use their resources for something personal. But she didn’t want him to know about Jill being approached by a mysterious investor. He’d have to tell Meredith because of the marriage rule, and Meredith would likely do the sister thing of talking to Jill. Peggy had zero desire to start a telephone game.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  He kissed her ch
eek. “Okay. I’ll bring a list over. Call if you need help. I mean it, Peg.”

  As she closed the door, she pressed a hand to her jumping stomach. She wasn’t psychic, but she knew when something didn’t feel right.

  Dare was her home now, and she’d do what she could to protect it—and Jill.

  Hopefully her gut was wrong. If this investor was bad news, she’d have to find a way to shut down whatever confidential thing he was planning.

  Even if Jill didn’t like it.

  Chapter 12

  Going back to Don’t Soy with Me held about as much interest as bowling on the frozen river up the canyon. Jill wasn’t up to the whispers, questions, or assessing glances.

  Instead, she went home and dialed Maven’s number. Time to explore new options.

  “Mac Maven,” the baritone voice answered with a hint of impatience.

  “Mac, it’s Jill Hale.”

  “Jill,” he responded with a liberal dose of charm. “It’s good to hear from you. I hope this means you’ve reconsidered.”

  She flipped a photo of her and Brian playing pool at Hairy’s Pub face down on her purple coffee table. “That’s correct.” She refused to feel guilty, trying instead to focus on the excitement of this mystery business deal.

  “Wonderful! Can you meet me at my office in Denver?”

  “Sure.” She wrote his address down.

  “Is tomorrow possible? I can be flexible since you’re driving down. How about I take you to lunch?”

  Might as well get a good meal out of the trip. “Sure.”

  “I’m glad you reconsidered. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  The phone clicked.

  She headed to her closet. Her taste in fashion didn’t run to power suits, but hopefully she could pull together something appropriate. Tomorrow she’d finally discover why he’d contacted her. Part of her couldn’t wait.

  Then she’d talk to Brian. She understood how difficult relationships were for him and how badly his parents had messed him up. But if he wanted to preserve any kind of bond between them, he’d tell her the rest of his secrets. She needed to be able to trust the people in her life.

  If he didn’t come clean, she couldn’t even be his friend anymore.

  Chapter 13

  Brian took another pull from the Jack Daniels bottle and threw a dart across the living room of his apartment. It hit the wall and bounced. Mutt didn’t even flinch.

  “I’m sucking pretty badly today, aren’t I?” He scratched the dog’s head. “I miss Jill.” He drilled a dart into his Paris landscape instead of the dartboard.

  He took a draw on the drink, reveling in the way it made his throat burn.

  Someone pounded on the door. Mutt rolled his eyes up like are you going to get that?

  “You’re a terrible watchdog. Maybe it’s Jill.” Mutt barked. Brian rushed over and opened the door.

  Pete held up a brown bag. “Brought some medicine.”

  His friend strode into the kitchen. After finding a highball glass, he poured himself a drink. He sat across from Brian, who had sprawled back on his black leather couch, rubbing Mutt’s floppy folds.

  “How could you not have told me about the French chick?”

  Because he’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t tell anyone. Returning to Dare had been hard enough without adding more complications. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, no one in Dare can stop talking about it. That scene in Don’t Soy with Me will keep the grist mill going for weeks.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I take it you and Jill are on the outs.” Mutt gave a ruff.

  “Yes, we’re talking about Jillie, boy. We went a few rounds at the cemetery after she talked to you.”

  Pete stood, fists at his side. “I wouldn’t call it talking. God, every time I see her, it’s one accusation after another, which only makes me feel worse. I know she needs someone to blame, but goddammit, I’m having a hard enough time as it is. ”

  Brian heaved himself up. “You’re not to blame for what happened to Jemma. No one is.”

  Pete threw back his drink. “Nothing’s how it used to be, and I don’t think I can take it much longer. You’re finally back, but Jemma’s dead, and Jill’s declared me her mortal enemy. Now I understand how you felt when you left for New York, and she wouldn’t talk to you anymore. When I broke up with Jemma, I knew I’d lose Jill’s friendship, too. I just didn’t know it would suck this much.”

  “Yeah, it sucks balls.” And thinking about how he’d felt before only added to his current misery. The problem was that any explanation would make Jill crazy. And she had the right—he’d been a dick for not telling her, for not being able to give her a firm commitment, either on the restaurant or their relationship.

  “So this Frenchwoman wants you back?”

  He turned away from the Paris scene on the wall. “Yes, but I told her I was with Jill. She wants to open a restaurant together.”

  Pete whistled. “Are you thinking about taking her up on her offer and heading back to New York? I never did understand why you came back here.”

  Even though Pete was his friend, he felt like Jill should be the first one to hear the whole story.

  “Why are you still here if you feel that way about this place?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

  Pete shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about moving on lately, and I’ve put out some feelers. I can finish my dissertation from anywhere. It might be good to have a fresh start.”

  He hated to think about his friend leaving just when they were getting their rhythm back, but he understood. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m headed to Hairy’s tonight. Wanna come?”

  “Nah.” His stomach churned like an ice cream maker. He should have eaten with his drink. “Grab me that salami and cheese in the fridge, will you?”

  Pete dumped the contents on his granite countertop. “You’ve become such a food snob. What happened to you?” he asked jokingly.

  “I got taste. You didn’t,” he concluded in their form of male bonding. Brian cut a piece of sopressata salami and bit in. The cured pork was like a shaft of light, and the truffle cheese made anything seem possible. Food made life seem good again.

  “Sure you don’t want to go to Hairy’s?”

  “I don’t need to hear people talking about me.”

  Pete slapped him on the back. “Understood. Catch you later McConnell.”

  The door slammed. Brian gripped the counter. Well, if he was going to stay in tonight, he needed a distraction.

  And nothing calmed Brian like cooking.

  ***

  To keep his mind off Jill, he decided to go with comfort food. A quiche? No, nothing French. Nothing he would have made with Simca. He’d go Italian and make homemade lasagna. He pulled some sausage out of the refrigerator. Making the noodles by hand would soothe him. He threw a pan on the stove and added the sausages, spacing them apart.

  Some ingredients needed room to reach their true potential. He was one of them. Leaving Dare hadn’t been easy, but it had been the right decision. It had helped him grow up. The question was what he needed now.

  When a knock on the door sounded, he turned down the burner. Mutt’s eyes fluttered open, and he gave a jaw-cracking yawn, drool trailing to the floor like melting wax.

  Brian hoped it was Jill. He threw open the industrial door and stilled. Seeing Simca twice in one day made him feel off balance.

  “Hello, Brian,” Simca said quietly.

  “How did you find out where I live?”

  “I am resourceful, no? I had something special to give you and didn’t want to wait.”

  “I wish you’d called,” he said, but not wanting to be rude, he let her inside.

  She leaned against the door and undid a few buttons on her black silk blouse, revealing the tips of an even darker lace bra.

  “Sim, you need to stop that.”

  “What?” she asked with a slow smile.
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  “You know. I told you I’m with someone else, and you can’t stay if you’re not going to respect that.”

  Her smile dimmed, but she buttoned back up. Thank God.

  “I like your loft, chérie. It’s very European.”

  She’d get that. Her attention to detail had impressed him, from the kitchen orders to remembering how he folded his T-shirts.

  “And you have a dog too. I remember you saying you wanted one.” Mutt put his paws over his eyes. “Your gift.” She crossed over to the kitchen in her ice-pick black boots, already dressed in a different outfit from the one she’d been wearing that afternoon—so Simca.

  His taste buds leaped straight off the cliff. He knew that bag. To the naked eye, the leather satchel could be a purse. Inside it held coolant freezer packs to store specialty food items. Leave it to the French.

  “I was just in Paris. I brought you back some Epoisses de Bourgogne.”

  The bag’s zipper purred slowly. To a chef, the unveiling of this rare cheese was akin to a striptease at an upscale club.

  “You take too many chances with Customs, Simca.” Saliva pooled at the sight of that round orange wrapping shaped like a pin cushion. Nine ounces of sheer orgasmic delight. He suspected she remembered him equating the cheese to raunchy sex. She could have chosen any foodie gift, but a sexual reminder was so her style.

  “Do I look dangerous?” She broke the vacuum pack and pulled back the ruched orange corners.

  He edged closer, the earthy smell drawing him in like a siren. God, he was weak. He remembered the last time he’d sampled Epoisses. She’d returned from Paris and fed it to him in bed.

  He didn’t stop her from taking out a toast point and spreading the cheese on it with an engraved butter knife. He eyed the washed rind that had been coated with Marc de Bourgogne, a French alcohol, during the ripening process. How could nine ounces take you to heaven?

  When he took the toast point, he inhaled deeply, the aroma punching him in the face. To the untrained nose, it smelled like hell. To Brian, the worse the smell, the better the cheese tasted.

  He closed his eyes. Opened his mouth. The exquisite creaminess covered his tongue as flavors of fecundity, grass, and old milk danced around his mouth before elongating into the pleasant dip of sour lemons at the end. The mixture of flavors converged into a dazzling combination—like the harsh notes of a Chopin overture blending together in sheer harmony.