I cradled my chin in my palm. It was amazing. And…confusing. Why had I assumed he'd always lived in Eureka? "Do you still live in New York?"
"I've moved around some."
"Where else?"
He picked up his glass and took a long sip, then glanced out the window. "Southern California, mostly. LA, San Diego."
"What brought you home?"
"Work," he replied, suddenly fascinated by his napkin ring. "I've been here a few weeks. Since my parents are off on their cross-country adventure, I'm staying at their place."
"Oh. Nice."
Our salads arrived before I could ask anything more, like why, exactly, are you back here? And why didn't I know you lived a mile away from me in New York?
"So, you're still a writer," he said. It wasn't a question. "I remember your columns in the EHS Bark—St. Bee's had subscriptions to all the local school papers. Pretty cool to know what you wanted to do that early in life."
"I was lucky. By the time I got to college, I had a three-inch binder of experience over a lot of other journalism majors."
"What do you like to write?"
"Well, what I'm used to writing is editorials, but what I'd like to write is news. I want to dig up something fresh and important, then share it with readers, whoever they are." I pushed a cherry tomato around my plate. "My latest experiences were exploiting products at a fashion magazine." I rolled my eyes. "Lots of pieces about the newest self-tanning lotion or vacation spots in Costa Rica I've never been to. It was great experience, and I know how fortunate I was to work for a national magazine, but—"
"But you want to be an investigative reporter."
I nodded. "More than anything. In college, I broke a story about two guys in the freshman dorm who were running an illegal file-sharing scam."
Patrick chuckled. I did, too.
"I know, it doesn't seem like a big deal now, but it unearthed other cases. We almost had another Facebook-type scandal at NYU. Of course I didn't mean for that to happen, I wasn't planning on stirring up trouble." I set down my fork. "But I loved it—the rush. Hacking into email accounts, begging strangers for favors, hiding in corners in hopes that the person I'm waiting for will come into view."
"Just like here." He glanced at the opening to the kitchen. "You got an early start at sleuthing."
"Funny. I guess I did." My laugh made Patrick laugh, every time.
"Investigative journalism is in your blood. Isn't that what your father did for a living?"
Interesting how he knew that. He'd paid more attention to my life than I had to his. I had no idea what his father did for work. Something to do with boats? Or real estate? Training ponies? I had no clue.
"I'm writing at Dad's old paper now. Today was my second day at The Standard."
He nodded as if he already knew this, too.
"I was assigned a story on my first day, which is pretty amazing. There was a shooting at the lumber mill yesterday—you might've heard about it. I got up close and personal with one of the bullets—"
Patrick's fork made a jarring clank when he dropped it on his plate. "What do you mean close?"
"Flew right past me." I touched my cheek and blinked, imagining those eyes, the blood. I shivered from a sudden chill, but made myself breathe out a slow exhale. No need for Patrick to watch me have a fainting spell right here at the table. How completely unsexy. "Luckily, I was in the process of slipping in the mud when it happened and ended up nice and safe on the ground."
"Maren." His voice was low, and his razor-sharp jaw worked under his skin like he was clenching and unclenching his teeth. After he pushed out his own long exhale, he leaned forward. "I had no idea you were there. I mean, I didn't…realize. I'm glad you're safe." His voice was stronger now, calm again. In two seconds, he'd gone from being worried about me to relieved.
After Scott, it felt nice that someone was concerned.
I took a few bites of salad and chewed in silence, sneaking glances at my companion. What had he been like as a teenager? He'd probably been pretty tough to have survived St. Bee's. Seemed like he could still be tough, despite the trimmed hair, ironed shirt, and clean nails. I wondered if he boxed. But his perfect, unblemished face and unbroken nose told a different story.
I placed an elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand. He was probably one of those guys at the gym who can skip rope amazingly fast and do one-handed chin-ups. What I'd pay to see that…
"Something wrong with your food?" he asked, pointing a fork at my plate.
"Hmm? No." I tossed a crouton in my mouth. "I was just wondering about you—what you do now, I mean." Then I dove into my leafy greens with gusto.
Patrick wiped his mouth and moved his empty plate to the side. "I'm in security."
"What kind?"
"Different kinds." He folded his napkin four times.
"Financial security? Or literal security, like a bouncer?"
"A combination of the two." Before I could ask him to go on, our main courses arrived.
We spent a few minutes complimenting each other on our wise meal choices, then we both dug in as the musicians worked the room. My food was wonderful, but not wonderful enough to distract me from the very deliberate way Patrick slid his fork out of his mouth while holding steady eye contact with me. I liked watching him chew, too.
As we ate, he told me about his parents' yearlong journey via RV. "Last report was they crossed the Texas-Oklahoma border. They missed the Grand Canyon and plan to loop back in few days."
"What an adventure," I said. "Your mom was such a hoot. She used to make those scrumptious donuts at Halloween, from leftover mashed potatoes. What were they called?"
"Spudnuts," he said, finishing a bite of calzone. "She still makes them every year for the neighborhood kids who come over after trick-or-treating. Mom always makes a double batch and sends everyone home with a plate." He sat back, a glimmer of boyhood fondness in his grownup eyes. "Those were great donuts. They've always been my major weakness. What I'd give for one right now…still warm…dripping with thick, sugary glaze."
I carefully lifted a napkin to my mouth, making sure I didn't have a string of drool hanging from my bottom lip. "Your major weakness?" I repeated. "Some smart woman out there should learn how to make them for you."
Patrick pushed his plate aside and leaned toward me. "You know what they say about the quickest way to a man's heart…"
"Is through his chest with a meat cleaver?" I fluttered my eyelashes.
"Ouch, woman." He slapped a hand over his chest.
"Sorry. That's the New Yorker in me coming out." I twirled a strand of loose hair around one finger. "But if spudnuts are the fastest way to one particular man's heart"—I took a beat and tilted my head—"I should learn how to make them. Right now."
I was flirting with Jamison Loomis. Hadn't he seen me naked through my bedroom window once? And didn't he used to wear knee-high argyle socks in summer?
Without moving his eyes from mine, Patrick lifted his hand out to the side and made a check mark gesture with his index finger, prompting our server to bring the bill.
"It's drizzling out." He motioned to the fogged-up window. "But do you want to take a walk? The city added on to the waterfront a few years ago. We should check out the gazebo."
"Sure," I said, remembering fondly how the gazebo—the brick tower/fountain/wishing well—was where Jef Snow and I used to make out after his soccer games.
Without much more conversation, Patrick paid the bill, and we left. When I almost-accidentally slipped on the wet pavement and he caught my hand, I'd already forgotten about Joe Mazzotti or Sierra Pacific Industries or missing corpses who watched me from street corners and empty booths.
CHAPTER TEN
While sheltered by various sidewalk awnings, Patrick and I strolled toward "Old Town," the strip of streets closest to the bay, and home to cool retailers like second-hand bookstores, antique dealers, hemp jewelry shops—many of them in exquisite refurbished Victorian
homes. As we passed their open doors, each smelled of different-flavored incense.
"There's Bon Bonier!" I pointed then bolted across the brick-covered street. "This place…I told people about it in college when they'd rave about Ben & Jerry's or Häagen-Dazs or whatever." I gawked through the window at the long, white counter. Behind it, I knew, were at least twenty flavors of the creamiest homemade ice cream. "No one ever believed me that my tiny town was home to the absolute most delicious mint chocolate chip on the planet."
"I worked here one summer," Patrick said as we stood at the open door. The scent wafting out was killing me. I could practically taste handcrafted waffle cones in the air.
"You did?"
"But you wouldn't have seen me." He gazed past me to the inside. "I worked in the back."
My eyes grew wide as I turned to him, my mouth watering. "You made the ice cream?"
He dipped his face down to mine. "And sampled it."
"I…fear I may swoon."
He laughed, his hazel eyes reflecting the lamps lining the streets. "Let's get some."
I should have protested, since I was already stuffed with bread and pasta, but he placed his hands on my shoulders and rotated me toward the entrance. I was putty.
Three people stood in line at the counter, giving me time to study the board listing tonight's flavors. It was like reading a favorite book I thought I'd lost.
Patrick pointed at the board. "Mint chocolate chip."
"I know." I grinned, feeling giddy and suddenly starving. "I'll have one scoop on a sugar cone, please," I said to the girl with stripy blue hair on the other side of the counter. Lucky duck, she got to hang with the ice cream all day.
Patrick ordered a single scoop of cinnamon toast on a regular cone. When blue-hair girl handed it across the counter to him, I was so jealous of his choice that I wanted to cry. But then I took the first lick of mine…and wanted to cry all over again.
Sweetness and freshness simultaneously exploded in my mouth. Mint dissolved down my throat, but the dark chocolate lingered at the back of my tongue, melting in its slow, delectable time. I took another lick, holding it with my tongue on the roof of my mouth, inhaling through my nose, allowing each and every taste bud to get its fair share.
"Let's go outside." Patrick cupped my elbow, persuading me toward the door so forcefully that I tripped over the jam on the way out to the sidewalk. "You were moaning," he said, "and people were staring."
I lowered my cone. "Moaning?"
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, I was"—I cleared my throat—"enjoying it."
"And I enjoyed watching you enjoy it. You have no idea. But the soccer team in the corner was about to pull out their phones and start recording you."
I pressed my cold, slick lips together and laughed. "How's yours?"
"Exactly as good as I remembered. Though I'm not a moaner like you." He winked then ran his tongue around the circumference twice. The sight was mesmerizing for many reasons. "Want a taste?"
The back of my mouth flooded, and I had trouble swallowing, breathing.
"Or maybe you should…" He gestured at my melty ice cream that was dripping down my fingers. He handed me a napkin.
We crossed the street toward the gazebo. Shoulder-high street lamps marked each corner, and I heard the trickling water of the fountains before I saw it. We stepped onto the redbrick walkway and began up the winding ramp that led to the top. No one else was there. School night in March, I thought. No soccer game. A light wind misted us with water from the fountains. We turned our backs to it and leaned side by side against the handrail that overlooked the gurgling jets below.
Patrick was chewing the last bit of his cone, but I'd been taking my time, trying to make it last. I frowned after sucking out the last bit of minty deliciousness from the pointy end of my cone.
"All done?" His voice dropped to a quieter, more companionable tone. "You should've ordered two scoops." He took my napkin and walked to the trash can halfway down the ramp. When he came back, he stood in front of me, his tall, manly frame.
"That's the thing about finishing ice cream." I exhaled wistfully. "You always want just a little more."
"If you want more, there's that." He placed his hand beneath mine, then angled them both to show me the tiny drop of green ice cream on my index finger. "Need another napkin?"
I lifted my finger to my mouth and sucked the tip clean.
A corner of Patrick's mouth arched as he moved in. "I would've done that," he said, "if you'd asked."
I had been right to be jealous of the cinnamon toast ice cream. Just its remnants on Patrick made my taste buds come alive. His warm, rough hands held the sides of my neck, while I took ahold of his elbows. The kiss began soft, exploratory, but when I couldn't help pausing to nip his bottom lip, all politeness ended.
He squared his mouth over mine, deepening the kiss, causing my fingers to dig into the material of his coat. His hands slid down my neck, over my ribs, then his arms encircled me, and he stood me up, walking us until my back hit a brick pillar. I slipped my hand inside his open coat, feeling flat abs, hard lats, his chest expanding with each breath.
A small part of my brain giggled at what was going on. You're kissing little Jamison Loomis! You're letting Jamison Loomis run his hand up your back! Stop! Weirdness!
The rest of my brain could only respond to the perfect firmness of his lips, the warmth of cinnamon, and the way he cupped the back of my head and angled me into a dip, forcing me to hold on tight. After that, I couldn't remember what day it was, what planet I was on.
Patrick Loomis was one damn good kisser.
His mouth ran a trail from my ear up my hairline, and when I touched mine to the notch on his throat right at the spot of his open collar, a sound escaped from deep inside his chest.
"Thought you weren't a moaner," I whispered, placing my lips over the spot again.
"Not about ice cream." He pulled back to look at me. When his eyes focused, he seemed a bit dazed, almost like kissing me was a wish fulfilled.
His brows furrowed as he scanned my face, so I took his cheeks and drew him in, maybe fulfilling another wish. He pulled me away from the brick pillar so his arms could reach all the way around me, his hands splaying over my back.
I was lost in his mouth, the smell of his neck, the way his arms enveloped me, rocked me in a rhythm all our own.
"It's raining." His words were soft in my ear. "I thought it was the fountains."
Without unlatching my fingers from his neck, I glanced over the edge. It was pouring. The gutters were flooded, and the noise of raindrops hitting the bricks was like gunfire. How had I not heard it?
"When did it start?" I asked. Meaning—how long have we been at it?
"No idea," Patrick said, a smile in his voice. "Could've been hours ago." We both chuckled quietly, and he pulled me close, warming me again. "Should we run to the car, or wait it out?"
"I'm in heels, and the sidewalks are brick. You'd have to carry me."
He peered down at me, seeming very keen on the notion. "Promise?"
"I say we wait it out. It'll lighten up…any minute now."
Of course I had no idea if this was the case, but I was in no hurry to change locations. The rain, the ice cream, Patrick's aftershave, Patrick's big, warm hands on my hips. It was all so crazy romantic. I wanted to curl against his chest, have him wrap his arms around me, tighter.
I was about to ask for a more detailed taste of that cinnamon, when I realized I'd lost his attention. Patrick's gaze was fixed on something past my shoulder, back the way we'd just come. His expression was unreadable, though there was definitely something off in his eyes The cold "Spidey senses" shiver I'd felt too many times in the last forty-eight hours shot up my spine, settling at the back of my neck, which should have been warm from Patrick's hand.
"Let's go now," he said.
"But the rain's barely—" My sentence was cut short when he pressed his lips to mine, sending a cinnamony delicious booste
r shot to my senses.
After, he reached down and tugged the ends of my trench's belt, cinching it tighter, then he brushed a finger across my cheek. "You're like sunshine," he said.
Any strange and/or suspect shivers disappeared from my body, replaced by all the nice ones.
He clasped a hand around mine, and at a half-running clip, we made our way down the ramp and across the street to the closest covered sidewalk. I laughed and shook out my hands. Patrick was laughing, too. His hair was damp and curling at the ends. As I gazed up at him, I imagined twirling those baby hairs around my fingers.
Then I wasn't imagining it. I was doing it.
He kissed the tip of my nose. His breath was warm, and I caught hints of my mint chocolate chip that had transferred to him. He stared down at me, intensely, little drops of water on his eyelashes.
"What are you doing?" His tone matched the soft intensity of his expression.
"Playing with your hair. Kissing you." I couldn't throw out a line like that without a follow through. So I stood on my toes and touched my lips to his. My fingers slid deeper into his hair until they met at the back of his head.
Patrick matched my kiss, planting his hands on the small of my back, pressing our bodies together. But after a moment, he pulled away.
"That's not what I meant." He reached back and unlatched my grip from around him, then put his own hands in his pockets. "Why are you in Eureka?"
With Mom's blog and Piper's mouth, the subject obviously wasn't a secret. "I lost my job in New York and took one at The Standard. It was my only offer."
His eyes remained skeptically narrow, as if he didn't buy the explanation. "What about yesterday at SPI?"
"What do you mean?"
He stared at me for another long moment. "Did you see…? I mean, do you know…?" He cut himself off, shut his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn."
"Do I know what? What did I see?" I'd seen a whole heck of a lot that day. Some of which I was pretty sure I'd imagined or I was trying to convince myself I'd imagined. Because if I hadn't, something truly strange was going on around me.
Patrick sighed. "Never mind," he said, smiling, though only halfway. "It's just coincidental, don't you think?"
Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1) Page 6
