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It was odd how nosey she’d been since I’d gotten shot, and it was a well-known fact that suspects tended to insert themselves into investigations of their crimes.
“No,” I said, “I didn’t mean she was that wild card, but look at her. She screams complication we don’t need. Right?”
Colt shrugged. “Uh, not really. To me, she just seems like a concerned friend.”
“And you don’t think that’s a complication?”
“It’s not like it’s the first time. What’s the big deal?”
We’d reached the steps that led to the ivy-covered brick building that housed the police force of this strange little town, so this conversation would have to wait. I had no idea how to answer Colt’s question anyway, and when Austin held the door for the women and Dakota thanked him with a smile so wide I was pretty sure the kid was blushing, my earlier assessment seemed even more dire.
Austin was the epitome of the sullen teen with most strangers, like he had an internal checklist for how to be stereotypical. But the number of times I’d seen him smile or laugh at something Dakota Cole had said to him on the walk over here told me she had the power to distract him from that. Distractions were complications we didn’t need. I sure couldn’t afford to be distracted.
Hope led us to the break room, and we stepped inside as she shot off to find Adam. The room was simple, the kind of place you’d expect in a small-town station—laminate table in the middle, mismatched chairs, and a fridge covered in magnets and old takeout menus. Not much to look at, but at least it was quiet. The air smelled faintly of coffee that’d been sitting on the burnertoo long, and the faint hum of the vending machines filled the space.
Austin and Colt took up a spot at the table, and before I could blink, they’d found a deck of cards that looked like it had seen better days. Colt shuffled them lazily while Austin watched with a rare hint of interest. A sliver of normalcy, maybe. I couldn’t tell. The kid barely glanced at the room around him, but I took it in. Small, cramped, and definitely lacking the spit-shine feel of the big-city departments I’d been inside. This place had a well-worn charm that reminded me of the office I shared with Colt a few thousand miles away.
Dakota stood at the vending machine against the far wall, and as much as I tried to will myself to stand by the window to wait for Officer Wilson to show up, my legs had other plans. They carried me to her side, and I watched as she scanned the contents behind the glass front of the machine, her head tilted to the side and her arms crossed over her chest.
She’d ditched her jacket the second we’d entered the warm police station and had slung it over a chair when we’d walked in. If I’d thought I loved the way her deep red sweater had looked the first time I’d seen her or the dark blue of her scrubs the second time, the royal purple of today’s outfit took the cake.
Shaking my head, I cleared away the thoughts of how much the regal shade complimented her skin tone and hair, reminding myself for the hundredth time how dangerous distractions could be.
“You know,” I said, my voice coming out more gruffly than I expected, even for me, “you’ll have more luck with that thing if you put a dollar in and push some buttons.”
“Well, that’s the problem,” she replied, not taking her eyes off the snacks. “I don’t know which buttons to push.”
I chuckled dryly. “Oh, I seriously doubt that, Miss Cole.”
She slid me a wry smile. “You know what I mean.”
“Mmhmm.”
“There’s too many choices,” she complained, facing the machine again.
“Yeah, that’s a thing. They did a study about it,” I said, then promptly bit my tongue so hard I nearly drew blood.
Why did I say that?
I wasn’t here to chitchat with this woman. I didn’t chitchat with anyone, as a general rule, but especially not when I was supposed to be focusing on a job. I was here to work. Who cared about a vending machine study when I, on a case, had a shooter on the loose, and now my rich client was lurking around town without giving me a heads up he was coming?
Without giving Dakota a chance to respond, I spun around and made a beeline for the worn leather couch near the windows. But in my attempt to make a hasty escape from the conversation I had no business indulging in—no matter how good she looked in that purple sweater—I momentarily forgot about the reason I hadn’t done much sitting today.
I bit back a curse as I dropped onto the couch, pain shooting through me in all directions.
“Oh, wow, that had to hurt. You want some ice?” Dakota asked as she came closer, her nose adorably wrinkled.
Wait, adorably?
It was the pain talking. Surely, I hadn’t really had that thought.
“No, I’m good,” I bit out, lying through my teeth. I wasn’t good. I was in an absurd amount of pain and probably also losing my mind.
“Okay, tough guy. Suit yourself.” She jumped onto the couch then, legs tucked up, her body angled to face mine. She propped her arm on the back of the sofa and put her chin in her hand. “Now, what was that about some vendin’ machine study? You kinda left me hangin’ back there.”
“Nothin’. Go get your snack.”
“Oh, no, ya don’t. I’m too curious now. Tell me.”
