“That’s none of your business either.”
His expression hardened. He returned his gaze to the laptop. “Let me know when you want to go over the numbers. I can fill you in or give you access to the spreadsheets or whatever.”
“Thanks.” I covered the cookies with the glass dome and rinsed my glass in the sink. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I left him alone in the dimly lit kitchen and tried to place the heavy feeling in my chest. Some of it was about Aunt Evelyn: worrying that she’d been lonely too, that she’d thought no one cared.
But that wasn’t the only thing. It was Dane, the feeling that he was judging me.
That he wasdisappointedin me.
That I should care.
8
BECK
I feltlike I’d won a prize when I left the house with Avery the morning after she’d found Harold Pembroke’s body.
Not because of the murder, obviously, but because I’d get her to myself for a while, and I was willing to admit — if only to myself — that I was more than a little intrigued by the brown-eyed beauty.
“Do you always walk to work?” she asked, looking up at me as we started down the driveway.
She’d pulled her glossy brown hair into a ponytail, which only made her cheekbones sharper, her brown eyes bigger. The more I looked at her, the prettier she became, and I had to force myself not to stare in an attempt to decipher the puzzle of her face.
Her body didn’t hurt either. She hadn’t dressed to show it off, but even in loose jeans and a floral blouse, it was obvious she had curves in all the right places.
Why had I never imagined Evelyn’s niece as a smokeshow?
“Pretty much,” I said. “It’s only a few blocks and it’s a nice way to start the day.”
It was early, the sun rising behind the mountains in the east, and Blackwell Hollow was just beginning to wake up for the day. On mornings like this, I almost understood Noah’s love for working outside. Dew clung to the grass, the birds were singing in the trees overhead, and after a long winter, it was finally warm enough to walk to the bakery without a coat.
We came to the corner of Foxglove Lane where Bastien Drake, co-owner of Bramble House, was hosing off the sidewalk in front of the B&B, a ritual he repeated daily even though the sidewalk was rarely dirty.
His brown hair, silvering at the temples, was damp, like he was fresh out of the shower, and he stood in the overspray from the hose in his usual work boots and jeans, his flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves.
“Morning, Bastien!” I called out.
He returned my smile. “Good morning!”
I stepped toward him and he turned off the spray on the hose.
“This is Avery Hart,” I said. “She’s Evelyn’s niece. Avery, Bastien Drake. He and his husband Gabriel own the inn.”
“Avery!” Bastien said, greeting her like an old friend. “We’ve heard so much about you!”
Avery grimaced. “Oh no.”
Bastien laughed. “All good! Evelyn was always talking about how proud she was of you. You’re working for a housing nonprofit, right?”
Avery’s cheeks turned pink. “She told you about that?”
Bastien smiled. “Evelyn was always bragging about you.”
Avery ducked her head and toed the wet concrete.
“Something I said?” Bastien asked.