“I’ll manage,” she repeated firmly.
“Right.” I tried out a weak smile. “I should be back in an hour or so. I can’t imagine this will take longer than that. If it gets too busy, just close up early and head home.”
“It’s a Thursday. It won’t be busy. And even if it is, I can handle it.”
“But—”
“Don’t you have two alpha-male assholes waiting for you?” she asked. “Get a move on, boss. I’ve got this covered.”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “Thanks, Hetti. You’re a lifesaver.”
Her eyes skittered over my shoulder, fixing on something behind me. For a moment, I thought she was examining my aura again. I realized this wasn’t the case when she murmured, “Speak of the devil…”
I turned to find Graham standing on the other side of the espresso bar, arms crossed over his broad chest, boots planted firmly on the hardwood floor, eyes on me. Evidently, he’d won the battle of wills.
“Let’s go, Glinda.”
Hetti snorted at the nickname, but otherwise did not comment. I shot her a final look of gratitude, shrugged into my cashmere coat, and made my way to Graham. He watched me approach without moving a muscle but as soon as I stepped around the counter, his hand shot out and enveloped mine. For the second time that morning, he turned and tugged me along behind him, not seeming to care that my heeled feet were struggling to keep pace with his long-legged strides or that I was perfectly capable of walking without a leash.
“Hey!” I screeched softly, but my protest fell on deaf ears. “Slow down, would you?”
In a blink, with a clatter of bells, we were through the front door and on the sidewalk outside The Gallows. My shop was located on a pedestrian-only outdoor mall smack in the center of downtown, surrounded by dozens of other stores and restaurants. The only traffic we ever saw on the brick-laid street was of the foot variety. I was therefore surprised — but not entirely shocked — to see Graham’s black Ford Bronco parked a dozen feet from my front door, directly behind two Salem PD cruisers. Whatever pull he had with the powers-that-be apparently extended to special parking privileges.
He marched me straight to the passenger side, yanked it open, and shoved me bodily inside, lifting me straight off my feet in the process since the Bronco was so high off the ground. My heels had barely cleared the frame when he slammed the door shut. I glowered at him through the glass windshield as he rounded the hood, opened his own door, and folded himself behind the wheel.
“You don’t have to man-handle me,” I hissed. “I’m not a criminal resisting arrest.”
“Seatbelt,” was all he said as he turned over the ignition.
I dutifully clicked it into place, then curled my hands tightly around my YSL clutch to keep from smacking him. His domineering attitude was grating on my last nerve.
He drove slowly, avoiding the stream of pedestrians as we rolled down the brick mall toward the main road. Rubberneckers shot us strange looks as we passed by, curious about our presence or, more likely, the police presence outside my shop. Nothing quite like a scandal to draw in a crowd. I had a feeling Hetti would be slammed with more customers than she could singlehandedly caffeinate by the time I got back.
“How long is this going to take?” I asked after a few minutes of silence.
“As long as it takes.”
“I can’t leave my barista alone all day.”
“I think the dead carcass in your alleyway takes precedence over coffee, Glinda.”
“Gwen. Do. Lyn.”
He stopped at a red light, wrist slung over the wheel, and leaned back against his leather seat. His jaw was tight, the line of it seemingly sharper than normal, and his attention was fixed on the intersection. Realizing I was staring, I forced my eyes away from his profile and studied the Bronco’s black-on-black interior instead. I’d never ridden in it before, despite the fact that Graham had offered me a ride home from Des and Flo’s townhouse on more than one occasion in the past. He’d owned it for a few months, but it still had that new car smell and looked like it had rolled off the lot mere days before. It was so immaculately clean, you could’ve done surgery on his center console — no dust on the windshield, no litter on the floor mats, no old coffee in the cup holders. A sterile environment, devoid of any traces of life.
I wondered suddenly what his home looked like. If he lived in a house or an apartment, if his decor style was as sparse as his car interior. Did he have a bachelor pad — all black and chrome with masculine red accents scattered about and a tacky LED fireplace operated by remote? Did he have a roommate? A pet? A houseplant?
I’d never allowed myself to wonder before. As with all things Graham, as soon as my brain began to wander down that path, I slammed a firm mental gate closed, then promptly diverted my thoughts elsewhere. I preferred it that way; preferred to keep his details unknown, his presence in my life intangible, as if knowing as little as possible about him would somehow counterbalance the years I’d spent fixated on him, back when I was a gawky teen girl with an out-of-control crush.
Unfortunately, my typical mental blockade wasn’t so effective now that I was in his car, a foot away from him, the memory of his hand on mine still tingling across my palm like I’d stuck a fork in an electrical socket. His scent pressed in on me from all sides, a heady mix of crisp, woodsy soap and sheer male pheromones that invaded my senses.
Get it together, Gwen.
Curiosity clawed at me as we rode across town toward the police station, consuming my mind with so many questions it was hard to think straight, let alone make casual conversation. Luckily, Graham didn’t seem interested in conversing, either. He was equally lost in thought as he drove, his grip relaxed but his brow furrowed.
The eight minute drive felt more like an eon. He’d barely come to a stop in the lot when I flung open my door and hopped out, the landing jarring my stilettos. Detective Hightower was waiting for us near the entrance to the brick building, just under a flag pole, holding two styrofoam coffee cups.
“It’s not a pumpkin-spice latte, but…” He shrugged and extended one of the cups toward me. “Figured you might need a jolt, Gwendolyn.”