Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
He tilted his head and considered her.
“You didn’t even notice me come in the door until I was right in front of you.”
He slid the piece of fruit in his mouth and chewed for a moment, appearing to intensely consider what he was eating as though he might deem it unsatisfactory and spit it out. “I didn’t think I needed to be on high alert sitting in this diner eating my breakfast. And I did notice you.”
“So you say,” she mumbled. She had a feeling he was telling the truth, however. He’d noticed her enter. He just hadn’t reacted.
“Are you always on high alert?”
She sighed. “Not always, but probably too often. A hazard of the job.” And the fact that her nervous system was apparently hyperactive. The server stopped by and held up the coffee carafe in her hand in question. Lennon nodded and scooted her mug across the table so the server could more easily fill it. “Thanks,” she said as the young woman moved away.
“Well. Now that we’re going to be working together, do you have any questions for me?” she asked.
“What’s your opinion on mandarin oranges in a fruit cup?”
She ripped open a tiny cup of creamer and poured it into her coffee. “Generally speaking, mandarin oranges can work with the right combination of fruit. Unfortunately, there are far too many crimes committed on the fruit salad scene. Syrupy canned fruit isn’t the worst offense.”
His lip twitched, his eyes squinting slightly. “Crimes?”
She nodded.
“Such as?” He leaned in minutely, as if highly interested in this conversation and also surprised that she’d unhesitatingly engaged in banter. But while her inspector persona didn’t necessarily come naturally, this did.
She shrugged one shoulder. “Some flavors and textures obviously don’t go together, but that seems to be lost on some. It’s a simple art, but it does require at least some amount of thought and planning. This summer, my parents had a grill-out, and one of their neighbors brought a lackluster concoction of cantaloupe and seeded grapes, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, they put sliced bananas on the top. It sat in the sun, and the bananas all turned brown and mushy. If it were me, I’d think long and hard about whether that neighbor should ever be invited back to any potluck event.”
His mouth tipped, and she had this little shiver in her stomach that strangely felt like panic. “I see.”
“Of course, my parents aren’t nearly as judgmental as I am. My mom could find something delightful about bad bananas. She probably plucked them off the top and made banana bread out of them. It’s hard to believe we’re related sometimes.” Her heart warmed even as she poked fun at her mom to this virtual stranger. She wasn’t exaggerating about her mother. The woman probably had made banana bread, but not only that, she’d likely delivered the loaf to the soup kitchen and served it by hand to hungry children. Because that was her mom.
She took a big sip of her coffee and then cringed as she swallowed, the drink too hot for such a large mouthful. “Sorry, I’m rambling. And I can be opinionated.”
“That’s a good thing,” he said, spearing a sausage link and bringing the whole thing to his mouth. “You know who you are. Not everyone is as lucky.”
She thought about that. Did she know who she was? She supposed she did. She just didn’t necessarily like it all the time. Her life choices didn’t seem to align with her personality, and that made her feel . . . lost, when she’d chosen the career she had for the exact opposite purpose—to feel found. But the man was looking at her in that assessing way again, and so she waved her hand slightly, as much to brush off the sinking feeling in her stomach as to distract him. “Well, I’m not sure luck has much to do with it. My parents spoiled me rotten.” That was also a lie, and now she was really on a roll. Her parents loved and adored her, but she’d always had tough rules. They had taught her to be sure of herself, however, and comfortable in her own skin, so she supposed it was because of them that she wasn’t afraid to express herself. At least when it came to matters of fruit salad.
The server approached their table again and asked if Lennon wanted to place an order, shooting another not-so-furtive glance at Ambrose. “No,” Lennon said. “Just coffee.”
“You already ate?” Ambrose asked when the server departed.
Lennon nodded. “I’m an early riser.”
His eyes hung on her for a moment, and she resisted fidgeting under his heavy stare. She could see his wheels turning as he considered her, and though he remained still, he almost reminded her of the way her parents’ dog, Freddie, tipped his head back and forth when she said a whole string of words he recognized but was working out the context. She doubted the agent would appreciate being compared to a dog, however, so she didn’t mention it to him.