Page 4 of The Woman Left Behind

If feelings could bloom a flower, at his comment, my space would be covered with roses.

I smiled at him. “Thanks.”

His eyes dropped to my smile.

My stomach dropped to my feet.

He lifted his gaze swiftly, and I pulled myself together.

“Would you like to sit down?” I asked. “And can I get you something to drink? I have coffee. Also tea. Some Crystal Light, the cherry pomegranate one. Fresca. I think I have a few La Croix, but I don’t know the flavors. Then I have boba. Green apple. It’s yummy.”

Oh, my lord.

Did I just run down every non-alcoholic beverage in my house and call boba yummy?

His (yes, delightfully thick and arched) dark brows stitched together. “Boba?”

“It’s tea. Bubble tea. From Taiwan. I mean, I don’t think the kind I have is from Taiwan, per se. But it originated in Taiwan. I think. It has tapioca pearls in it. That’s the bubble part. It sounds weird, but trust me, it’s super good.”

Dang it.

I was blathering again.

At least I didn’t repeat the word yummy.

“Tapioca in tea?”

He looked revolted, and since that was definitely endearing, it made me smile, which made his gaze fall to my lips again. This time my stomach warmed and other places south clenched, but he quickly jerked his attention back up to my eyes.

“I know, it sounds strange.” I shrugged. “There’s a lot in this world that’s strange to us, until we give it a go. Like anything else, once we try it, sometimes it’s awesome, sometimes, not so much. Trust me, boba is awesome.”

“I’ll have coffee.”

With that, he looked beyond me to my kitchen.

I’d had a wall taken down, but if I wanted my house to remain standing, there were some supports I had to work around even if the great room I was after would never be all that great because of the strictures of space.

However, I was noticing another reaction from Sheriff Moran. As he stared at my kitchen, he seemed to have frozen again, though his expression had changed.

I didn’t know him, I couldn’t be sure, but I could swear it looked like…

Longing.

Startled, I turned to take in my kitchen.

For the full front room, I’d gone heavy with the cottage-y, cozy farmhouse vibe.

The kitchen had wood cabinets. A Belfast sink. The beams on the ceiling continued from the living room. I’d had another window cut in on the side of the house so there was lots of light. The back edges of the counters were lined with pots growing fresh herbs. Crocks and glass jars and canisters abounded (we could just say I wasn’t a minimalist—and fresh herbs made whatever you cooked taste a whole lot better).

And there was a beautiful French pottery pitcher resting dead center on the farm table that sat in the middle of the kitchen space. The pitcher was filled with the fresh-cut autumn flowers I’d picked up on my way back from getting my morning coffee at Aromacobana. Dahlias and goldenrod and hare’s tail with some fountain grass (Jenna at Mistery Flowers and Gifts was an artiste, said me).

I swung back to the sheriff, who still seemed in the thralls of that odd stupor.

“Are you okay?”

At my question, he visibly pulled himself out of whatever trance he was in and cleared his throat. That was a very masculine sound too.

Man, I had it bad for Sheriff Moran. I knew this in a way, since it didn’t escape me the many times I saw him in passing, I had a crush on him (and it didn’t escape me because that crush was huge). But having him right there in my house was showing me just how bad I had it.

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