Page 45 of Skin and Bones

I laughed nervously, taking a sip of wine to buy myself time. “There’s not much to tell. I’m not exactly exciting or mysterious.”

“Try me,” he urged, waiting with a predator’s patience.

The wine had loosened my tongue, and once I started, the words tumbled out like water through a broken dam. “Well, I spend most of my time at the tea shop. I do crossword puzzles—always in pen, never pencil. I read mostly mysteries and historical fiction. I love old music, as you might have noticed, and I only like movies that have explosions or car chases. I crochet, but badly—my blankets always end up as trapezoids instead of rectangles.”

I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “I have a black thumb—every plant I touch dies a spectacular death. I can’t dance to save my life, though I love to try when no one’s watching. And I?—”

“You’re hiding,” he interrupted, the words soft but sharp enough to slice through my rambling.

My fingers tightened around the stem of my wine glass. “Excuse me?”

“Behind all those little details,” he continued, his gaze never wavering. “You’re hiding who you really are.”

Heat bloomed across my chest and crept up my neck, not from embarrassment but from the startling sensation of being truly seen—like he’d peeled back layers I’d forgotten were there.

“And who am I really?” I challenged, my voice emerging huskier than intended, betraying emotions I couldn’t name.

He leaned forward, those dark eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made my lungs forget how to function. The restaurant around us seemed to recede—the clink of silverware, murmured conversations, even the soft music playing in the background faded until there was nothing but the charged space between us.

“You tell me, Mabel McCoy,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “Who are you when you’re not being Patrick’s widow? When you’re not being the proper tea shop owner everyone expects you to be?”

The question hit like a punch to the solar plexus, so precisely targeted it knocked the breath from my lungs. In all the years since Patrick died, no one had ever asked me that. I’d been so busy becoming what everyone expected—grieving widow, community business owner, proper Southern lady—that I’d forgotten there might be someone else beneath those carefully constructed layers.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, the honesty scalding my throat like strong whiskey.

“I think you do,” he said, leaning closer until I could smell his aftershave mingling with wine and steak, a heady combination that made my head swim. “I think you’ve wrapped yourself in a cocoon of vintage dresses and perfect manners and widow’s weeds. But the real Mabel McCoy is in there, waiting to break free.”

My heart hammered so hard I could feel my pulse in my fingertips, my throat, behind my eyes. He’d somehow looked past all my careful defenses and seen a truth I’d been hiding even from myself.

“And who do you think she is?” I whispered, barely able to force the words past the tightness in my throat. “This real Mabel McCoy?”

His eyes held mine, dark and knowing. “I’m not sure yet. A free spirit? A rule-breaker? Someone wild and unpredictable?” His mouth curved into a smile that sent a shiver cascading down my spine like falling dominoes. “But I’m looking forward to finding out.”

The moment stretched on, electric and dangerous. His hand rested on the table between us, and I had the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch it, to bridge the small physical distance that suddenly seemed to represent so much more.

The server materialized at our table, breaking the spell. “Everything is delicious, yes?” he asked, smiling between us.

I nearly knocked over my water glass as I leaned back, grateful for the interruption that allowed me to catch my breath. “Everything is perfect,” I managed, though I could barely remember what I’d been eating.

We declined dessert and Dash paid the bill with a discretion and ease that showed me he wasn’t a stranger to fine dining. Who was this man? Every moment I spent with him made me more curious.

Outside, stars scattered across the velvet sky like diamonds on black silk. The night air was heavy with jasmine and salt and possibility.

“We should go back to your place,” Dash said as he opened the passenger door of the Tahoe and helped me in.

My pulse spiked embarrassingly, but before I could formulate a response, he added, “To work on the case. We need to make an evidence board, organize what we know so far. I can’t do those things during regular work hours, and I can’t keep it at the station.”

“Right,” I agreed, feeling like a dummy. “That makes sense.”

The drive home was mercifully short, giving me little time to overthink the evening. Chowder greeted us at the door with suspicion that quickly morphed into betrayal when he recognized Dash, waddling over like he’d been waiting all night for him to return home.

“Traitor,” I muttered as Dash crouched to scratch behind his ears.

“He just knows quality when he sees it,” Dash replied with that half smile that did dangerous things to my equilibrium. “Let me bring in some things from the car. I wouldn’t say no to some tea if you’ve got any.”

I looked down at Chowder when he went back out the door. “Did he seriously just ask me if I’ve got tea?”

Chowder grunted and then waddled into the kitchen. I followed after him and started the pot boiling.

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