and muscular arms, something within her had lifted. It may have been crazy of her, but she’d been genuinely interested in seeing him again.
What a mistake that was. Because now her systems were screaming in alarm. She was doing everything she could to face him as an actress would. A very good actress.
“You’re a cop,” he repeated.
Her vision swam, and the earth seemed to move beneath her feet, even hearing the accusation for the second time. But she managed to school her face into something resembling disbelief.
Talk him out of it! her mind screamed at her. Deflect him!
Keeping as steady as she could, she leaned against the hood of her car, splaying her palms flat on the metal, still warm from her drive.
It wouldn’t be hard to act flabbergasted over what he’d just said, because honestly, he’d thrown her off balance from the moment he’d peered into her car window that day in the parking lot.
“Why would you possibly think I’m a cop?” she asked, trying to sound incredulous.
And while he scowled at her, she gazed into his gray-blue eyes. The pupils were enlarged, making his eyes seem dark and hard.
She crossed her arms, shivering. She’d worn a thin sweater under her short woolen pea coat, but it wasn’t warming her.
“You’re not denying it.” He crossed his arms, too.
“Because you’re joking, right?”
“I never joke. You’re a cop.”
“I’m not a cop,” she spit, suddenly angry. She wasn’t going to let anyone stop her from doing her job. It felt good to be angry about that. “How can you say something so weird to me? You haven’t spoken to me before, not once, not even a ‘hello’ greeting, and I’ve been coming to your restaurant for almost a week now.”
He exhaled, and his breath made a small puff in the cool air. Briefly he glanced away. But then he was back, glaring at her again. “I’ve been watching you.”
“Yes, so I’ve noticed.”
“Because I have situational-awareness training. I was in the military. And you appear to have that training, too.”
“I haven’t had military training,” she said as calmly as she could.
“Cop training, then.” He cocked his head. “It shows.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She met his gaze.
“It means that as much as you act friendly and chatty to everyone here, you’re always aware. You’re always looking around.” He pointed at her. “Last Thursday you couldn’t even talk on the phone without constantly looking around the parking lot.”
“So? Isn’t that painting it with a broad brush?” She jumped on his mistake. “Is everyone who is aware while they’re speaking on the phone—which, by the way, is a good thing—a cop?”
He snorted, not backing off. “I’ve watched you for days. Every time you’re here, you sit in the corner in the same seat, exactly the same seat that I would sit in,” he pointed out, completely changing the subject. “You sit in the power seat. The seat where you can come out with guns blazing if you have to.”
“Guns blazing?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” he said quietly.
She knew her mouth was hanging open. She’d already known he’d been in the Marines, but who was this guy?
Ironically, every ounce of her law enforcement training was telling her to keep the upper hand in the situation. She needed to be in charge.
But now, all she could seem to do was gape and stare at him, as if she was outside her own body looking in. Her hot, shocked body.
“But the real clue is the sidearm at your waist.” He nodded toward it. “You’re wearing a concealed holster, aren’t you? There’s an imprint of a small handgun. Right here.”
He reached to point at the outline of her Glock, and this time her training did kick in. Deftly, she reached out and blocked him before he could touch her pistol.
Her hand clasped his, inches from her weapon.
They both stared at each other, breathing hard. Her adrenaline was pumping. He was a danger. To her, to her mission.
She didn’t let go of his hand.
He blinked at her, at the surprise he must have felt, because he stared in confusion.
Stop this, she told herself. Let him go.
She dropped his hand, knowing she’d just outed herself by her actions. The fact that she’d grabbed his hand aggressively, as a police officer would, rather than just swatting his hand away, didn’t look good.
He opened and closed his fingers, shaking them. “Okay,” he said finally, speaking quietly again, “forget the handgun. I’m open-minded about that, and it’s best not mentioned anyway. But you can’t deny to me that you’ve had military-type training.”
No, she could not. Particularly after the way she’d just crushed his fingers.
She needed to tell him something. Something logical and true, while still concealing the whole story.
“My father was a police officer.” She hadn’t wanted to tell anyone this, but she was fast seeing it was her only way out. “Maybe that makes me different from other women you’re used to, but my dad didn’t have sons. He had me, his only daughter.”
John nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“He taught me self-defense maneuvers. And to observe my surroundings. And to sit in corners of rooms in order to better check for danger. But I am an interior designer, not a cop.”
He seemed to be assimilating the information. “Did your father want you to be a cop?”
“No.” She couldn’t help smiling. When she’d been young, her dad had thought her hopeless that way. She’d been a girly-girl, drawn to all things feminine. She participated in Girl Scouts. Cheerleading. Heck, she really had signed up to go to interior design school.
“So, the way he was, it just rubbed off on you,” John stated.
She nodded slightly, wondering what was happening. The conversation was turning into a mix of half-truths and half-lies. None of it comfortable. “I...should really just grab a coffee and then get back to work.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” But he wasn’t taking his eyes from her.
This...wasn’t good. Yes, he’d seemed to buy her story, but in convincing him, she’d exposed herself, too. And he hadn’t said a thing about himself.
“Why were you watching me, anyway?” she asked. “Do you watch everybody to see if they’re police officers? Do police officers worry you or something?”
He looked sharply at her.
“What is it?” she pushed him, tilting her head to see his expression better. “You’re allowed to question me, but I can’t question you?”
“I’m a Marine veteran,” he said forcefully.
She knew that, but he didn’t know that she knew that. She gazed steadily at him. “So you’re no longer active duty? Are you a reservist? Or are you transitioned out?”
“I’m out.”
“Were you honorably discharged?”
He scowled at her. “For several years now.”
“How many years?”
He thought for a moment. “Four.”
He would have been active duty while Jason was still alive.
“Were