Secret Agent Under Fire. Geri Krotow

Keith.”

      “Hello, Abi.” He grasped her hand but allowed her to control the shake. One single, firm movement. No up-and-down ritual or enthusiastic pumping. Abigail was a full-fledged professional and had obviously worked in a man’s world for a long time. She shook hands like a man.

      But her hand didn’t feel like anything other than a soft, smooth, feminine asset. Underscored by the flowery scent she gave off. He wondered if it was perfume or if she liked expensive soaps. The thought of soaping her down in a shower...

      Son of a whoopie pie.

      Abigail Redland was off-limits. Not only because it was good to keep definite boundaries with the people he worked with, but because he wasn’t looking for even a short relationship with a woman he knew nothing about. After getting burned by local community members that he’d saved during a fire, trust wasn’t his strongest virtue at the moment. He felt safer with casual liaisons that had a preset time limit agreed upon by both parties. There were enough women in Silver Valley who felt the same way. He didn’t need to act on his feelings for Abi. Not that he had feelings for her. Feelings were complications he couldn’t afford.

      “Thanks for saving us a seat.” She pulled her hand away and slid into the booth. He liked how she looked around the diner as if it were an artifact in a museum. “I absolutely adore the diners in Silver Valley. When I lived in DC, I got used to a few local places but nothing as fun as a diner. I missed them from when I grew up.” She pointed at the menu. “What’s the best dish here, in your opinion?”

      He slid back into his bench seat. “You must not have been in Silver Valley very long if you don’t have your own favorite by now.”

      “I’ve been here long enough.” She frowned at the list of variations on French toast. “There’s not one version I don’t want to try. Except maybe for the scrapple.”

      “Scrapple has its place. Not quite sausage, not quite...grease. Meaty lard. Very tasty.”

      “Huh. I’ll tell you what... I’ll bet it was good for the farmers here about two centuries ago, when it was cold out. I’ll pass on it for today and go for the carbs. The wild berry French toast looks delicious.”

      “That’s a good choice. They freeze fresh berries in the summer and use them all year.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “I dated a girl in high school whose parents owned a berry farm.”

      She blinked. “Is that a thing?”

      “Of course. There are farms for just about everything. But most do grow a variety of produce. It’s hard enough making a living with several different crops.”

      “I grew up in the city, so farming isn’t something I’m familiar with.”

      Wow, was Abigail Redland admitting she didn’t know something? “Are you feeling well, Abi?”

      Her eyes were bright, which lent a depth to their chocolate hue he hadn’t noticed yet. “What do you mean? I’m fine.”

      “It’s just that I thought FBI types never admitted when they were wrong or didn’t know something.”

      She pursed her lips and raised her brow in mock disapproval. “Very funny, Mr. Who-the-Hell-Are-You-at-My-Fire-Scene.”

      Abi sat opposite him in a cherry-red wool jacket, and he noticed that the buttons were the shape of little white sheep. Another, softer side of her? As she unwrapped her fuzzy scarf, it snagged on one of the ewe buttons.

      “Careful. You’re tearing up your scarf.” He pointed and she looked down. Her fingers deftly untangled the button and she shrugged out of her coat, revealing a slim-fitting, long-sleeved red top.

      “It’s okay. I can make another one.”

      “You made your scarf?” He wasn’t any kind of expert but the lacy thing didn’t look like anything handmade he’d ever seen before.

      She nodded. “And this jacket, actually. It’s boiled wool. Felted. Meaning I knitted it about ten sizes too big and then shrunk it in a huge soup pot on my stove. Hot water felts untreated wool.”

      “You’re kidding.”

      “No, I wish I were. I’m a fiber nerd with a law-enforcement hobby.”

      “And your favorite color is red?”

      “Bingo.” She picked the menu back up. “Maybe I’ll save the French toast for next time. I can’t decide between the gluten-free cherry crepes or the hearty hot cereal.”

      “Go for the gusto. Their cherry crepes are renowned.”

      “So you’ve had them?”

      He laughed. “I’m a Silver Valley native and Cumberland Café has been here as long as I remember. My family used to come in here regularly once we settled in the area, when I was still in middle school. So, yes, between family meals and high school dates, I’ve had just about everything on the menu at least a time or two.”

      “Only high school dates? Where do people go on adult dates here?” Her expression of sincere curiosity made him smile.

      “Oh, we like to go four-wheeling while doing some chew, spitting it out on the way to the firing range.”

      “I’m not one of the transplants who thinks this is some kind of hick town, Keith.” Her eyes softened. “I like it here. A lot.”

      “Where are you from?” He didn’t think it was DC.

      And, like that, the sparkle in her eyes was gone. She didn’t meet his glance as she sipped her ice water. “Originally? Philadelphia. After I joined the FBI, I worked in a few different places but mostly DC. You? You said your family ‘settled’ here?”

      “Yes, when I was thirteen. My folks were Foreign Service Officers, and my sisters and I lived all over the world. My older sister lives in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, with her family—she’s working for the State Department, just like Dad did. My other sister lives here in town and owns the local floral shop. Once Dad could retire from the government job, he did, and now my parents still travel as much as they can afford to. And run a gift-shop-slash-international-interior-decorating business in town and online, with treasures they find all over.”

      “Treasures as in archaeological or more like knickknacks?”

      “Definitely knickknacks. Which is why I have nothing of the sort in my place.” Crap—would she think he was hitting on her, suggesting she’d be at his place to see what he had?

      The waitress came and took their orders. Abi tilted her head after he placed his.

      “You ordered it just because I did?”

      “No, I happen to like cherry crepes, too.”

      Keith studied her and didn’t care if it made her uncomfortable or if he was being too forward. “Abi, you didn’t answer my question. Tell me more about where you’re from. What made you pick the FBI and, more relevant, why arson?”

      She remained apparently relaxed as she leaned on her forearms, her hands atop one another. She wasn’t at ease, though. The tightening of her fingers around her wrist, the slight jut of her jawbone wouldn’t have been noticed by anyone unless they were watching for it. And Keith was watching.

      “Full disclosure—I was just at your sister’s flower shop. I hadn’t put you two together yet. And I really like her.”

      Unlike you. Keith snorted. “Kayla’s got a nice little business going. She might not have the benefits I do working for the town, but she’s raking it in now that her shop is well established.”

      “‘Little business’? Would you call this restaurant a ‘little’ business?”

      “Chill. I’m not the jerk you’re trying to make me out to be. I’m pro-woman.” He gave her his best smile.