Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I sighed softly, looking anywhere but at her to avoid responding because what could I say to that? A second later, I heard the door handle turning and when my gaze landed on it, Bess was stepping out of the room.
“She’d love to go to lunch with you,” she said. “She’ll be right out.”
I pressed my lips together, silently cursing her. I wanted to stomp out of the room and fire her, irrational as it was. But I needed Bess, and she knew it. I also knew she meant well, but she didn’t understand how much it hurt when Grady threatened to arrest me just a day ago.
A voice in the back of my head told me to just walk out there and be graceful. That was what my mom would have said. “Err on the side of forgiveness” was one of her favorite sayings.
I plastered on a smile and walked out.
“I’ll just grab my bag,” I said.
“I can get it,” he offered.
I picked up my gray leather bucket bag from beneath my desk, passing it to him. He hesitated, his brow furrowing.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you meant your purse,” he said.
“Well, my arm is a little sore, so…since you offered, you can carry it.”
He reached for it and hung the large strap over his shoulder, and the last of my anger faded away. If he was willing to be seen in public carrying my purse, we were square.
I followed him across the newsroom and he opened the front door, holding it for me.
“We need to take my vehicle in case I get called to an emergency,” he said.
I got into the passenger side of his police SUV, which smelled like him. Light, airy cologne and leather. It made me warm all over.
Grady set my bag in his back seat, then opened the driver’s side door and got in.
“Have you been to the Mexican place yet?” he asked.
Mexican food in northern Minnesota? I was skeptical, but I didn’t let it show.
“No, is it good?”
“I think it is. We’ll go there.”
We drove in silence for a few seconds before he said, “How long did it take you to write that story about Coach Spellman?”
“A long time. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Well, you did a great job. I know it will mean a lot to his family.”
“Thanks.” I glanced at him. “Would you really have arrested me?”
He shook his head. “Probably not.”
I balked. “Probably?”
“If you’d tried to force your way into the crime scene or something, then yeah.”
“You think I would’ve done that?”
He looked over and held my gaze. “No.”
I’d assumed Grady chose a place other than Tipper’s so fewer people would see him taking me out for lunch. But when we pulled into Taco Train, I knew I was wrong.
The parking lot of the former train depot was packed with cars. Grady parked, put my bag back over his shoulder and walked beside me to the front door.
“This place looks great,” I said, meaning it.
The bright, spacious depot was fully restored but had its original wood floors. A host led us to a table immediately, people openly staring at us as we walked to it.
Grady set my bag on one of the empty chairs at our table for four and then tried to get comfortable in the little wooden chair that was clearly too small for him.
“So you play softball,” he said, a grin tugging on the corners of his lips.
“I used to.”
“I had to give the trophy back to Painter this morning,” he said with a sigh.
“How was that?”
Our eyes locked. “Terrible. He was a jackass about it. Made me deliver it to the fire station.”
“You get a chance to have it back in six months, though, right?”
He nodded, his expression telling me he thought it was about five and a half months too far away.
“Hey, Chief,” a server said as he dropped chips and salsa off at our table. “Can I get you guys some drinks?”
Grady’s gaze found mine across the table. “There’s an all-you-can-eat taco special. Do you want that or something else?”
“That sounds great.” I looked at our server. “And an unsweet tea, please.”
“Same for me,” Grady said. “And we’ll take some guac for the chips, please.”
“You got it.”
A woman at a nearby booth was leaning over so hard trying to get a look at me that she fell out. She stood up, stared at me for a couple of seconds, and then slid back into her seat.
“Okay, I have to ask,” I said to Grady. “Why are people staring at us? I know the nosiness runs deep here, but this is ridiculous.”
“It’s because they think we’re on a date.”
I gave him a look of frustration. “So what if we were?”
He looked away for a second and then met my eyes again. “I don’t date. That’s why people are so curious.”