Chapter 12
Jake
Monday morning, the shower’s running when I wake—distinct and steady, earlier than necessary. I technically shared Daisy’s bed, but she insisted I take it while she sat on the sofa in the loft area, tapping away on her laptop. I fell asleep to the light sound of key taps.
While I’m downstairs in the kitchen getting the coffee going, I try not to think about how right it felt to have her curled against my side, when she finally did come to bed and let sleep take her, or how she’d smiled in her sleep when I’d brushed a strand of hair from her face.
Professional distance, Ryder. That’s what this situation calls for.
I check my phone, but there are no updates. I’m not sure what I expect.
From the local authorities’ perspective, there will need to be an inspection, as the going theory is that the gas company is responsible for an innocent person’s death.
But the priority will be ensuring the safety of the surrounding neighborhood.
If under closer inspection this morning they believe the gas lines were tampered with, that’s an arson investigation.
Her cabin is in a small town, but arson with a death becomes a homicide investigation.
Something tells me, though, that whoever removed Jocelyn’s body from the office building likely planned on eliminating the risk of evidence with a massive gas line explosion and something went wrong.
Which makes me think, what evidence did they think a coroner would discover? Because Jocelyn’s body will likely undergo an autopsy, and they will not find smoke inhalation as the cause of death. There was no fire in the office building across the street, and she died in her office.
If someone killed her, what did they use that we couldn’t see? Poison? An injection of something? Are they afraid a toxin will show up during autopsy? Or are they afraid someone’s going to find a needle puncture?
These thoughts keep running through my head and none of us at KOAN have answers. Hudson’s sending Brie, one of my KOAN team mates, to scout the area and learn what the locals are saying.
Footsteps thump down the stairs with rapid fire. Daisy’s in a rush.
“Are you going in early?”
She bypasses me, dark hair still damp. “I want to get in early. Watch for anyone acting differently.”
I charge up the stairs, aiming for a quick change. “Give me a minute.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, I’m walking you across the street.”
“And what? It’s going to look like I hired security?”
“No!” I shout down at her, pulling on a button down with roll-up sleeves, my cargo shorts, and tucking a handgun into the back of my shorts. “Wait for me.”
Does she require an armed escort to cross the street? Probably not, but forty-eight hours ago I assumed a woman died of natural causes. I’m done with assumptions.
I hear the door unlock and, against my better judgement, I tug on leather flip flops. If I end up running barefoot, I’ll pay for rushing. I know better than to risk my feet.
I take the stairs and meet “Ms. I’m Okay” as she exits the elevator.
She rolls her eyes and steps past me.
As we exit the building, the Monday morning energy hits us like a wave.
Car engines idle at the traffic light, their exhaust mixing with the aroma of fresh coffee and breakfast sandwiches from the bodega.
The metal screen has been cranked up with a rattling screech, revealing buckets of bright flowers—their sweet perfume cutting through the urban smells of concrete and car exhaust. Pedestrians click past in leather-soled shoes, their conversations creating a steady murmur punctuated by the occasional sharp laugh or ringtone.
Daisy speeds along, not giving a damn if I’m near or far.
Slung over one shoulder, her backpack shifts with each step, and my gaze drops to her tight little ass and the black dress that hugs every single curve.
My guess is she picked the long dress as a business outfit, but the black military boots she paired it with are more don’t-fuck-with-me than I’m-a-financial-dweeb-just-like-you.
The sliding door to the building opens, and I call out, “Hey!”
I curl my index finger, telling her to take a couple of steps back. She and I need to be on the same page.
“Anything’s up, you call and text. Got it?”
Her right foot hits the ground in a stomp.
“It’s the quiet ones you gotta look out for, you hear me?” That’s me, trying to lighten the situation with one of my favorite quotes, but as I say it, I realize she’s gotta look out for them all.
Her palm flattens against my chest, and the simple touch sends heat straight through my shirt. She steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body and rises on her toes to speak in my ear. Her breath whispers against my skin as she says, “I’ll be careful. Thank you.”
I’m about to ask for what when she pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her hand still pressed against my chest where my heart is hammering like I’ve been running sprints.
“For this…for staying,” she says, and the words are barely above a whisper. “It’s a mess, I know, and I haven’t been great company, but thank you.”
The morning bustle around us fades to background noise. All I can focus on is the way she’s looking at me—like I’m someone to be grateful for instead of someone that’s going to disappoint or disappear.
My hand rises along her back, feeling the soft cotton of her dress warmed by her skin beneath, until my fingers thread through her damp hair. The strands are silk between my fingers as I tilt her head back.
For a heartbeat, we’re frozen like that—her dark eyes wide, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Then she breathes my name, so soft I almost miss it, and I’m done aiming for professional.
Her lips are softer than I imagined. The kiss starts tentative—then she slips her tongue against mine, and it spirals straight into reckless. Her fist clenches my shirt, and she releases the softest sigh.
The city noise fades to a distant hum, but I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, rapid and strong, matching the rhythm of my own.
Her kiss is everything I thought it would be, and nothing like I expected. She tastes like coffee and something uniquely her, something that might just be addictive. Every logical thought disappears.
I take stock of her wet, swollen lips, and frazzled gaze, her mouth slightly open, like she too is struggling for breath.
The tips of her fingers brush her bottom lip, like she too can’t believe what we just did.
With a soft, “See you later,” she steps inside, and I scan the lobby from outside the building, making eye contact with a man in a suit. My gut clenches. Not just any man—Phillip Sterling.