Chapter Eight
Hunter
As soon as my mouth touches Dylan’s, I know I’ve made a fatal miscalculation.
The kiss is supposed to be a quick jab, a way to rattle him, put him in his place, but from the moment my lips find his, the years between us collapse.
His taste, his heat, the sharp inhale from his chest—none of it feels like the past anymore.
It’s here and alive and achingly familiar.
I mean to pull away quickly, see that smirk of his wiped clean from his face. Instead, I linger, hungry for the way Dylan’s mouth parts and his tongue slides against mine. I need to stop this and regain some sanity at the moment, but I don’t want to.
Finally, I tear my mouth away, step back, and do my best to ignore my uneven breathing. Dylan watches me with heated blue eyes, his expression unreadable but far from indifferent.
“What was that?” he asks, voice rough and heavy with accusation.
“Just playing the part.” I wish my voice didn’t sound so wrecked.
Silence stretches until Dylan finally says, “We should go inside.”
He releases my hand. Maybe he forgot he’d still been holding it. I feel the absence immediately, and I wish I could take it all back.
Dylan walks inside the store, and I follow, feeling sheepish.
I do my best to shake it off. I have a job to do, and I can’t get bogged down in all this personal crap.
I should never have agreed to any of this: taking his case, bringing him along on the investigation, or pretending to be a couple.
And I sure as hell shouldn’t have kissed him standing in the middle of the street.
I’ll apologize later, once we’re back at the inn, and then I’ll behave like a professional.
The Coldwater general store is made up of a cluster of grocery shelves, a butcher counter at the back, and a hardware section off to the side. The wood floors, smooth from close to a century of use, creak under our feet.
Of the three cash registers angled at the doors, only one is manned by a small, elderly woman with a helmet of tight brown curls and hands gnarled from arthritis. She doesn’t smile when she sees us; her expression reserved as her gaze lingers on us with quiet wariness.
I plaster on my friendliest, most disarming smile. “Hi, I’m Hunter. This is my boyfriend, Dylan, and I was wondering if you could help us with something.”
The woman’s faded gaze sharpens, and she folds her hands across her waist as if bracing herself. A plastic name tag pinned to her red and white uniform reads Alma.
“What’s that?” she asks. The hesitation in her voice makes her sound as if she thinks I’m going to ask for a kidney.
“We’re looking for someone, and he used to work here for a while. Matthew Fraiser. Did you know him?”
She nods, though her expression stays measured. “I knew him. He left months ago without giving notice.”
Dylan moves to stand next to me. His shoulder brushes mine, a sweet torture that leaves me full of regret. “I’m his cousin, and my family hasn’t heard from him in a while. We’re worried.”
“We hoped he might have told someone where he was going, or what his plans were. Was he friendly with anyone here?” I ask.
Alma jerks one bony shoulder. “I didn’t know him well. We usually worked opposite shifts. You should talk to the owner, Mr. Peters.”
“Is he in?”
She nods and points to a closed door at the back of the store. “He’s in his office. Just knock. He’ll come.”
“Thanks, we appreciate your help.”
She gives a small, noncommittal nod. Then her attention shifts to Dylan, her voice softening. “I hope you find your cousin.”
Dylan swallows hard, and once again I wonder just what Matthew had been to him. “Me too.”
Together, Dylan and I weave our way between the grocery shelves to the door, with the name Mason Peters, Owner/Manager, mounted on it, tucked in the back corner of the store.
I glance at Dylan, standing a little behind me and to my left, but his unreadable expression gives nothing away, then knock on the office door.
After a moment, it opens just wide enough for a middle-aged man to poke his head out and blink owlishly at us.
Something about the man sets my teeth on edge, though I can’t put my finger on it.
“Mr. Peters?” I ask.
He hesitates, then nods. His suspicious gaze sweeps me up and down before jumping to Dylan, and I have to fight the urge to step in front of him and block his view. I don’t know why, but I keep my attention fixed on him. “Can I help you with something?”
“I’m Hunter Cade, and this is my boyfriend, Dylan Moore. We would like to speak to you about a former employee of yours.”
Peters opens the door the rest of the way and steps into the store, closing it firmly behind him. He’s a small, slender man with hooded eyes behind thick glasses, dressed like he stepped out of the 1970s. “What can I do for you?”
“We understand a man called Matthew Fraiser worked here,” I say.
His gaze narrows, but he nods. “For a short while. He left nearly two months ago. No notice, he just stopped coming in to work his shifts.”
“He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving?”
Peters shakes his head, rests his hands on his hips and says prissily, “No, he didn’t. He left us scrambling to fill his shifts. Very inconsiderate.”
That inexplicable irritation that had settled inside me from the moment I first met the man flares. “You weren’t concerned that something might have happened to him, and that’s why he stopped working here so suddenly?”
In Peters’s defense, Matthew had moved on to Fieldstone and started working for Dylan. But something or someone had sent him running, probably the same person responsible for his disappearance.
His gaze narrows, expression turning cagey. “Of course not. It happens in this line of work. Why are you asking?”
“He’s my cousin,” Dylan cuts in. “He’s missing, and we’re trying to locate him. Our family is worried.”
His words are starting to sound rehearsed, and I wonder if Peters hears it too. Something flickers in his face, so quickly I can’t identify it before it’s gone. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything more to tell you.”
“How well did you know him?” Dylan asks, his tone sharper than I expected. Maybe something about Peters rubs him the wrong way too.
“About as well as I know any of my employees,” Peters replies.
“Really? You said he only worked here for a few months. How long has Alma, over there, worked here?” Dylan nods to the cashier, watching the exchange with unabashed interest. “Did you know Matthew as well as you know Alma?”
“Well, no.” Peters takes a step back towards his office door in retreat.
“But I make a point not to get involved in my employees’ personal lives.
I don’t know why you’re even bothering to ask me about him.
You should be talking to Lyle Kirkland. Your cousin lived with him, and Lyle is trouble.
Just before Matthew quit, he had bruises on his neck, and we all knew where they came from. ”
“You think Kirkland did it?” Dylan asks, his face paling. “Why?”
“He has something of a reputation in this town. He’s a handyman and does odd jobs around town.
He does good work when he’s sober. But when he’s drinking,” Peters lowers his voice as if he’s afraid Kirkland might overhear him, “he’s dangerous.
He put the last man he was with in the hospital.
Broke his jaw. He should have gone to jail, but the poor guy was too terrified to press charges.
He left town, too, and no one ever saw him again. ”