Chapter Seven
Parker
Eliot drums his fingers against the steering wheel as traffic slows to a crawl. I check my scanner app. “Accident half a mile up the road. This time of day, we’re gonna be sittin’ here for a while.”
With a quick glance in the rearview mirror, Eliot signals, then cuts across two lanes of traffic to take the next exit. “Decisive enough for you?” he asks as I white-knuckle the “oh shit” handle.
“If I was still a State Trooper, I’d be writing you a ticket for that move.”
He chuckles. “You’d have to catch me first.”
“Please. This is a government vehicle. It’s held together by stubbornness and budget reports.”
“That’s unfair.” He gives the dashboard a brief pat. “She’s also got enough zip ties and duct tape to qualify as a crime scene.”
The laugh slips out before I can stop it. His expression shifts from humor to surprise, with a hint of what might be…awe. We coast to a stop at a traffic light, and my cheeks start to burn.
I scramble for something—anything—to say.
“Eyes on the road, Flint. I still have Trooper friends who’d be happy to do me a solid and write you that ticket.”
“Yes, ma’am.” With a sharp nod, he makes a point of staring through the windshield, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.
I don’t like feeling off balance around anyone. Least of all a man who makes me wonder what it would take to get him to really smile.
“That chili recipe still an award winner?” I ask.
He cuts his gaze to me. “That ain’t in my personnel file.”
My lips curve. Balance restored. “I’m thorough. Is it worth sharing or not?”
“Might be.” He shrugs, the movement a little stiff. “I’ve spent the last ten years workin’ on it.”
Ten years on a chili recipe? Is that dedication? Or obsession? Finding out is suddenly extremely important.
“Ten years?”
“Good chili takes commitment,” he says, one corner of his mouth curving into a lopsided grin. He keeps his gaze pinned straight ahead. “Took me years to learn not to rush the braise. Gotta respect the meat or you end up with somethin’ that tastes a whole lot like regret.”
I settle back in the seat, my arm resting on the center console, only inches from his.
His jaw works once, then relaxes. He’s clean-shaven today—was he when we met?
I can’t remember now. His messy hair makes him look younger than he probably is, but when I meet his gaze for half a second at the next stoplight, I find a weariness in his eyes that doesn’t match the rest of him.
“That your way of tellin’ me the recipe’s proprietary?”
He runs his left hand over the back of his neck, then returns it to the wheel, long fingers curled loosely around the leather. “That’s my way of tellin’ you people get real territorial about cook-offs. I’ve seen grown men threaten violence over their brisket technique.”
“Cook-offs bring out the worst in people.” A familiar ache settles behind my ribs. Mama won almost every one she entered. Her pecan pie was famous state-wide.
I drove more than three hours to see her last competition at the Texas State Fair. She didn’t even place, which had never happened before. She blamed it on a batch of bad pecans, then wandered off in search of kettle corn. Her dementia diagnosis came less than six months later.
I grip the door handle—hard—then wince as one of my damaged nerves sends a spark of pain all the way up to my elbow.
Eliot glances over at me. “You okay?”
My shoulders head for my ears. “Fine.”
His eyes narrow. Shit. This is the second lie I’ve told him—and he knew it. Both damn times. A man like Eliot Flint doesn’t let that go for long.
I turn away, staring out the side window at a group of high schoolers ambling toward a Whataburger.
“I don’t know about you, but I need caffeine.” Eliot makes a quick lane change, then pulls into a Siren Coffee drive thru behind a minivan. “What do you want?”
It takes a moment for the question to register. “Large iced coffee. No sugar, no cream.”
He gives me the side-eye. “That’s not a refreshing beverage. That’s a personality choice.”
“It’s easy.” After a beat, I frown. “You drank the station coffee black.”
“Didn’t know where the creamer was,” he says. “And you were headed for your office faster than a duck on a June bug. I decided keepin’ up was more important.”
“That coffee is shit on its best day. You should’ve said somethin’.”
“You’ve never had a cup that sat on a burner all night while the whole crew was out on a four-alarm call. Seemed rude to complain. Though I can make a decent argument for sugar if you’d like to hear it.”
“It’s coffee. Not a hostage negotiation.”
That tugs at the corner of his mouth again. “Every conversation we have feels like a hostage negotiation.”
My stomach does a strange little flip. “You always assign tactical significance to perfectly normal interactions?”
“Careful, you’re dangerously close to flirtin’ with me now,” he says with a chuckle.
I cross my arms with a huff. “Don’t make this weird.”
“It’s a little late for that, Parker. You know my chili history.”
The way he says my name does nothing to settle the very angry butterflies behind my navel.
The minivan inches forward. From the way it’s rocking side to side, there are at least two kids in there, and neither of them’s winning whatever war they’re fighting.
“Sorry. About the creamer.” I don’t look at him. That would be dangerous. There’s something about the man—and my reaction to him—I don’t understand.
“Ain’t no never mind.” His voice softens around the edges of the words.
The minivan finally finishes ordering, and Eliot pulls forward and rolls down his window. “One large iced coffee, black, and an iced latte with oat milk and two sugars.”
I pull out my wallet, but Eliot waves me off. “You can get the next round.”
“Next round? We’re gonna catch whoever’s settin’ these fires, and you’ll forget all about this little partnership.”
His eyes crinkle at the edges. Pulling forward to the pickup window, he swipes his phone over the credit card reader, then glances over at me. “You’re far from forgettable, Parker.”
Well, shit. Now who’s the one flirting?