Chapter 1 #2
He buzzed the door, all cocky confidence, that box tucked under his arm like evidence he was about to plant. She could ignore him. Slip out the back for an early lunch and let him stand there until he gave up.
But he wouldn’t give up. She could see it in the set of his shoulders. He was on a mission.
Fine. Let’s see how this plays out.
She hit the buzzer and released the locks.
He walked toward the counter with that particular strut rookies had before the job beat it out of them. She barely glanced up—quick assessment, eyebrow arch, then back to her inventory like he wasn’t worth her full attention.
The box landed on her counter with a soft thump. He waited, drumming his fingers against the glass. Cleared his throat. She fought a smile.
Patience isn’t your virtue, is it, junior?
“What, am I invisible?” he finally said. Northern accent—not local. Not even close.
He was easy to read. Hot temper. Thought he was God’s gift to law enforcement.
Badge still shiny. He’d come from a big city to Idaho, where the departments were small and the pace slower.
You didn’t make that kind of move for career advancement.
You made it because you needed to start over or because a woman had brought you here.
This one didn’t look like he’d cross state lines for anyone but himself.
Mia kept her eyes on the gold pieces she was weighing, but raised one finger in acknowledgment.
“Are you kidding me?” His voice rose. “I’m a paying customer.”
She continued her count, marking purity and weight on her pad, entering numbers into her database with deliberate precision. Then she pulled out an envelope, labeled it in neat handwriting, and set it aside.
“Listen,” he said. “I don’t like being ignored. If I don’t get some service pretty quick, things are going to get real uncomfortable for you.”
“Settle down, junior.” She met his eyes—cold assessment, no fear. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“I don’t have a minute.” His hand moved toward his back pocket—going for credentials he thought would make her jump.
She smiled, sweet as poisoned honey, and reached for the shotgun. Just enough to let him see it. “You might want to rethink that move.”
His eyes went wide. His hand froze mid-reach. Then came the anger—hot and reckless, flashing across his face like lightning.
Good, she thought. Anger makes you stupid.
“Relax.” She set the shotgun back down, deliberately casual. “What can I help you with?”
He took a breath, wrestled his temper under control, and pushed the box toward her. That cocky smile was back, but now she could see the cracks in it.
“I just want to know how much I can get for this.”
Mia lifted the lid. Another music box—wooden, antique, quality craftsmanship. Early twentieth century if she wasn’t mistaken. She lifted it carefully, turned it over to examine the maker’s mark.
“Nice piece,” she said. “But you know I’ll need to verify it’s not stolen before I can buy it.”
“It’s not stolen. Belonged to my grandmother. She just passed.”
The lie came smooth—too smooth. He’d been practicing. Which meant he’d been planning this visit. Which meant someone had sent him to her shop specifically.
Interesting.
“Sorry for your loss,” she said, no sympathy in her voice.
“Thanks.”
She wound the key, watched the mechanism turn, listened to the delicate notes fill the space between them. It really was beautiful—the kind of thing that should be in a museum, not pawned by a rookie cop playing dress-up.
“I can give you two hundred for it,” she said, naming a price that was deliberately insulting.
His eyes narrowed. “Two hundred? That’s ridiculous. This is worth at least a thousand.”
“Maybe at auction. But this is a pawnshop, not Sotheby’s. I’ve got overhead. I need profit margin. Two hundred.”
She watched him calculate. Whatever game he was playing, he needed this sale to happen. Needed to establish himself on her surveillance cameras, create a relationship. Which meant he was setting her up for something.
“Three hundred,” he countered.
“Two fifty. Because I’m feeling generous.”
“Fine.” The word came through gritted teeth.
She slid a pawnshop form across the counter. “Need your ID and this filled out.”
He pulled out his wallet—driver’s license with a Chicago address. Walker Barnes, twenty-four years old. She made a copy, watched him fill out the form with handwriting that was too neat, too practiced.
“So, Walker Barnes,” she said, deliberately casual. “What brings you from Chicago to Laurel Valley?”
“Fresh start.” He didn’t look up.
“Isn’t that what we’re all looking for.”
He finished the form, pushed it back. She reviewed it, stapled the ID copy, pushed an ink pad toward him. “Thumbprint.”
He hesitated—just a fraction of a second, but enough to confirm everything she suspected. Then he pressed his thumb down, took his cash, and tried for casual.
“Actually,” he said, leaning against her counter like they were old friends. “I heard you might’ve bought another music box recently. Similar to this one. Old, wooden, nice craftsmanship. Thought maybe I could buy it from you.”
Mia kept her expression neutral. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Around. Small town. Word travels.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice went cold. “And even if I did have another music box, I wouldn’t be discussing my inventory with you. That’s not how this works.”
“Look, lady, I don’t think you understand—”
“No, you don’t understand.” She cut him off, voice dropping to that dangerous register cops learned to recognize.
“You walk in here with a fabricated story about your dead grandmother. You sell me a music box that may or may not be stolen. Now you’re fishing for information about merchandise I may or may not have.
That’s not legitimate business. That’s entrapment. ”
His face flushed red. “Listen—”
“I spotted you as a cop the second you got out of your truck,” she said flatly. “Go back to patrol. Undercover work is going to get you killed. You’re terrible at it.”
He made a rude gesture.
“No thanks. I don’t date rookies.” Her smile was all teeth. “And I especially don’t help cops who come into my shop trying to run game. Whatever you’re fishing for, you won’t find it here. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
She turned back to her inventory, dismissing him.
He tried one more time—hands up, innocent smile. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot, but you got it all wrong. I’m not a cop, and I don’t know what you’re talking about as far as deals. Just thought we could help each other out.”
“Where’s your handler?” She didn’t look up. “I figured the big dogs would’ve come to rescue you by now. You’re drowning and you don’t even know it.”
His eyes went mean—narrow slits that showed her a glimpse of the man under the rookie mask. Maybe he was older than she’d thought. But she hadn’t been wrong about the temper.
“You’re something else, you know that?” he said.
“Save it.” She looked up, met his glare with her own. “You want advice? Go back to patrol before you get someone killed—probably yourself. I spotted you as a cop from my surveillance cameras. If I can see it, everyone can see it.”
He gave her another rude gesture, added some choice words.
“Still not interested,” she said dryly. “Though I appreciate the offer.”
He grabbed her wrist and squeezed—anger calling the shots now instead of training. She’d been waiting for this. Counting on that temper.
“You think you’re so tough?” he growled.
Her voice stayed calm even as her heart kicked up. “You’re going to want to let go. Right now.”
“I got news for you. You’re going to help us whether you want to or not. Otherwise you and this shack are going to belong to the government by the time we’re done.”
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said, voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re going to let go of my wrist. Or I’m going to make you wish you had.”
She brought her free hand up fast—the back of her wrist connecting with his chin hard enough to snap his teeth together. His head jerked back. She grabbed his hair and slammed his face against the counter before he could process what had happened.
Then she leaned close, spoke directly into his ear.
“You and whatever you think you stand for can walk straight back to your commanding officer and tell him this: I don’t respond to threats.
I don’t respond to intimidation. And I sure as hell don’t respond to rookie cops who think they can push me around in my own shop. ”
She saw the black Bronco screech into her parking lot—Sheriff O’Hara, right on time. Blaze O’Hara was the real deal. He’d back her play even if it meant going against another cop. She had connections of her own. She’d earned them the hard way.
The buzzer rang insistently. She let go of Barnes’s hair, watched him stumble back looking dazed and angry. She hit the switch to release the door locks.
The door opened. Boots on hardwood. And then the atmosphere changed—charged like lightning about to strike. Heat flooded through her, followed immediately by chills. Her pulse quickened. Her breath caught.
It had always been this way with him.
Zeke McBride looked better than she remembered, which was saying something.
He’d always been devastating. Now he was harder, more dangerous, like life had filed off the softer edges and left only steel.
His hair was still military short, but now there was silver threading through the dark—more at the temples, giving him a distinguished edge that would’ve been unfair on anyone else.
The scruff on his jaw was new, full beard territory, also shot through with silver.
His eyes were dark forest green with flecks of gold, framed by lashes that had no business on a man. Those eyes never missed anything. One eyebrow had a scar bisecting it—new since she’d seen him last. Three years ago. Three years, two months, and however many days since she’d walked away.
He was several inches over six feet, built like someone who spent more time in the gym than sleeping. Black shirt stretched tight across his chest and biceps—both tattooed with ink she’d traced with her fingers more times than she could count. Jeans. Steel-toed boots. One hundred percent dangerous.
If she wasn’t still so furious at him, she might have walked straight into his arms and pretended the last three years hadn’t carved a canyon between them.
He’d always loved undercover work—lived for it. The ultimate battle of good versus evil, the adrenaline rush, playing in the gray spaces where right and wrong blurred together. He’d been addicted to it. To the danger, the lies, the high of bringing down bad guys while living among them.
Memories hit her like physical blows—love and fear and chaos.
Arguments that shook walls. His face when she’d woken up in the hospital after taking a bullet meant for him.
The look in his eyes when she’d told him she was done—done with the job, done with watching him destroy himself, done with being collateral damage in his war.
He hadn’t been willing to choose. So she’d chosen for both of them.
“Well, great,” she said, her voice flat.
“It’s good to see you too, Mia.”