Eric Brady was in his office with the door closed most of the afternoon, but I saw him through the textured glass pacing while talking on a Bluetooth. He popped out now and then to replenish his caffeine supply. More than a few times, I caught myself staring at his distorted form through the glass, wondering about him.
The Standard was put to bed fairly early, and the team of daily writers started drifting toward the parking lot around two o'clock. The rest of us, the ones who had a bit more time to build our stories, stayed later.
At five on the dot, Kim waved good-bye, and Grouper stopped by my desk on his way out a few minutes later. Even Chip was out the door before six. An hour later, I shut down my computer.
"Good second day?"
The voice startled me, but I smiled when I saw Eric leaning against his open door.
"Great second day," I confirmed. After all, I'd stayed inside, so no shady dudes with hook hands could spy on me, and as far as I knew, I hadn't been shot at. Yes, a spectacular second day!
"Chip said you have interesting ideas from the AP." He tapped his laptop case that was strapped across his shoulder. "He emailed them to me, I'll check some out tonight."
"Oh. Cool." I smiled again and Eric smiled back. We regarded each other for a few seconds, but the moment I bent to grab my purse, his eyes dipped to my cleavage. It was a quick glance, maybe even accidental, but very un-Ferris Bueller. Pretty un-boss-like, too.
"Well," I said, "I guess I should…"
"I'll walk with you if you'll give me a minute."
"Oh, no." I jumped to my feet. "That's okay. I'm on my way out now. See you tomorrow!" I scooped up the last of my things, pushed them in my bag, and rushed to the door. It wasn't until I was halfway across the parking lot that I wondered why I'd jet-propelled away like that. What was it about Eric that intrigued me, and yet made me suspicious enough to not want to be alone with him, even though that meant I was in the parking lot alone?
I didn't give myself time to think, or to even check that I was alone, but hopped in the car and drove straight home. No one was there when I arrived. Piper was at rehearsal, but my parents didn't bother leaving a note on the table, let alone call me. I unzipped my boots then pulled on a pair of thick knee socks that I swiped from Dad's top drawer.
I padded into the kitchen and opened the fridge, hoping for leftover Shanghai-Lo cartons. Nada. I stood by the sink with my arms folded, gazing out the window at the sun glowing red and gold behind a row of trees blocking the horizon.
Out of habit, I headed out the front door and down the driveway to our mailbox on the sidewalk. I pulled open the lid, hoping Piper subscribed to glossy magazines with pretty pictures I could get lost in as I drifted to sleep in Dad's recliner.
"Maren?" A man stood at the mailbox of the house next door.
"Hi," I replied out of politeness, squinting into the setting sun.
"Are you back in town for a visit or to stay a while?"
He spoke like he knew me, yet we'd never met—I'd remember a specimen this gorgeous in Eureka…even though the way his eyebrows knit seemed familiar. "A while, I think. I'm not sure." A draft of misty wind made me shiver unintentionally.
"You never get used to the persistent chill, especially after being away. It's the humidity." When he smiled, and a tiny dimple cut into his cheek, another burst of familiarity swirled in my brain. He walked over, holding a stack of mail in one hand. As he got closer, I noticed his hazel eyes matched, almost exactly, the color of his dark blond hair.
"Yeah, never seems to dry out completely," I said. "Well, I should…" I nodded toward the house then started up the driveway.
"About last night. After you left, I realized you had no idea who I was."
I stopped in my tracks.
"And I asked if I could take you home. No wonder I freaked you out." He dipped his chin and chuckled, self-deprecatingly.
My jaw unhinged, mouth falling open in a gape. I was so seriously slow. Yes, the bar had been dark, and I'd been exhausted and a million mental miles away. But how had I now not recognized that bold pickup artist from last night?
"That was you at The Ritz?"
He ran a hand through the side of his hair and pulled back another smile. Oh yeah, it was him alright. Cute, very cute, Dawson's Creek cute. I glanced at his left hand, fourth finger. No ring. Oh, mama.
"Sorry," he said. "I was planning on leaving right then, and when I heard you tell Piper you were calling a cab, I didn't think about it." He laughed, that same charming tone. Nice laugh. Low and sexy. "It seemed logical since, you know"—he nodded at the house behind him.
Piper hadn't mentioned that our next-door neighbors had moved. A few months ago, Mom blogged that her dear friend and neighbor of twenty-two years was embarking on a cross-country RV trip. I hadn't realized that meant they were selling.
"Oh." I gazed at his house, remembering the dozens of times I'd been inside. Were my initials still carved behind the bathroom door? And whatever happened to the kid who'd lived there? We were the same age, but weren't really friends past the third grade. He disappeared from school altogether once we were teenagers. I'd heard a rumor once that he'd gone to juvie for punching a horse.
"It's weird, isn't it?" he said, interrupting my reminiscing. "Coming back, everything seems so much smaller. Hey, remember the time you and Piper were home alone, and you thought a burglar was picking the lock on your garage door? You called our house screaming, so my dad rushed over…"
I stared at him—at his face…the unique color of his eyes, the way his brows knit, that tiny dimple.
"…And it turned out to be the poodle that lived across—"
"Jamison?" I cut in. "Jamison Loomis? Oh, my gosh, I…I didn't recognize you."
He tilted his head and nodded slowly, though he seemed dumbfounded, or maybe he wondered why it had taken me so long to catch on.
I shook my head, trying to wrap my brain around it. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you." I took a step toward him, repeating the name softly. "Jamison?"
"I haven't gone by Jamison for fifteen years. It's my middle name."
Okay. Now I felt really stuck. I'd lived next door to him until we were eighteen. Our bedroom windows were straight across from each other. And I didn't even know his name.
"Patrick," he said, as if he could read the panic on my face. "I'm Patrick Loomis, you're Maren Colepepper, and we grew up fifty feet apart."
"Why'd you go by Jamison when we were little?" I shrugged. "It's a pertinent question."
He tucked his chin and chuckled in a way that was becoming familiar. Again. "Thanks to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, I wanted to be a butler when I grew up and figured the name Jamison would get me there faster than Patrick, so I convinced everyone to call me that and wouldn't answer to anything else."
"Butler." I couldn't help giggling. "I totally remember that. You used to walk around with a little bell and a tea towel draped over your arm."
"I'm sure my parents hoped it was a phase. Dad didn't have to shine his own shoes for years."
I laughed openly now. "I'm just shocked…appalled, even. Jamison Loomis hit on me at a bar last night."
"No, Patrick asked if you wanted a lift home because you live next door."
"Ha!" I batted the air between us. "Semantics."
"Let me take you to dinner to make up for it. Any plans?"
There you go, being all direct and hot again.
As I examined him through my lashes, I saw little Jamison Loomis, that scrawny, pale kid who used to click his heels and say things like "chip-chip!" Now, he was this extremely fine guy with nice arms, a jaw sharp enough to slice paper, and a killer laugh…who didn't look or behave like stupid, fixer-upper Scott.
"Plans?" I replied. "Not a one."
"Grab some shoes, and we'll get a bite." He lowered his hazel-eyed gaze to my feet. Then it dragged up my legs. Sweet, he's checking me out. Score. But then I remembered I was still in my work skirt, but with Dad's bunchy wool socks sliding half
way down my calves.
"Oh." I tittered, trying, to no avail, obviously, to hide my feet. "Umm."
He cocked a crooked grin. "I'll start my car now, so it's warm." He pointed at a 4Runner in his driveway, dark blue with silver ski racks. "Hop in when you're ready. I'll see you out the window."
I nodded. "Okay."
"See you in a minute." We both turned toward our respective houses.
Once inside, I tore down the hall toward my bedroom, praying I didn't have fog-inflicted raccoon eyes from smudgy mascara. But the mirror reported all makeup was in its proper place. My hair, on the other hand… Well, I didn't have time to deal with it. It would have to stay in its (hopefully stylish) messy bun.
I grabbed a red and blue silk scarf off Piper's dresser as I flew past her bedroom, wrapping it around my neck. At least it would add a pop of color to the outfit. I zipped up my boots, pulled on my trench, scribbled a note to my parents on a napkin, then calmly walked through the hole in the rhododendron bushes that separated our two driveways.
CHAPTER NINE
I was in the car five seconds before Patrick. He hadn't given me enough time to snoop, not even a quick rifle though the glove compartment. But at least his car was clean. It even smelled good, like pine needles, leather and…manly dude.
"I was wondering if I should sit in back." I grinned as he slid behind the wheel.
"Butler," he corrected, "not chauffeur."
"Ah, yes." I snapped my fingers.
A second after he turned the key, music with booming bass exploded from the speakers. He flicked a button to silence it, but not before I recognized Run DMC from the eighties.
"Rap, huh?"
Wearing a little smirk, he glanced at me. "Only the classics."
"You consider the line 'Mary Mary, why ya buggin' a classic?"
"Completely." He put the car in reverse. "And the next line, 'Mary Mary, I need your huggin' is poetry."
"Rivals Shakespeare."
The sound of his deep, low laugh filled the car.
The mailbox encounter hadn't been more than five minutes ago, but I could swear he'd shaved and dabbed on some very sexy-smelling cologne. I watched his hands work the steering wheel. Good nails, doesn't bite them. But did he bite other things?
I turned my eyes away, needing conversation. "So, what do you do? Have you always lived here, or did you go away to college?"
Excellent, Mare. Remind the guy how self-involved you were in high school and that you never bothered to keep tabs on the boy next door.
"Which question first?"
"Might as well hear the story from the beginning."
"Well, the summer before freshman year of high school, I got into some mischief." He kept his eyes straight ahead. "My parents deemed it necessary to bring in a little help, so I transferred to St. Bernard's."
"They banished you to St. Bee's? The catholic school?"
He shrugged.
"That's where the troublemakers go. The kids the teachers at EHS can't handle."
"Or the kids who need extra attention. The student-to-teacher ratio is much smaller, and the teachers get paid more because it's private. I actually thrived there. You know, once I beat every other kid to a pulp."
"Did you really punch a horse?"
"Sorry, my juvenile records are sealed." He smiled, full dimple this time, making me feel melty around the stomach area. "After graduating, I went to HSU on a full ride."
"Impressive. What did you study?" Most people chose Humboldt State University to earn a degree in an earthy subject like marine biology or ecology or environmental sciences.
"Social psychology."
"Sounds fancy. So, what do you do now? Is your job—"
"I didn't bother asking," he cut in as if I hadn't been speaking. "What do you feel like eating? Tell me if there's a specific place you want to go."
Either the guy was a rude jerk to interrupt me that way, or he'd derailed my question on purpose. I glanced at him. Definitely not a jerk, which left conscious derailment. But why?
"I don't care," I said breezily. "Anywhere's fine."
I didn't circle back to the subject of his job right then, because a few minutes later, we pulled up to Mazzotti's Ristorante Italiano. The place had been an institution in Eureka for thirty years, owned and operated by the Mazzotti family who'd emigrated from Italy. I grinned, peering up at the familiar sign depicting a suspicious-looking Al Capone-type character scooping a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.
"Do you remember Joe Mazzotti?" I asked. "Three grades up from us?"
"Vaguely," Patrick said as he joined me on the sidewalk.
"I had a major, unrequited crush on him. I can't count how many garlic breadsticks I consumed when I was sixteen, waiting for him to come out from the kitchen. My teenaged brain thought if I ate enough, one of the times he would appear to refill the basket. Then, of course, we'd fall in love and have Italian babies. Even now, one whiff of garlic bread puts me in the mood to…" I caught myself before I continued the thought aloud.
"Let's hope you get lucky tonight." Patrick opened the glass door for me. "I'll ask the hostess if there's a chance of a Joe Mazzotti sighting."
I giggled, feeling a tingle of teenaged excitement.
The place hadn't changed much, though it wasn't as dark and menacing as it used to seem. Maybe they decided the restaurant would do better if they went for a more family-oriented theme instead of the straight up mafioso ambiance.
But the food, that smell, hit me like a Sicilian slap. I was sixteen again, hiding behind a menu in the corner booth, the spot that had a direct view into the kitchen.
Patrick and I were led to a table by the window, across the room from that very booth from my teenage years. Someone sat there alone, facing away from us. For a split second, I thought he leaned forward and peered our way. And was he…wearing a hood? Indoors?
That was crazy. I was obviously still obsessed with sussing out what had gone down at SPI yesterday. If that meant imagining hooded beings with dark eyes, so be it.
The hostess dropped off menus and a wine list, followed by a basket of steaming garlic breadsticks. Oh, man. That aroma…
With one finger, Patrick scooted the basket across the table to where my dinner plate would go. "Tell me again what the smell of garlic bread does to you," he asked, arching one sexy, playful eyebrow. "I'd love to see it firsthand."
Our server appeared. "Something to drink?"
"Water," I gasped through a raspy-dry throat. "Water, please."
"Water for me then, too," Patrick said, not hiding his grin directed at me.
I took a piece of bread, tore it in half, and shoved it into my mouth, then the other half. Patrick laughed under his breath. I usually hated when guys watched me eat, but something was different with Patrick. First, it was Jamison Loomis for crying out loud. Second, I was starving. Third, there was the way he watched me chew, like he was studying how my mouth moved or contemplating the method in which he might remove a spot of butter from the corner of my lips.
Needing to cool the heck off, I pushed the basket away and grabbed my water glass, spilling some of it on the tablecloth.
"Hmm."
"What?" I asked, after quenching the physical part of my thirst.
"When I heard you were in town, I thought I might not recognize you. It's been over ten years and people change, physically, as you're aware." He leaned forward and pointed his chin at my face. "But I'd know that expression anywhere—the way your eyes get squinty when you're nervous."
"I'm not—"
"Just an observation." He leaned back and dropped his gaze to the menu, running a finger down the line, like he was intent on reading the description of every dish.
"I already know what I want."
"Oh, yeah?" His hazel eyes crinkled at the sides, the only part of his face smiling. "Should I ask for the check now and take the garlic bread with us?"
It was a joke, of course, but I almost said, Yes, and make it fast!
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"I know what I want food wise," I said, reaching for my water again.
"What else would you have meant?"
This guy… Not only was he gorgeous and wrote the book on flirting, but he said all the right things. He was probably capable of charming the pants off anyone he wanted.
When the server returned, we placed our orders. Something else that was new to Mazzotti's was the live entertainment. At the other end of the room, two guitarists were in a huddle warming up.
"You like music?" Patrick asked, noticing how closely I observed the duo.
"Love it. Back home, there's this coffee shop around the corner from my apartment. It has an unofficial open-mic night. Mostly karaoke stuff, but every once in a while someone really talented plays."
"Where did you live?"
Before I'd moved there, specific geography of the city hadn't meant much to me. Now it was hard to explain streets and avenues and the five boroughs to someone who'd never been. People seemed to think everyone lived either on Park Avenue with the Gossip Girls, or Greenwich Village with the cast of Friends.
"New York City," I said.
"I realize that. But where? It's a pretty big place."
"Yeah, it is." I paused, wondering how specific I could be before he took on that glazed-over expression. "Well, see…the city is kind of broken up into sections. I lived in Brooklyn—it's still considered New York City. It's confusing, I know."
"My apartment was on West Seventy-Second and Amsterdam." He took a drink.
The number streets in Eureka only went up to twenty, and where in the world was Amsterdam Street?
Patrick went on, "We had a little neighborhood place like that, too. Gigi's. Every aspiring John Mayer flocked there for open-mic night. It got to be a hangout for kids studying music at Columbia."
"Wait." I nearly choked on my breadstick. "You lived in New York? Upper West Side?"
"For two years. My first place was in Brooklyn, too. Sunset Park and Eighth."
"Chinatown? My apartment was six blocks from there."
He lifted a slow smile, resting his forearms on the table. "And you lived to tell. You're a brave one."
Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1) Page 5