"My first kiss was down here," Patrick said, his eyeline pointing toward a narrow trail that disappeared behind a stump the size of a VW Beetle. "I was thirteen."
"Anyone I know?" I asked, feeling envious of someone I'd probably never met.
"No, she was visiting her grandparents for the summer. My first and only fling."
"Torrid," I teased, bumping his shoulder.
He dropped his chin and chuckled. "It's a nice spot for it, though. No one around." He turned to me, his gaze locking first on my eyes, then dropping to my mouth.
Fling, anyone?
As I was about to meet him in the middle, a car came barreling down the trail. Then another. A van. Two vans. We watched in silence as three vans full of third graders descend upon our perfect, trickling, secluded grove. They ran and screeched and laughed, probably scaring our poor duckies to death.
"Time to feed you now," Patrick said.
We hustled to a picnic table, snagging it before the adult leaders of the shrieking kids could. Patrick handed me two street tacos, a bottle of water, and a few napkins before unloading his four tacos.
"Mmmm, oh, man." I moaned through a mouth full of savory deliciousness. "This is amazing."
He was nodding and chewing. "Told ya."
"Is this feta cheese? I'd never think to put feta on a taco." I took another bite and sank into my seat. Before I could slip into food ecstasy, I remembered the ice cream store incident and told myself not to moan too loudly.
"Earlier, in the parking lot," he said, wadding the wrapper of his first taco into his fist. "I saw you talking to Eric Brady. How well do you know him?"
"How do you know Eric?"
He shook his head and gazed beyond me toward some kids chasing each other around a tree. "I know of him, but I don't know him."
"Oh." My eyebrows arched, making my forehead ache a little.
"So, how well do you know him?"
"Not," I answered. "I didn't know he existed before Monday."
"Really?"
"He's not who hired me. Mac Gardner, he used to work with my dad way back when, he's the one who interviewed me and offered me the job while I was still in New York. He used to be the managing editor, but last week, they let him go and brought in Eric. Other than that, I don't know anything."
"Huh. Really," he repeated, almost like he didn't believe me.
I leaned forward. "You said you know of Eric. What more can you tell me?"
"Not a thing." He unwrapped his next taco then pointed at mine. "They're not as good once they get soggy. Less talking, woman, more eating. Unless you want me to drag you onto my lap and feed you." He grinned. "No? Okay, fine." He took a big bite and turned away.
I totally saw through how he was trying to distract me with swoony looks, flirty words, and food to die for…to derail me from a subject. It wasn't the first time he'd used that tactic.
"At the paper," I said as I peeled open the wrapper, "a lot of people lost their jobs out of the blue, and the ones left have no idea why. So, if there's anything you can tell me—"
"There's not. I've never met him."
I set down my taco and squared my shoulders, ready to launch into another line of questioning, but Patrick's hand reaching out to my face stopped me cold.
"Seriously, Maren, what happened today? You can tell me." He touched my forehead right below the bump. "You said your face got in the way of a shoe."
"Boot," I corrected.
"My mistake." He shot me another knee-melting smile and drew his hand back.
"I was covering what I thought was an innocent protest. It was nothing at first, but the mob got rowdy, same as the other day, not sure why yet. Before that, it was calm, almost like someone got the crowd riled up on purpose when I got there. And then…" I pointed to the front of my noggin.
"I'm giving you a helmet for the next time you go there, and you better wear it," he said. "So, what beef do the protesters have about the mill? Did you find out?"
After a big bite, I chewed for a minute before replying. "I'm still not sure. I was talking to one of the leaders, finally getting somewhere, but when the rowdiness happened, we got separated. I didn't get any contact information, which is why I'm going to this other guy's office today. That's where I was heading when you…" I was about to say, "when you ran into me," but was that what really happened? Or had Patrick been waiting in the parking lot hoping to see me?
Or had he been lurking there the whole time?
While wearing a hood?
No. That was mental. It was just like he'd said…he knew where I worked and wanted to see me. Judging by the chemistry I knew we were both feeling, that explanation wasn't mental at all.
Suddenly, the mere idea of a hot guy ditching his own job just to hang out with me sent butterflies loose in my stomach, and my whole body craved like mad to be kissing him.
"So, do you really have to work this afternoon?" he asked, looking at me across the picnic table. His eyes were wide and so deliciously beseeching. "You wouldn't rather stay down here with me?" He glanced at some kids throwing pinecones at a stone drinking fountain. "They won't be here forever."
"It's my third day," I said, hoping my tone conveyed that being anywhere but here was not what I'd rather be doing.
"Okay." He nodded. "How much time do we have?"
"None. This is my first shot at a story. I need to come away with something interesting. Or scandalous even." I laughed. "Too bad nothing scandalous happens here." I propped an elbow on the table and cradled my cheek.
"I'll show you scandal." He scooted forward until his leg touch mine under the table. "Want me to give you a private tour of that trail?" he asked, pointing his chin toward the path leading behind the stump. His leg on my other side touched me, my knees between his—trapped. "Or maybe we should blaze our own trail."
From my chest to my cheeks to under my hair flushed hot and tingly, and I was hyperaware that we were surrounded by innocent eyes who did not need to get their first sex education lesson from me tackling this man to the ground.
"Patrick," I whispered, smiling a bit too keenly. "Don't…" Despite my feeble protest, I was breathing hard as I reached for my bottle of water.
He caught my hand, sandwiching it between both of his. His expression turned to total focus and concentration as he peeled his hands apart and kissed mine. Kissed it again.
My eyes fluttered closed, warmed and entranced from his lips touching me, and from his breath. After one more kiss, on my wrist this time, he rubbed my hand between his, slowly, and then his fingers inched inside the cuff of my coat sleeve, his thumb dragging across my skin. Each movement was subtle, deliberate, and I felt the effect of every one by way of a tantalizing sizzle all the way down to my curled toes. I stretched my arm out, inviting him to run his hand further up my sleeve.
"When I get you alone…" he murmured as his palm cupped my elbow, thumb tracing the sensitive inside skin.
I was sure he felt the quiver run through me. "Let's get out of here," I said.
He stared into my eyes for a long moment, as if seriously considering my answer to his unspoken invitation. Then he nodded, freed his hand, and fixed my sleeve. Yep, we were in sync.
We stood in union and wordlessly gathered our lunch remains. I might get reprimanded for taking and extra-extra-long lunch break, but then I looked at Patrick, at his sexy mouth and determined expression, and nothing could make me think straight about my job right then.
"Excuse me?" a woman said from behind. "I'm so sorry to bother you." She was middle-aged, in a tan coat, yellow stocking cap, and matching scarf. "I need to move my van to the other side of the pond, but it won't start." She addressed Patrick. "Do you know anything about cars? None of us here have a clue."
"Sure," Patrick said. He sent me a quick, apologetic glance and handed me our trash to throw away. The lady led him to a van with the hood was up.
I tossed our wrappers in the big green trash can, then took in a few deep, sedative breaths, wo
ndering if it would be too weird if I jumped in the pond to join my ducky friends in their freezing cold water. Thinking better of it, I met the humans at the van. Patrick was talking to yellow-scarf lady while pointing at something deep in the engine. "Maren, this might take a while."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Not sure yet. It doesn't sound like a dead battery. Maybe it's…" Half of his body disappeared halfway inside the belly of the engine. When he popped out, his hands, forehead, and the front of his clothes were smudged with grease. Oh, my shiz, he looked even sexier all mussed like that.
Yellow-scarf lady undoubtedly thought the same, because I heard her breathe out a low whimper. "Um, so AAA said they can't be here for an hour," she said. "What should I do?"
"Don't worry, I'll call someone." Patrick pulled out his cell and punched in numbers. "There's really no reason for you to wait," he said to me. "You take the car and I'll—"
"Oh! I'll drive you wherever you need to go," scarf lady burst in. "Absolutely anywhere. I'm Naomi, since it seems we'll be stuck together for a while." When I cleared my throat, she spun to me. "Oh, um, sorry. Is this your husband?"
"No." I laughed and couldn't help noticing Patrick's cheeks flush a bit pink. Oh, boy…another notch of cuteness. Poor scarf lady. "I'm just glad we were down here, well, that he was down here to help."
"Me, too," she said, kind of beaming up at her hero.
"Maren," Patrick said, ignoring her, "I really do think you should go home, not back to work." When I didn't reply, his shoulders dropped like he knew what he'd said was a waste of breath. "But I can see your mind is made up. See you later?"
Before I could answer, he handed me my keys then went back to his phone. Without another word passing between us, I walked to my car and drove up the trail.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
So far, the two times I'd been out with Patrick Loomis (in less than twenty-four hours) I had left the dates feeling unsatisfied, more than a little frustrated, and with my head full of unanswered questions. When I was back on the street, I readjusted the rearview mirror, reminding me of his annoying absence.
My cell blinked with a new message. A text from Piper, asking how my story was going. I smiled and leaned my head back.
Two weeks ago, when I'd been faced with the decision of whether or not to move home, Piper's being here played a huge part in that decision. I'd known it would be difficult being back in Eureka after living on my own for so long, but I'd also known Piper would soften the blow. She was practically my best friend, especially since we'd gotten older. Her acting career had flourished in the last few years, and I was finally close enough geographically that I would be able to see her in every single production. She deserved the support.
While idling at a red light, I texted a quick reply, then pulled out Aaron Sorenson's business card, refreshing my memory of his exact address. A couple more turns and I'd be there.
The Consumer Advisory office was one unit in a three-story pink and white Victorian house converted to business suites. I checked the kiosk on the door, then headed up a wooden staircase toward suite 203. Before I'd reached the landing, three people dashed past me on their way down. One guy actually bashed his shoulder against mine. "Sorry—excuse me," he said in a rush, then continued down.
I rubbed my arm. I'd have a lovely bruise there later, hopefully the same marbly shade of purple to match the one on my forehead. Guess I picked the wrong day to not take out a billion-dollar life insurance policy on myself.
The door to Consumer Advisory was wide open to reveal a lively conversation going on inside. "No, no!" someone was saying, or shouting, rather. "He never made it back."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive!"
The shouter was a short woman in a tailored black-on-black pantsuit. She held a cell in one hand and the receiver to a desk phone in the other. The shoutee was an older man with silver-streaked hair wearing jeans and a dark blue sweater with the sleeves pushed up.
"I was on the phone with him," the woman said. "Right as it was happening. I couldn't believe it."
"Does he have a lawyer on retainer?"
The woman laughed darkly. "I have no idea."
When I stepped inside the room, they finally noticed me.
"Hi—hello," the woman said, placing the receiver back in its cradle on the large reception desk. "Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Aaron Sorenson. Maren Colepepper, Standard."
They both stared at me. No, wait. They were staring at my forehead. Then trying to make it look like they weren't staring at my forehead.
I cleared my throat. "He and I met Monday," I explained, hoping to pull their focus from my injury, "at Sierra Pacific, and this morning as well. We talked about meeting up later for an interview. I hoped to get a few minutes with him now." I presented them with his business card as proof I wasn't making it up.
"See?" the woman said to the man, a little defeated. "What are we supposed to do?"
"Sorry," the man said to me. As he stepped closer, I noticed the creases across his forehead weren't from age but from concern, making him look much younger than I first thought. "Aaron isn't here right now. He's been…detained."
The woman snorted sarcastically.
"Ellen, why don't you get Ms. Colepepper something to drink?" He turned to me. "Coffee? Water?"
"Nothing, thanks."
"I'm Matthew Stockwell," he said as we shook hands. "I'm sorry you missed him. Maybe there's something I can help you with?"
"Well." I cleared my throat again. "I was at the protests with Aaron. He seemed to be one of the leaders, or, that is, he knew what was going on. We started talking, but then things got a little, um, hectic. I wanted to get his take, ask why he was meeting with the foreman of the mill. Maybe you can help me out, if you know why he was there?"
Matthew Stockwell rubbed his chin but didn't speak. "You're with The Standard?" he asked after a few moments.
"Yes." I smiled in what I hoped was an eagerly professional and yet trustworthy, and not ambulance-chaser manner. "It's my third day, actually." Why had I added that? Now they wouldn't take me seriously. "I admit, I don't have much solid information yet, so it'd be great if you could tell me when Aaron will be back."
Ellen and Matthew shared a quick glance. I caught her nod a fraction of an inch then he sighed. "Might as well." He turned to me. "Aaron was arrested at this morning's protest. They took him to the sheriff's station."
"What?" I balked. "Why?"
"We don't have any details. The only reason we know that much is because Ellen happened to be on the phone with him as it was going down."
I recalled what they'd been saying as I walked in. "You don't know if he has a lawyer?"
"Highly doubtful," Ellen said. "He's totally against them, ethically." She barked another sarcastic chuckle. "I've told him a hundred times, if you're going to be in this kind of business, you'll need legal assistance at some point." She planted her hand on her hips. "But do you think he listens to me?"
I still wasn't sure what kind of "business" this was, but figured I could ask for specifics later. Right now…I was knee-deep in investigating!
"He should be allowed one phone call," I said. "Will he call here? Does he have a family?"
Matthew turned to Ellen. "Eileen is still up in Portland?" She confirmed this with a nod. "Aaron's married, but his wife's out of town, so he'll mostly likely call here. Even if he does, we won't be able to see him. We're not family or his lawyer."
"I'll go," I said, feeling for my press badge in my coat pocket. "They'll let me in to talk to him, and I'll find out what's going on."
"Really?" Ellen asked, smiling a little. She was quite pretty, though the whole black-on-black number did nothing for her complexion. One swipe of red lipstick would do wonders. "You'll go downtown to the jail and talk to him, then let us know?"
"Absolutely." I nodded. "Anything I can do to help."
Matthew passed me one of his business cards, as confi
rmation to Aaron that I'd been to Consumer Advisory and discussed his situation. I promised Ellen I'd call the first chance I got, and then I was out the door, mentally fist pumping all the way to the car.
The Humboldt County Sheriff's Office was located on the first floor of the Humboldt County Courthouse on Fourth Street, downtown, adjacent to the old public library. I'd never been inside the courthouse and felt a rush of adrenaline mixed with ooginess as I pulled open the smudgy glass door.
Just like in the movies, the waiting room was cut in half by a long counter—civilians on one side, uniforms on the other. There was a short line to talk to the two deputy sheriffs behind the counter. On my phone, I scrolled through a quick internet search of protocol as I stood in line. Apparently, as a member of the press, I really should get in to see Aaron. I wasn't sure if that had been the case at the time I'd promised Ellen and Matthew. I exhaled, but the oogie returned when I saw I was next in line.
The deputy who called me over looked about seventeen, but he was tall with broad shoulders. He might have seemed young, but I doubted anyone would want to mess with him.
"Good afternoon. How can I help you?"
I didn't have much experience with law enforcement and was surprised at his courteousness. I got pulled over once in high school for speeding. I cried, and the officer let me off with a warning, but other than that, the only cops I came across were the mounted police patrolling Central Park.
"Hi," I said, my legs wobbling unsteadily. "My name is Maren Colepepper. I'm with The Standard." When I didn't go on, he nodded for me to continue. I cleared the frog in my throat. "You brought in someone a few hours ago. Aaron Sorenson. A civilian." A civilian, Maren? "I'd like to see him."
He tapped on his keyboard then clicked the mouse around the screen. I waited patiently, my hands sweating all over the counter top. "We picked him up for trespassing initially," the deputy said, reading off the screen. "Hmm, but it looks like charges were added for disturbing the peace, resisting arrest, and…huh, it's kind of a long list."
That was hard to believe. Aaron seemed so mild and laid back. I couldn't imagine him fighting with a cop. He was a businessman. A pacifist.
Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1) Page 9