Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1)

by Ophelia London

  "No, you stay—" Wait, what? "Who are you?" I hissed at the back of his head, my eyes squinting in the overcast darkness, no stars or moonlight to help a girl out. "Hey—"

  "Shhh—shut up."

  Well! I planted my hands on my hips. "Stop shushing me, whoever you are. That's so rude!" By the time he turned around, I'd found my pepper spray and was holding it out, finger on the trigger, locked and loaded.

  "I'll ask again," he said, marching over, ignoring my weapon, "what the hell are you doing here?"

  "Patrick?" My loud, squeaking voice echoed off the trees.

  "Yes—jeez, Maren." He looked over his shoulder. "Be quiet."

  I lowered the pepper spray. "What are you doing here in the middle of the night?"

  "No." He gripped my arms again. "What are you doing here in the middle of the night?"

  My eyes had adjusted enough to distinguish what he was wearing. No wonder I hadn't recognized him. He was in black jeans and his black peacoat with a hood cinched tightly around his face. Was he planning to rob a bank?

  "I'm following a lead. I told you about the protests, right? Well, now I know for sure something else is going on at the mill."

  Patrick studied my face for a second then let me go. "Nothing's going on there, Maren. There's no story. Drop it."

  "There is a story. I have evidence on my phone."

  "Your…" His gaze flashed to my purse lashed across my chest. "Show me."

  "I can't, I…dropped it," I lied. "In a puddle back at the mill. Totally sucks."

  He dipped his chin and exhaled, then grabbed me by the wrist, dragging me toward my car.

  "Stop," I growled, pulling against him. "Let go!"

  "Give me your keys," he ordered.

  "No."

  "Maren…"

  "I'm not leaving 'til you tell me why you're here, Patrick. Wearing a hood." I thumped his head. "Looking all sneaky."

  "I'm working."

  "Security?" I said sarcastically.

  He thought for a moment then nodded. "Yes. Exactly. Security."

  "You're spying on Sierra Pacific. Why?"

  He didn't answer but looked down as we both seemed to realize he was still holding me by the wrist. He didn't let go but adjusted his grip, his thumb gliding a slow circle around my palm. I didn't know about him, but I was remembering the last time his hand had been on me, down at the duck pond.

  So unfinished. So…pent up.

  Finally, he dropped my hand, unleashed a frustrated exhale, and leaned against my car. "What makes you think I'm not spying on you?" There was an almost-smile in his voice. "Maybe I've been watching you all night."

  Okay, this probably should've ooged me out, but it didn't.

  "Right," I said. "Because you have nothing better to do."

  "Who says I have nothing better to do?" He took a step toward me, his voice teasing, yet low and determined. "Maybe being near you is all I've wanted the past three days."

  His mouth crashed over mine before I saw it coming. Any thought of pushing him away was in vain. No part of my brain or body wanted that. His strong, warm lips tasted different, even better than when they'd been laced with cinnamon ice cream. Maybe this was the true Patrick flavor. It flooded the back of my throat, making me hungry and thirsty, and totally unable to resist the chemical attraction I felt every time he was around.

  Just as my knees threatened to buckle, his hands slid around my back, pinning me close. Bolts of lightning flashed behind my closed eyes. His strong, sturdy body felt so good against me. He tasted sweet and smelled amazing, earthy, and manly. And I very well could've swooned dead when an earnest, tender moan…followed by my name…escaped his lips.

  I kissed him harder. He kissed me back. We spun.

  "It's late," he whispered against my cheek, breath as choppy as mine.

  "I'm still working. Plus, I'm not sleepy," I said, pushing back his hood to run my fingers through his hair. It was silky, while slightly damp and curly from the fog. So damn sexy.

  "You should go home now."

  "I said I'm not sleepy."

  He chuckled, then his arms around me adjusted, and in one strong, fluid motion, he hoisted me up to perch on the hood of my car. I gasped a giggle, but there were no words, only his mouth, his hands, the buzz between my ears, the low burn in my stomach. With no cars on the road and the noise of the mill so far away, I heard the ocean waves crashing on the beach on the other side of the trees and tall sand dunes.

  "What is this thing?" His husky voice lilted through the darkness as he fisted the top of my hair.

  "A bun."

  "It's ingenious. Gives me easy access." His mouth flew to my neck, planting kisses down the side, leaving warmth and tingles all along the way. But despite his comment, a minute later, his hands tunneled into my hair, undoing the knot, releasing my hair to fall in heavy waves, which he interchangeably combed through with his fingers and then swept away from my neck to restore that "easy access."

  His indecisiveness about what he wanted more was about the sexiest thing ever.

  "It's late," he whispered, repeating his words from earlier. Hours earlier? I always seemed to lose track of time when we were together.

  "So you go home." I gripped his shoulders, my eyes sealed shut, feeling, only feeling.

  "Drop the story," he said into the notch behind my ear, causing my core to coil like a spring.

  "No," I whispered.

  "Maren…"

  I took his face, one hand on each cheek. "Why?" I asked, focusing on his hazel eyes through the inky black night.

  "Be…cause." He sighed and lowered his gaze.

  I drew him in, kissing one lowered eyelid, then the other, feeling exquisite heat spread through my chest when he moaned in response. His twelve o'clock shadow brushed my cheek, his fingers pressed into my hips, scooting me forward.

  "Drop it." His voice was throaty. "Please."

  "I can't," I replied, almost regretfully. "But I need to know something. When did you first see me?"

  A tiny smile tugged the corner of his mouth. That mouth. "We were six, you were in your backyard with—"

  "No." I laughed quietly, a little amazed by how badly I craved this boy next door. "This week. When did you see me the first time?"

  "The Ritz."

  I pressed my lips together, cold from not touching his warm skin, while I recalled my first morning home, right before I'd walked through the doors of The Standard.

  "It wasn't before that? You didn't see me at work on Monday, in the parking lot?" I lowered my gaze. "You weren't…following me then?"

  Patrick flinched back an inch, his eyes narrow, then growing round with concern. "Of course not." He ran his hands up and down my arms. "Maren, I'm not actually following you."

  "I know you're not." I bit the insides of my cheeks, reacting to the icy shiver traveling through me. "But I think someone is. No matter what I do, I can't crush the feeling that I'm being watched."

  His hands stopped on my forearms and squeezed gently. "Are you sure?"

  I shrugged. No, I wasn't sure.

  He touched my cheek, his hand warm and rough. Then he drew me in, resting his chin on top of my head. Warmth again, so lovely and soothing. Maybe he knew I'd been cold, or maybe he sensed I needed comfort to fight off that icy shiver.

  "Drop the story," he requested for the umpteenth time. Before I could reply, he sighed. "Fine. I know you won't, but enough for tonight, okay?" He took me by the hands and slid me off the hood.

  "Are you leaving, too?"

  "I am. I'm parked right beside you." He gestured past my car, where a dark SUV with silver ski racks sat, hidden by the overgrowth. He walked me around my car, opened the door, and—perhaps more gruffly than gently—helped me in. "There's really nothing I can say? You won't just leave it alone?"

  "It's my job, Patrick," I said, unapologetically, and more resolutely than I felt, even with a phone full of pictures. "If it's nothing, like you said, Eric will probably just fire me. But if i
t turns out I'm right…"

  "It is nothing. Trust me."

  Right, nothing…says the man who claims to be "in security." So either he's watching the place, protecting it, or he's casing the joint.

  "Tell me why I should trust you," I said.

  Pretending he didn't hear, or straight up ignoring me, he closed my door and walked to his car, fired up the ignition, but waited, apparently not leaving the scene before me.

  Begrudgingly, I backed up onto the dark road and headed for town. Besides Patrick's headlights—which never got too close—we were the only cars on the two-lane highway until I was practically to the Samoa Bridge. Only then did one car speed past going the other way.

  The next time I consulted my rearview mirror, Patrick was gone.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Robby was with Kim at the reception desk when I arrived the next morning. It was after nine, which Chip said was okay since I'd been working into the wee small hours.

  Kim smiled. "Lunch today, Maren?"

  "I'd love to, but can't," I said, hanging up my coat. "I've got plans to meet a friend from high school."

  "Ooh." She grinned, pushing back her red hair. "An old flame? How romantic." Her gaze left me and moved to Robby, who was staring down at his phone, doing his best to ignore our conversation.

  "No old flame." I inwardly groaned. "We were best friends until our senior year but lost touch."

  Kim's eyebrows wrinkled as she stepped away from Robby. "Why? Did you fight?"

  "Umm." I rubbed my nose. "It's been so long, I can't remember what happened."

  Which was true. Kind of. The real reason I didn't remember why Katie and I had stopped being friends was because Katie had never bothered to tell me. One morning we'd met at her locker like usual, but she wouldn't speak to me, wouldn't speak to me all day. The next morning, same thing. When I'd tried to ask her about it, she started screaming at me in the middle of the cafeteria, saying I'd betrayed her beyond forgiveness, and she could never trust me again. All of our friends had taken her side, and for the rest of the school year, they ignored me.

  "Oh," Kim said, frowning in confusion. "Well, it will be nice to clear things up after all these years, right?"

  "Right." I smiled. But honestly, there was nothing I was looking forward to when it came to this lunch. A gnawing in my gut had been warning me about it all morning. From how she'd talked to me in front of Patrick, and then her snarky voicemail, it was obvious she had it in for me. Why was she so dead set on us getting together?

  "We're meeting at the Chalet," I added.

  Kim's face brightened. "Get the egg white lunch omelet, it's straight from Yumsville."

  "Thanks for the tip. See you later." While my computer was coming to life, I was mentally composing an email to Aaron, describing everything that had happened at the mill last night.

  Well, not everything. At the thought, I ran the tip of my index finger across my lips, remembering the other thing that happened.

  My desk phone rang, and I jumped about a foot, tearing the receiver from its cradle. "Maren Colepepper," I said, sounding way too breathless.

  "Maren. Good morning. It's Aaron Sorenson calling."

  "Aaron!" I sat up attentively. "I was just about to email. How are you?"

  "Fine. Good," he said. "I was wondering, would you have time to come to my office today?"

  As if he had to ask. "I'll be there in twenty."

  While shutting down my now-humming laptop, I noticed Eric's office was dark, and the door was closed. I hoped he had an early meeting somewhere, and his being late had nothing to do with how I'd blown him off in the parking lot last night. Talk about embarrassing.

  I pulled at my bottom lip in thought while staring at the wavy glass windows of his office.

  "He left me a voicemail last night," Kim said, appearing at my desk. She leaned a hip against it then nodded toward Eric's office. "It was at like three a.m., and he forgot to tell me he has to be at the Redding office this morning."

  "Huh," I said, wishing she hadn't caught me ogling at his empty office. Who knew what my expression said. "Well, I've got a meeting." I shoved random things into my bag.

  "Bad politics," Kim said in a hushed voice. "You know, hooking up with the boss."

  "What? No…I'm…we're not—"

  She held up a hand. "No judging here. I mean, I can't say anything, can I? Because of Rob." She dropped her voice another notch. "Just be careful. People talk." She rolled her eyes. "You know, because you're new, and he's new. It's kind of coincidental how you both showed up at the same time, pretty much. Know what I mean?"

  I clutched the strap of my bag and nodded. But no, I didn't know what she meant, not really.

  Kim patted my arm, smiled empathetically, then left.

  I stared after her, brain matter sloshing inside my skull. There was nothing calculated about Eric and me showing up in Eureka around the same time. Just like there was nothing calculated about Patrick being at SPI last night, or in the parking lot the day before. Right?

  I knew I was an idiot for not holding a magnifying glass over that coincidence. But it was easier to daydream about kissing Patrick while I was in complete denial. I didn't feel calm again until I was at the Consumer Advisory office, sitting across from Aaron and Matthew.

  Before we got started, Aaron thanked me at least a dozen times for being at his arraignment, even though I'd done squat. After that was laid to rest, I told them about the scene I'd witnessed at Sierra Pacific last night. I showed them the pictures on my phone and described Terry Replogle's phone conversation. Neither man seemed surprised—mostly they were relieved there was visual proof now, and from an actual investigative journalist.

  This last comment made me grin, and I gave myself several mental high fives. Maren Colepepper: Superstar Reporter lives again!

  "What next?" I asked.

  Aaron rubbed his chin. "What I'm wondering now is, who was Replogle talking to? Who's his outside contact? It sounds like he's being blackmailed personally, or the mill is." He crossed his arms. "But it doesn't seem like an inside job, does it?"

  "I thought the same thing," I agreed. "The guy sounded worried on the phone."

  "Whoever he was talking to, they wanted to come to the mill right then, to check on the shipment. Isn't that what you said you think you heard?"

  "Yes," I said, replaying the words in my head. "Sounded like it."

  Aaron leaned forward in his chair. "Think back, Maren. Did you see anyone else last night? Someone who maybe didn't look like a normal mill worker?"

  "I…" My mouth went inexplicably dry. "Well…" But that couldn't be right. The only person I'd seen was— "No." I spoke the word before my brain could compute the order. "No, I didn't see anyone like that. I waited for a while after Replogle's phone call, but no one else showed, so I left."

  Okay, this was my first official lie as a reporter. But what was I supposed to do? Rat out my new…whatever Patrick was? I didn't truly believe he was behind the redwood poaching. Did I?

  All I knew with certainty was that he'd happened to be hiding in the bushes after midnight, observing the nighttime goings on at SPI at the exact same time I was, and at the exact same time the illegal shipment had been going out.

  Why hadn't he wanted me to see the truck? Or was it that he didn't want the truck to see me? And why did he keep asking me to stop investigating the story?

  My stomach churned like a whirlpool, while my brain refused to connect to obvious dots.

  Patrick? Really? With his charm and humor, his hot-sweet mouth and sexy hands, the way my body actually bended to him? And how being with him sometimes felt like…coming home? I blew out a sour breath, bitterness mixed with disappointment. Just my luck.

  "Okay," Aaron said, snapping me awake. "Hopefully another shipment will go out soon." He looked at me. "Will you go back to the mill tonight?"

  I stuck out my chin. "You bet I will."

  My visit went longer than I'd expected, sending me racing
across town to Chalet House of Omelettes. I wished I'd had time to get a manicure or even add another layer of lip-gloss.

  As I crossed the parking lot, I tugged at the sides of my pencil skirt, making sure the seams were straight. Then I smoothed down the front of my purple silk top.

  The restaurant was cozy and aromatic, but the welcoming feeling evaporated when I spotted Katie at a two-top in the middle of the dining room, opposite the fireplace. Darn. I'd hoped I'd have a minute to collect myself. I switched off my cell then began the long walk from the door to her table.

  Katie didn't look at me, not even when I got to the chair across from her. "Just sparkling water for now," she said without glancing up. "I'll let you know when I'm ready to order."

  "Katie?" I said, cringing at the sound of my voice. I was an insecure seventeen-year-old again.

  "Maren." She blinked her long, dark lashes. "I thought you were the waitress."

  "Oh, ha-ha, nope, just little old me." I hated myself and wanted to die.

  She waved one French-manicured hand toward the empty chair. "You remember this place, don't you? Your mother brought us here on Saturdays sometimes." She smiled, making me feel even more nervous, and slightly suspect. Mean girl, I could handle, but I didn't know what do to with a humane Katie Cunningham after all these years.

  "The Nutella crepes with extra whipped cream were your favorite." I lifted a hesitant smile.

  Katie signaled at a server to come over. "I haven't had sugar in six years."

  "That's horrible," I gasped, spreading a white cloth napkin across my lap. "How do you manage that? And why?"

  She waved a hand, dismissively this time. "My hypnotist rid me of all cravings. He's from Beverly Hills and is an absolute genius. Jennifer Aniston goes to him."

  "Huh," I said, recalling the chocolate-chocolate chip muffin and double latte I'd had for breakfast.

  "I won't allow any white, unrefined sugar in my house," Katie continued. "My children won't touch it, which is wonderful because it absolutely dulls the hair, ruins complexions, not to mention what it does to the shape of your body." She broke off, and seemed to be studying my face and hair. Evidently, my appearance was evidence of the evils of sugar.