Barb Han - Ambushed At Christmas

Keeve’s gaze bounced from her to Deacon and back. His face muscles tensed. “Detective.”

That one word had such a dismissive quality in it that Leah didn’t bother to respond.

Keeve walked right past her, his gaze locking on to Deacon whose face of hard angles and planes gave away nothing of his reaction.

As they headed inside, Sunny Bowman, the diner’s most popular waitress, grabbed two menus. “How many in your party, hon?”

“The two of us,” Deacon responded.

She smiled at him and her cheeks flamed. Leah could only hope her own reaction to seeing Deacon for the first time wasn’t so obvious. A stab of jealousy she had no right to own caught her off guard.

“Right this way, Detective,” Sunny said. She was midthirties but looked older when Leah focused on the lines etched in the woman’s face. Her poufy white hair was in pigtails and her lashes were so long they practically touched her eyebrows. Sunny worked her hips when she walked and good food wasn’t the only reason so many male officers hung out at the diner.

Sunny stopped at a booth in the far corner, Leah’s favorite, and spun around with her arm out like she was presenting a new car to a game show winner.

“Thanks, Sunny,” Leah said. Before today, Sunny’s flirtatious personality hadn’t felt like fingernails on a chalkboard.

To Deacon’s credit, he didn’t seem to notice. Was it his good upbringing that made him such a gentleman? She’d read about his family. The Kents seemed like the best of the best, unlike her family, which was all surface and no substance. Her parents had tried to persuade her to at least become an attorney if she insisted on going down the path of criminal justice. When she’d told them she wanted to be a cop and then a homicide detective, they’d gone down a familiar road, reminding her she couldn’t bring her friend back by putting herself in danger. She’d have liked to believe they were worried about her safety, but then she’d heard her mother on the phone with Leah’s aunt, talking about how embarrassing it was that Leah didn’t have more ambition. That she’d always be stuck feeling sorry for herself for losing her best friend. Her mother had no idea then and nothing had improved since.

“Did you want coffee, Detective?” Sunny blinked at Leah expectantly.

“Yes. Thank you.” Leah must’ve zoned out there for a second.

“And for you?” Sunny’s smile widened when she looked at Deacon, who didn’t look up from the menu.

“I would, thanks.”

“Cream and sugar?” she asked.

“Black.”

“Same for me,” Leah said, unable to suppress a satisfied smirk. Based on the look on Sunny’s face, she wasn’t used to being anything other than the center of attention from male patrons.

It was probably just the smart girl in her that wanted to prove brains could be beautiful. She’d been gawky and awkward in high school and losing her friend made her want to disappear even more. Leah’s mother used to tell her that she could’ve been beautiful if she’d put in the effort. Even a successful businesswoman could prize looks over substance, Leah had realized.

Wow, what had her examining her past like this out of the blue? There was something about the Jillian Mitchell case that hit too close to home.

Leah pretended to focus on the menu but she was really lost in her own thoughts, ever aware of the strong male presence sitting across from her. She was surprised to find him staring at her when she looked up.

“Everything’s good here. It’s all farm to table,” she said, trying to detract attention away from the blush crawling up her neck.

“Wrong foot. Wrong MO,” he suddenly said to her.

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