C.J. Carmichael - Seattle after Midnight

She opened her bag and fished out the piece of paper. He flattened it on the table and read out loud, “A dozen roses…then you’ll be mine.’”

“Kind of weird, huh?”

“Why does he mention a dozen roses, when he only gave you one?”

“No idea.”

Pierce turned the paper over, checking to see if he’d missed anything. There were no clues that he could spot. The note had been typed on a laser quality printer, using standard issue paper.

“I had a guy phone the show a couple of times tonight. He was sweet and sounded lonely. I’ll bet he left the rose for me.”

“Jack?”

She nodded.

“I heard his calls. He sounded young and insecure. The guy who wrote this note is all too sure of himself. Notice, he isn’t asking if you’ll be his. He’s telling you.”

A little furrow formed between the pale lines of her eyebrows. “Do you think I should be worried? I’ve had listeners leave me presents before. One woman in Sioux Falls used to bake me a Christmas cake every December.”

“Lucky you.”

She laughed. “I didn’t actually eat it, I confess.”

Pierce wrapped his hands around the warm mug of coffee that he was making a point not to drink. He was going to have a difficult enough time falling asleep as it was. Georgia put out this energy… He could feel himself feeding off it. And not just in a sexual way, although there was that, too.

“Any idea how he would know which car was yours?” he asked, as he’d asked her earlier out in the parking lot. He, himself, had been surprised to discover the yellow VW belonged to Georgia. Though now that he’d talked to her face-to-face, he could see that it fit.

From his quick glance over the vehicle, though, he’d spotted nothing to give away the fact that the car was hers, other than a smear of lipstick on the KXPG commuter mug in her cup holder. Which matched exactly the shade of lipstick she was wearing right now. “Maybe he’s seen you drive to work.”

“Which would mean he’s been watching me.” Georgia shivered, then neatly folded the paper liner which had held her muffin. “I don’t like the idea of that.”

“From now on you should get the security guard at KXPG to walk you right to your car. No more watching from an open door.”

“Jack left me a rose. Not a bomb threat.”

“A little caution wouldn’t hurt. At home, too. Has this guy ever tried to contact you there?”

She shook her head. “No. And my phone is unlisted. I’ve always done that because as a jock, you do run across these crazies now and then. Usually they make annoying calls for a few weeks, then give up.”

But this guy had made personal contact through the rose. Pierce wished Georgia were a little more concerned than she appeared to be. He dug into the pocket of his jeans for another business card. The one he’d given her earlier had probably turned to mush from the rain.

“Here. If he sends you anything else, let me know, okay? You should probably call the police, too, Georgia. Just to be on the safe side.”

“The police?”

From her incredulous tone, he could tell she was unlikely to take his advice. She gazed at his card for several seconds, then tucked it into her cavernous black leather bag.

“Thank you again for everything. It’s nice to know that, even in a big city like Seattle, people are willing to help strangers.”

Her comment reminded him that though he felt like he knew her very well, the first she’d ever heard of him was tonight. “You’re welcome, Georgia.”

There was a moment of silence, while he considered the possibility of asking her out. She seemed as if she were waiting for him to do just that. She was new to Seattle, and she’d asked him for the coffee. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she liked what she saw.

Which only proved how fallible she was. If she could see him on the inside, she’d know better than to get too close. If she knew what had happened to Cass…

His wife had been a sweetheart and he could tell Georgia was from the same mold. Those kinds of women needed to be protected from men like him. No matter how much her radio persona attracted him, the real Georgia was much too vulnerable and innocent. A small-town girl. A good girl.

Let her stay that way, he cautioned himself. Let her find a nice guy who wants to settle down and raise a family. That’s what women like Georgia—and Cass—wanted and deserved.

“Are you okay to drive home alone?” he asked.

He could tell that wasn’t what she’d been hoping he would say. After a slight pause, she drew back. “I’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t surprised when she cleaned up after herself, putting the bottle in a container for recyclables, then trashing the muffin liner and napkin. He rose from his seat, leaving his coffee cup on the table and walked her to her car.

It was still drizzling. And dark. The interior clock on her dash told him it was almost 6:30 a.m.

“Nice meeting you, Georgia.”

She slipped behind the steering wheel. “You, too.” She gave him one last look and he could see her uncertainty. She’d undoubtedly sensed his attraction to her, just as he’d picked up on hers to him. She had to be wondering why he wasn’t asking to see her again.

If only she could know how lucky she was that this was ending right here.

GEORGIA HAD NEVER met a man like Pierce Harding. Definitely not in South Dakota, and not in Seattle, either. There was something hard about him, as well as sad. A man of mystery and secrets. His face was arresting—lean and sculpted, with dark eyes that flashed with intuitive intelligence. The way he held his powerful body, so contained and yet with such presence, made her suspect that he was a man who never fully relaxed.

She was so curious about him. Usually she found it easy to get people to open up to her. That was one of her gifts. But she’d never encountered anyone as reserved as Pierce. Despite having spent almost an hour with him over coffee, she still knew next to nothing about him.

Like, did he have a girlfriend? She hadn’t had the nerve to ask. Bad enough that she’d invited him for coffee—she’d never made the first move on a guy before. Even though she’d disguised her offer as a gesture of thanks, she suspected he’d seen right through her.

He was just the kind of guy who would.

Had he guessed how badly she’d wanted him to ask her out? She’d lingered at the booth hoping he would say something. But he hadn’t, and she didn’t think it was because he was shy.

Georgia parked her car in the lane next to her side of her rented two-story duplex. The windows on both halves of the building were dark. Obviously her neighbor, Fred Sorenson, a retired postal worker, was still sleeping. She checked his door to make sure it was locked and found it open. Sighing, she used her spare copy of his key to secure the deadbolt.

Though he was only in his early seventies, Fred could be forgetful at times. He also had trouble with his knees and sometimes spent the entire night on the sofa rather than deal with the stairs to the upper level bedrooms.

Once she’d suggested he might be more comfortable in a bungalow, or perhaps a condominium. He’d simply shaken his head. Belmont Avenue had been home to him for decades. He and his wife had raised their daughter in this very duplex. Though his wife had died two years ago, and his daughter was married and living in Australia, he still wouldn’t move.

Georgia stepped over the two-foot hedge that separated their properties. A puddle of water had pooled on the wooden step up to her porch. She splashed through it, then searched for her own house key on her ring.

Inside, the dark hall did not feel welcoming. She dropped her bag onto the wooden bench, then shrugged out of her wet jacket and hung it on a peg near the door.