If Sawyer was guilty of anything, she’d have had him in handcuffs by now. Her long eyelashes, mysterious and dark against pale cheeks, captivated his attention.
She flicked a glance up at him. His breath stuttered and a moth took flight in his midsection.
Whoa. Weird. Nice weird but still weird. He liked women but he could normally maintain coherent thought in their presence.
Jade Warren was different.
There was no good reason in the world for him to be attracted to her. She was too cold, too tight-lipped, too suspicious. But interest bubbled up anyway.
A mouth like hers was made to smile, and he wondered what it would take to make her laugh.
Not that he saw that happening in the next five minutes. Talk about chilly—and yet somebody needed to remind the woman of the outside temperature. Texas in summer scorched, but here she was in a nifty black business suit, tucked in and buttoned up as if she dared anyone to notice she was female.
Sorry to burst your bubble, lady. Even in long pants and sensible shoes—also black—you are all woman. Above the white button-down blouse was a pair of fascinating gray eyes. The color of his couch. Smoke and mystery.
Sawyer took a stinging gulp of Coke, letting the burn brand some sense into him. At the Huckleberry Addition, he had a massive built-in china hutch waiting for his hammer and expertise. He couldn’t sit here and contemplate the novelty of a female private investigator who’d managed to both insult and interest him. Maybe more than interest him.
He glanced at his watch. “Ask me whatever you need to. But talk fast. I have to meet my brother at the building supply center in thirty minutes.”
“We have a lot to discuss. I need more time with you than that.”
He tilted his head. “Time’s an important commodity for me, too.”
“When can we meet again?”
Sawyer couldn’t help himself. He grinned. “Are you asking me out?”
She glared icicles at him. The temperature in the room fell ten degrees. No wonder she wore a black suit. The chill emanating from her could cause frostbite.
Sawyer rubbed his bare arms and fought back a grimace. Prickly little woman, this PI. Pretty and prickly.
“Mr. Buchanon—”
“Sawyer.” He held up a hand. “Before you pounce, I apologize. Joking around is my style.”
“Not mine.”
Sawyer bit back a sigh.
Well, wasn’t she more fun than a dental drill? Maybe Dad should have hired a smoke-scented gumshoe after all.
The Gabriel’s Crossing Building and Supply Company spanned a full block and was one of Sawyer’s favorite places to shop, if you called buying boards and nails shopping.
Employees knew him by name and catered to his needs as a trim carpenter specializing in beautiful cabinetry and other built-ins. To top it all off, the coffee and popcorn were free.
He stood next to the fragrant machines, munching hot, salty corn while waiting for Dawson. His twin had hit the neighborhood pool early this morning while Sawyer ran five miles around the golf course, their usual routine. Sawyer ran. Dawson swam. He’d not bothered to inform the know-it-all investigator of this fact. That she hadn’t headed over to Dawson’s condo was a good sign that she already knew their daily routines, an unsettling thought. Though he had nothing to hide, he wasn’t wild about the idea of someone knowing his every move. Invasive. Like Big Brother or something.
“Sawyer, good morning. May I help you?”
A dark-haired woman in glasses wearing a red apron and carrying a tape measure approached. She’d worked here in the Building and Supply a long time but he could never remember her name. “I’m good. Thanks.”
She paused in front of him as if she had something important to say. “I guess you’re waiting for Dawson.”
“Yep. As usual, I’m here and he’s late.”
“You’re always so punctual. Can I get you anything while you wait? Popcorn or maybe a coffee?” When he hoisted his popcorn bag, she continued, “We have some new router bits you might want to see.”
“Thanks, but no. I like to create my own custom designs.”
Her smile faltered. “Oh.”
She seemed disappointed and he didn’t like to hurt anyone’s feelings. “On second thought, if those router bits are handy, I’ll have a look. Okay?”
The clerk perked right up. She smiled and pushed at her glasses. “I’ll grab the examples for you. We have some pretty ones I’d love to have in my new home. When I get married, I mean.” Her cheeks reddened.
He glanced at her name tag. Nora. “Are congratulations in order? You getting married soon?”
“Oh. Well. I hope so.” She blushed a deeper crimson and flapped a hand in front of her face. “I’ll get those samples.”
“Thanks, Nora.”
Still blushing and smiling, she hurried off.
Mouth dry from the popcorn, Sawyer poured himself a cup of coffee. He wasn’t a big coffee man, but the other Buchanons lived on the stuff. Cut a Buchanon and he bled sawdust, coffee and family loyalty.
He stirred too much cream into the foam cup and heard his brother say, “Why not have a glass of milk?”
“Hey.” He left the coffee sitting and turned to Dawson, whose black hair was still wet and shiny from his swim. He was a good-looking dude, even if Sawyer did say so. The same height, with the same face, he and his brother were best friends, though their personalities were different.
Dawson was a calm, introspective guy who counseled family and friends with a gentle God-directed wisdom. Dawson was, in a word, sensitive, and noticed nuances and undercurrents in relationships that Sawyer invariably missed.
Sawyer was—Well, he was different. He’d rather make people smile.
“I had a visitor this morning.”
“Yeah? Who?” Dawson confiscated the abandoned coffee cup and sipped.
“Private investigator.”
The unflappable brother gave a facial shrug. “Dad warned us.”
“He didn’t warn us about one thing.”
An eyebrow shot up. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“She’s a woman. A young, beautiful woman. Maybe thirty. About this tall.” Sawyer indicated shoulder height. “Wavy blond hair to her shoulders. Kind of soft and vulnerable looking. Not your stereotypical PI.”
Dawson saluted him with the cup. “You sure noticed a lot about her. You must be interested.”
He was, and he couldn’t figure out why. “You need to meet her before you form an opinion. Tough lady.”
“Hard-boiled?”
“Cold as a grape Popsicle in January.”
“Aw, poor Sawyer.” Dawson pulled a silly face. “The lady wasn’t charmed.”
“Not one bit.”
Dawson chuckled and toasted him with the cup. “Losing your touch, bro.”
The salesclerk—Nora—came around an end cap struggling to juggle several blister-wrapped packages with four wooden cabinet doors.