“Coffee?” Cassie asked.
“If it’s black and strong.”
“It is,” she said, but then smiled. “I dose mine with cream and sugar.”
He rolled his eyes in mock horror. “None of those for me.”
“At least I don’t serve flavored coffees.”
He laughed at her tone. “Your guests don’t ask for a hazelnut latte or maybe a caramel macchiato?”
“How do you know about that, since you’re a black-coffee drinker and all?”
Their gazes locked for a heartbeat. It was just one of those awareness moments that passed between a man and a woman when they felt chemistry. “I’ve been in a coffee shop or two.”
She looked away first. “I’ve been known to make a flavored pot of coffee for my women guests. Most of the men are like you and just want theirs black.”
Just like him? He doubted that.
More serious now, she asked, “Is there a reason you didn’t stop for breakfast yesterday? You just filled a travel mug with coffee and left.”
He’d have to watch himself around her. She also seemed to pay attention to details. “I was in a hurry.”
“And not today?”
“I have an appointment this morning but it’s a little later.” Another lie. Well, not exactly a lie. He did have an appointment to use a computer at the library. He had research to do, and it was going to take hours and hours if not days or weeks. But he’d find what he was looking for.
She motioned again to the stool at the eat-at counter. “Sit and I’ll get your breakfast.”
“I can put the ladder away for you first if you’d like.”
She seemed to contemplate that for a few beats. “Okay. Let me show you where it goes.”
He noticed that Cassie moved quickly and gracefully. He couldn’t help but watch the gentle sway of her hips as she led him through the dining area. To the right, there was a screened-in porch. It might be nice to sit out there with his laptop, too. He wished he could just access the records he wanted on there, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want any research being traced back to him. He’d switch around from computer to computer at the library on different days. Once he found what he was looking for, he’d have to have it printed out. There again he didn’t want to send emails to himself and have a record of it. His boss in Mississippi had been totally against this investigation because their original case there had been closed. But once Nash had found that Charlotte Robinson could have used the alias Charlene Pickett, he just couldn’t let it go.
Following Cassie distracted him from the work he intended to do. She was sexy in jeans and a boyfriend shirt. She’d rolled up the sleeves and left the collar open. All too well, he could imagine her in one of his shirts.
Putting the brakes on that image, he let her guide him down a hall.
She motioned to the left to a half-open door. “That’s my suite.”
Continuing down the hall, she opened another door on the left. He could see right away it was a utility room with a washer and dryer, a step stool and an open ironing board.
She pointed to the back of the room. “Can you just prop the ladder there for now?”
It was a tight fit sliding past the ironing board but he slanted the ladder against the wall. Cassie had slipped into the area with him, probably to make sure the ladder was securely propped. She acted like a woman who was used to being on her own and doing for herself.
Suddenly, though, they were face-to-face and boots to boots. His eyes locked to hers and he could again feel the thrum of chemistry between them. From the surprise in her eyes, he could see she felt it and recognized it, too. Attraction to Cassie Calloway was way too dangerous to even contemplate.
Again she broke eye contact first and retreated through the opening between the ironing board and the washer and dryer. “I really should close the ironing board,” she said, her cheeks an attractive pink. “But I hate setting it back up every time I want to iron something.”
“You iron things often?” He was amused by that thought, though he knew his mother was particular about her clothes, too. She’d even ironed pillowcases.
“I like to be presentable,” she answered, a little defensively. “Besides, my guests often need to iron their clothes after traveling. They have sleeve boards in the closets in their rooms, but sometimes they’re not adequate.”
“I do have a couple of dress shirts I should iron,” he decided.
“Do you have many clients in Austin?” she asked.
“Enough.” He knew to keep personal answers short and concise.
Cassie waited, possibly to see if he’d tell her more, but he didn’t. Her cheeks still pink, she said, “I’ll get your breakfast ready. Would you like eggs with that cinnamon roll?”
She was already a good five feet ahead of him as she sped out of the utility room.
He called after her, “No eggs.” Yet he might have two rolls...if they were good.
* * *
Cassie didn’t know what it was about Nash Tremont that sent a tingle up her spine. She usually kept civility and politeness between her and men, especially those she might be attracted to. She had secrets. From experience, she knew she couldn’t share them. That was just the way it was.
But as Nash sat on the stool watching her ready his breakfast, she felt nervous and a bit excited. As she carried two rolls to the counter, along with two mugs of coffee, she asked, “Are you originally from Oklahoma or Mississippi?”
Nash’s brows arched. “You didn’t ask Dave Preston that when you called for a reference?”
“He told you I called?”
“He did. We’re good friends.”
Taking a seat next to Nash, careful their elbows didn’t brush, she pulled the sugar bowl over to her mug of coffee. “I learned that from our conversation. He told me you’d been friends for years, that you often helped him out with construction projects around his house, that you were good with his kids and his dog. He gave you an A-plus rating.”
Nash laughed. “Maybe Dave wasn’t used to giving references. He wanted to make sure he didn’t miss anything.”
“He acted as a friend should. Anyway, your accent isn’t pure Mississippi, is it?”
Again Nash gave her a short answer. “I was born and raised in Oklahoma, and if you put too much sugar in that coffee, you’re going to crash later today.”
She’d been too busy looking at Nash’s thick brown hair, and studying the jut of his jaw. She hadn’t been paying attention to how many teaspoons of sugar she’d put in her coffee. She’d have to drink it no matter how sweet it was. “No, I don’t crash. I just eat more sugar or drink more caffeine.”
“Let’s see,” Nash said with mock seriousness. “Didn’t your website say something about serving healthy breakfasts and dinners?”
“That’s for my guests who want healthy. I eat when I can and usually on the go, especially when I do Paint and Sip presentations.”
“Paint and Sip?”