Valentine's Day Is Killing Me (22 page)

Here’s a peek at Amy Garvey’s
I LOVE YOU TO DEATH,
available in paperback in
February 2007 from Kensington.

“Hi again,” Darcy said when the reporter looked up. “Thanks for waiting. Darcy Bennett.” She stuck her hand out, and he took it. His grip was huge and warm, and her hand seemed to disappear inside it. She had a feeling disappearing with him wouldn’t be at all unpleasant.

“Noah Gleason,” he said. His deep, slightly gruff voice sent a little thrill of pleasure down her spine. “And you’re right, I do work for the
Tribune
.”

“I knew I’d seen you before.” She glanced at his cup, which was empty, and called to William, “Can I get another Kenya Blend and an Earl Grey, please?”

“On me,” Noah said, reaching for his wallet, but she laughed it off, waving him back into his seat.

“It’s my shop. It’s on me, definitely.” She paused, her mind clicking back to his name. “Noah Gleason. You write…hard news, right? Articles about city government?”

“Any kind of hard news, originally, but I’ve narrowed my focus to our illustrious leaders lately. There’s just so much to write.” His grin was oddly rueful. “Sometimes too much.”

“Too much? What do you mean?”

But he didn’t get a chance to answer. Aurelia had come downstairs and stopped by Darcy’s stool, excusing herself with a warm smile at Noah. “Everything’s fine upstairs, lots of happy customers. But I wanted to let you know Trish is up there, too, poking around. Without coffee, I might add.”

“Perfect.” Darcy shook her head. “Noah, this is Aurelia Melitto, my partner. Aurelia, this is Noah Gleason. He writes for the
Tribune
.”

The two of them exchanged greetings while Darcy looked around the shop. Skinny, shy Jon Seidel had joined William behind the counter, and Irene was bussing tables in between handing out freebie bags to departing customers. But the shop was still buzzing with the low hum of conversation beneath the beat of an Aimee Mann CD, and bursts of laughter could be heard upstairs and in the nook under the steps. She spotted Jewel at the front table with a man she didn’t recognize, and waved at her when Jewel glanced up, her round cheeks flushed with pleasure and her dark auburn hair twisted up into its usual haphazard bun.

Maybe she could allow herself a private sigh of relief and let herself enjoy talking to Noah, free press or not. Sharing a hot drink and a little conversation could be just that, not anything to get uptight about.

But the moment she glanced back at him, every nerve in her body tingled with awareness and temptation, and she could feel them ready to mutiny. She hadn’t touched a man in months, and perhaps more importantly, no man had touched her. Certainly not one who looked like Noah.

Aurelia walked away, and Noah took the steaming cups William carried over a moment later. “She’s great,” he said. “You have good taste in business partners.”

“She’s the best,” Darcy agreed. “Actually, everyone on staff is. I live in fear that one of them will quit.”

“I don’t think you have to,” he said, stirring sugar into his cup. “It looks like you two have set up something pretty successful here.”

“We’re trying.” She motioned at the room. “Tonight’s all part of that. Of course, it would be nice if the competition weren’t here doing marketing espionage.”

The minute the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. Noah’s shrewd gaze sharpened immediately, and she felt petty and stupid. Talking up Sacred Grounds was the point here, not criticizing Trish. Besides, bitter insecurity wasn’t her most attractive side.

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head, damning the embarrassed flush on her cheeks. Redheads couldn’t hide anything. And reporters clearly didn’t know how to let things go.

“Nothing. How’s your coffee?”

He never took his eyes off her as he raised his cup for another sip. “Delicious. Now are you going to tell me about the coffeehouse espionage?”

“I don’t think it qualifies as hard news.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“How do you feel about bacon-wrapped shrimp?”

“Like it’s not as good as hearing about the competition between you and Trish Conwell.”

She had to give him points for persistence, although the fact that he managed to be so charming while he was driving her insane had to be a bad thing. She sighed and slid off her stool. “Let me go get some of that shrimp, and then you can make an informed decision.”

“I’ll be right here.”

I just bet you will
, she thought. Leave it to her to find the one
Tribune
writer who wasn’t satisfied with doing a fluff piece. She waved at Irene, who walked over with a nearly empty tray of hors d’oeuvres, and chose a handful, which she put on a napkin. If she kept him busy eating, she could at least enjoy looking at him for a while.

As she turned to head back to Noah, the bell over the front door jangled and Derek Littman walked in. She repressed a shudder and gave him only a polite smile, but he’d never been the type to take a hint. He’d applied for the barista position at Sacred Grounds three times before changing tacks and asking Trish for a job. Why Trish had hired him was beyond Darcy. He was pale and heavyset, with limp, dark blond hair combed haphazardly over the sweaty crown of his head, and his flat brown eyes always seemed to be looking just past you. She felt sorry for him, actually, but it didn’t mean she’d wanted him serving coffee in her shop.

“Hi, Darcy.” He stopped just inches away from her, and she fought the urge to back up. He had no sense of personal space, either.

“Hi, Derek. Ask Irene for some finger food and get yourself some coffee.”

“Yeah. Cool.” He nodded, still staring at her—or rather, just past her right ear—but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to walk away.

“I’m in the middle of something, so you enjoy yourself,” she said, turning around and hoping like hell he wasn’t following.

“Who’s your friend?” Noah asked when she sat down again, peering at the assortment of hors d’oeuvres on the black cocktail napkin.

“He works for Trish, actually,” she explained. “But he applied here, too.”

Noah popped a piece of shrimp into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “Pretty good,” he said when he’d swallowed.

“Try one of these.” She slid a cheese puff toward him. “Or this. The mini quiches are awesome. Really.”

“Okay, okay.” He held a hand up in surrender. “We can leave shoptalk for later. Why don’t you tell me who picked the music tonight instead?”

She sat up straight, her chin in the air. “What’s wrong with the music?”

“No blues? No jazz? What kind of a coffeehouse is this anyway?”

She caught the teasing note in his tone right before she launched into a protest, and tilted her head at him instead. “You’re teasing me.”

“Trying to.”

So she let him charm her, settling back on her stool with her tea and accepting the mini quiche he manfully refused, enjoying herself, which was the one thing she hadn’t expected to do tonight.

Every once in a while she glanced out at the shop, taking in the comfortable knots of people talking and laughing, Irene and Jon taking turns with the trays of food, which had changed to pastries now. Once she caught Aurelia and William high-fiving behind the counter, which was a good sign. She felt vaguely guilty, leaving them to do the work, but she couldn’t exactly let Noah go on thinking that
The X-Files
had made no sense, in the end. She had a theory all worked out, and what good was that if she didn’t share it?

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed—her cup of tea was long empty, and the bear claw she’d snagged from Irene was nothing but a few pathetic crumbs on the napkin between them. She and Noah were only up to the sixth season, and she was trying to explain why “Arcadia” wasn’t a throwaway episode, when she knocked over her empty cup and nearly fell out of her chair.

Noah grabbed her, but she could tell by the startled look on his face that he was rattled, too.

Because, upstairs in the reading lounge, someone was screaming.