“Sounds good. I’ll see if Ryder’s free, too. See you then.”
“Great. Bye, Cam.”
Hunt stared out the window at the Bay, not really seeing the gleaming water. Cam needed time, and Hunt knew that better than anyone.
On the plus side, Vander would keep an eye on him. Vander was former Ghost Ops as well. Norcross Security would give Cam a sense of purpose, just as the police force had done for Hunt. He’d found his new calling as a cop.
He grabbed his car keys and headed downstairs. He drove an unmarked Dodge Charger. He’d gotten in late the day before, so he’d parked on the street out front, rather than in his garage.
His downstairs bedroom was set up as a gym. He’d already worked out this morning, and hit his rowing machine hard. He swam a couple of times a week as well, when he could fit it in. Once, he’d loved to run, but his messed-up knee ruled that out these days.
He locked his front door, juggling his travel mug and his suit jacket that he’d slung over his arm, just as Savannah came out of her front door.
They eyed each other warily.
“Morning,” he said.
“Good morning.” Her gaze dropped to his holster. “You look very…detective-like today.”
His lips twitched. “And you look very artist-like.”
She raised a brow.
“You have paint on your cheek.” He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the mark.
This close to her, she smelled like paint and flowers. It seemed like the perfect combination for her.
She was still, those big gray eyes watching him steadily.
“Detective Morgan,” a singsong female voice called out.
Savannah stepped back, her gaze unsettled.
“Don’t go,” he said quietly. There might have been a touch of panic to his tone.
Now amusement sparked in the gray. “Surely you aren’t afraid of one overly friendly woman?”
“Savannah—”
“Good morning!” Denise Morford stopped in front of them, a huge smile on her face. She was an attractive forty-something, twice divorced, and on the hunt for husband number three. She wore a snug skirt that hugged her hips, a white tank with a deep V to show off her impressive cleavage, and lots of statement necklaces made of colorful stones. She designed jewelry and sold it online for a living.
“Morning, Denise,” he said.
“Hunt, you’re looking tired today.” Denise smiled. “You should let me make you a nice, home-cooked meal tonight.”
“Sorry, I can’t. I have plans already.”
“I’ll leave you guys to it.” With an amused smile, Savannah crossed the street. He watched her go, heading over to where Mrs. Romero was watering the pots of flowers she kept out in front of her place.
“So, maybe another night then?” Denise asked hopefully.
Hunt watched Savannah talk with Mrs. Romero. The older widow beamed at Savannah and pinched her cheek.
There was no prickliness in sight from his neighbor.
“Hunt?”
He blinked and looked back at Denise. “I can’t, Denise. Sorry. Work’s really busy.”
Her face fell. “Of course. You work so hard.”
He looked up and saw Savannah hand something to Mrs. Romero. The old woman looked thrilled.
He squinted and realized it was a small painting…of the older lady’s pots of flowers. It was done in an abstract style, bursting with color.
“Well, then…” Denise tucked her brown hair behind her ear. “I’ll just—”
Hunt’s phone rang. Vander’s name came up on the screen. “I need to take this. Excuse me.” He pressed it to his ear. “Vander.”
“Hey, Hunt.” The deep voice of Vander Norcross came across the line.
“You’d better still be making my cousin a happy woman.” When Hunt noted Denise listening intently, he smiled, and stepped back inside his townhouse to avoid the nosiness.
Two months back, Vander—a dangerous man with a scary reputation in San Francisco—had helped out Hunt’s cousin, Detective Brynn Sullivan.
During their time in the military, Vander and Hunt had worked together a few times, until Vander had been recruited to run a shadowy Ghost Ops team.
Now, Hunt was usually left cleaning up the mess Vander and his team at Norcross left whenever they tackled a job in the city. He’d intervened more times than he could count to deal with high-speed chases, beaten-up bad guys, and dead bodies. He didn’t always agree with Vander’s tactics—which included doing whatever the hell he thought was necessary and damn the rules—but Hunt knew Vander was a good man.
Shockingly, Vander had taken the ultimate fall, and fallen in love with Brynn. The pair were crazy about each other. Brynn was now happily living in Vander’s loft above the Norcross Security warehouse.
“Well, she was a happy woman this morning.” Vander’s tone held a touch of smugness.
Hunt groaned. “No details. Please.”
He didn’t need to imagine Vander and Brynn that way. Hunt was damn glad that Brynn was happy, and while Vander hadn’t softened much, he seemed a little less intense.
“I wanted to discuss a case with you,” Vander said.
“Sure. And I wanted to ask about Cam.”
Vander sighed. “He needs time, Hunt, but he’ll get there. We all did. We can help smooth the way for him.”
“Thanks, Vander. Now tell me about your case.”
“Thank you, lovely girl.”
Savannah smiled at sweet Mrs. Romero.
The woman loved her flowers, loved to talk, and often dropped off a loaf of freshly made bread for Savannah.
“I’m glad you like it.” It had only taken her minutes to put together the little painting of Mrs. Romero’s flowers.
“I sent a picture of the last one you did to my son and daughter-in-law. They live in New York. So far away. But they loved seeing your beautiful painting.”
The mention of New York sent a pang through Savannah. She’d never, ever go home again.
She turned her head and watched a dejected Denise walking away. Detective Morgan stood with the phone pressed to his ear, unlocking his front door.
How could the man look so hot just talking on the phone? And the shoulder holster didn’t help. He looked scrumptious.
Her fingers itched to sketch him. He disappeared back inside. Denise, her romantic intentions thwarted, headed back down the street to her place. She seemed like a nice lady. Savannah couldn’t blame the woman for trying.
“I’ll make you some more sourdough.” Mrs. Romero patted Savannah’s arm. “I know how much you like it.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. R.”
But inside, Savannah felt a niggle. Mrs. R knew that Savannah liked bread. Ella-Mae, who lived three doors down, was in high school, and loved to pepper Savannah with art questions. The girl was a budding artist who liked to paint. And then there was the nosy detective who was just a little too curious.
Yeah, she’d been here too long.
Suddenly, loud shouts down the street made her stiffen.
Mrs. R’s face paled. “Oh, no.”
Savannah pivoted, and her gut knotted.
A man stormed out of one of the townhouses, arms waving, body language aggressive. His wife stepped out behind him, holding her thin body stiffly. When he yelled again, the woman flinched.