From the corner of his eye, Ethan noted the gossips packing up and heading out. His eyes slid to Miranda. She scowled after the pair, muttering something under her breath and stabbing at her lunch with more savagery than necessary.
“Getting your ass back on stage and showing folks you can be approachable would go a long way toward being something other than the new guy.”
Ethan dragged his attention back to Clay. “Yeah, I remember how people treated me when we performed back in college. That’s not the kind of approachable I want to be.”
Clay laid a hand over his heart. “Those were the days. But unlike you, I’ve been performing all the years in between, and it’s been at least a few months since anybody threw their underwear on the stage.” At Ethan’s cop stare, he sobered. “Seriously though, Wishful isn’t a college town, so people aren’t gonna behave like they did in Austin. The Mudcat is the kind of small, intimate venue you used to love to play.”
Back when it had been entirely about the music. Yeah, Ethan couldn’t deny that had some appeal. He still played for himself and had occasionally stepped out for open mic nights in Dallas, but it had been years since he and Clay had performed together. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit he missed it. Hadn’t he taken this job so he’d have the chance for more of a life outside work? Part of that life ought to include taking back up hobbies that didn’t involve honing his skills with a gun or attending training seminars.
“All right. I’ll think about it. We can at least set up some rehearsals.”
Clay smirked. “Think you remember how?”
“Smartass. I may not have been on stage in ages, but I can still keep up with you.”
“Great! How about you prove it Saturday?”
“Can’t. I’m running a bowhunter’s safety course Saturday. Maybe Sunday afternoon?”
As Hannah slid their burgers onto the table, Clay nodded, satisfied. “I can work with that.”
Across the diner, Miranda and Norah rose, shrugging into coats.
“Getting back into music isn’t the only thing you’ve been avoiding.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dating, my friend. You haven’t done any of it since the divorce.”
Yeah, he’d been busy trying not to die, then changing his entire life. Women hadn’t exactly factored into the equation. And Ethan had been fine with that. Nobody had sparked his interest anyway.
Miranda’s laugh rang out, rich and unabashed. The sound rolled over him like warm molasses.
Until now.
“She’s single.”
Ethan jerked his attention back to Clay. “Who?”
“Miranda. I assume you weren’t eyeing the new Mrs. Crawford.”
“I’m not eying anybody.” But he couldn’t stop himself from glancing back as the two women got to the door.
Clay continued as if he hadn’t even spoken. “She’s a lot of fun. Helluva dancer.”
Something in the casual tone had Ethan’s hackles rising. Still, he kept his expression bland and reached for the ketchup. “And you’d know that why?”
“We dated a while.”
The bottle jerked in his hand, making his fries look like the victim of a particularly gruesome homicide. Stupid. He’d exchanged all of five sentences with the woman, and two of those were today. He certainly had no claim on Miranda Campbell, and he sure as shit had no right to be aggravated that she’d gone out with his best friend. “I expect you’ve dated damn near every single woman who’s breathing in Wishful at one point or other.”
“My streak isn’t near as wide as you seem to think.”
Ethan just lifted a brow at him.
“Not since I came home, anyway,” Clay amended, grinning. “Anyway, it wasn’t recent. We had some fun together, but we just didn’t click.”
Ethan didn’t want to think about what kind of fun that might’ve been. “Doesn’t matter one way or the other.”
“So you think being Chief of Police means you don’t get a love life either? Man, why did you move here again?”
“You know why.”
“Yeah, and I remember something in there about having a life while you still had one. You’re falling down on that, brother.”
Ethan scowled at his friend. “I’m easing in at my own pace.”
“Yeah, the Geriatric 500.” Clay leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Look, I know Becca did a number on you. But it’s time to get back out there.”
The flash of honey gold hair had Ethan looking up.
As if summoned by Clay’s words, Miranda stood there, those hazel eyes snapping, her long, surgeon’s fingers balled to fists. “Chief Greer, I’m really sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I need to report a crime.”
As Wishful’s not-quite-brand-new police chief turned those clear gray eyes to hers, Miranda couldn’t help but hear Clay’s words repeated in her head.
It’s time to get back out there.
For the barest instant, she forgot what she’d come here to talk to him about because her long neglected lady parts were busy standing up and waving. I volunteer as tribute!
“What happened?”
Those three little syllables pulled Miranda out of her nanosecond’s fantasy about what those big, warm hands that had steadied her earlier would feel like somewhere more interesting than her elbows. She didn’t have time for tributes or fantasies.
“My car’s been vandalized.”
He didn’t look annoyed, didn’t even look at his food. He just slid from the booth. “Show me.”
The position put him inside her personal bubble again, and Miranda took an instinctive step back, glancing at Clay. “Sorry to borrow him.”
Clay waved that off. “Nature of the job.”
Ethan followed her out of the diner and halfway down the block to where she’d parked. He didn’t make casual small talk. Miranda had no idea what to say, so she said nothing at all, just pointed him to her driver’s side door where Nosy Bitch had been scratched into the paint. He still didn’t speak, just slowly circled the vehicle snapping pictures and, presumably, looking for more damage.
Eventually, he brought that laser focus back to her. “Do you have any idea who might do this?”
Why did his attention make her want to shiver?
“I know exactly who did it. You walked in on the tail end of our argument earlier. Clarice Morris.”
“The blonde in the diner?”
“That’d be her.”
“What was the argument about?”
The temper that had dropped to a simmer cranked back up to boil. “She was maligning one of my employees. I called her out on it.”
“Is this your first run-in with Ms. Morris?”
Miranda snorted. “Hardly.”
Ethan’s eyes sharpened at that. “You have history?”
“Going all the way back to first grade.”
A flicker of surprise cracked the serious cop mask. “First grade?”
“Not an exaggeration, actually. It’s a small town. Most of us go back a long way. In this case, Clarice and her sister, Amber, have a history of tearing people down. I abhor bullies, so I have, over the years, intervened to defend people. And before you ask, no, it’s never led to any kind of physical blows or retaliation in this particular fashion.”