Mug Shot (27 page)

“Sinclair's? Wow. I certainly wasn't expecting this,” I said as Ryder opened the passenger door and helped me out of the car.

He smiled. “Nothing but the best for my lady.”

I slapped him on one of his rock-solid biceps. “Don't call me that.”

“Oh, right. I meant to say, nothing but the best for the independent woman I'm lucky enough to be sleeping with.”

“That's better.”

Ryder Hamilton and I had been officially dating for only about three months, and I didn't want to take things any more seriously than we were, which was not at all. After the epic failure of my engagement last year, a new steady relationship was the last thing on my mind. Ryder was exactly what I needed. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun with someone, mostly because what we had was casual and low-key and did not in any way resemble a traditional relationship. I let him call himself my boyfriend to simplify things, but we weren't hung up on labels. In short, what we had was perfect.

Placing his hand on the small of my back, Ryder steered me toward the front door of the posh downtown restaurant. In a city like Nashville, there were a lot of loud, touristy honky-tonks in the heart of the city, but Sinclair's was one of the understated little gems most tourists didn't bother with. That didn't keep the place from having a wait list for reservations every night of the week.

I still didn't understand why we were here. “Why did you choose Sinclair's for dinner? It's a random Monday in March. Not exactly a special occasion.”

The corner of his mouth turned up as he opened the door for me. “You never know when a day can turn into a special occasion, Juliet.”

Now he was beginning to worry me.

Ryder had been secretive as to where we were going tonight, saying only that I should “dress nicely,” though I had no idea where that fell between clean jeans and black-tie apparel. I opted for a little black dress, figuring that could go anywhere. He insisted on picking me up at my place rather than our normal hasty plans of simply meeting somewhere or him dropping by Java Jive unannounced to see me at work.

He'd come all the way up the steps to my apartment door to get me, which also struck me as odd—usually he honked or texted me when he got to the parking lot. We were not ones for formality. However, tonight he was wearing a suit and tie of all things instead of the tight T-shirts and jeans that were the staple of his wardrobe. Not that I was complaining, because he looked crazy handsome, but I was wary of the sudden change.

I didn't get a chance to voice my concern, because the maître d' immediately whisked us off to our table, weaving us through a sea of canoodling couples all evidently celebrating something, evidenced by the notable presence of a silver champagne bucket at every table. The moment we sat down, I nearly jumped back out of my chair as a young woman shrieked two tables away from us. I whipped my head in her direction only to find the young man with her down on one knee, placing a big, sparkling ring on her left hand. The girl began weeping, and a collective “aww…” went up from around the room. When I glanced over at Ryder, I noticed him smiling as he watched the aftermath.

I was more than a little uncomfortable.

Not that I wasn't happy for the newly engaged couple, but the whole scene was rather disconcerting given the out-of-the-ordinary nature of our date tonight. I waved down a waiter and ordered a double vodka collins, hoping to medicate my increasingly manic state.

After the waiter left, Ryder raised one eyebrow at me. “A double? Hard day at the office?”

“Something like that.”

In reality, I'd had a relatively easy day, as food service goes. Java Jive, the coffeehouse I manage, had run more smoothly lately than I ever could have imagined. My staff, which had been a bit of a nightmare to keep and train a few months back, now worked together like a well-oiled machine. The place was making money, and the owner, my best friend, Pete, was pleased with how I'd been able to breathe life back into the place after all of the hardship and loss over the past year or so. Just like my love life, my work life was very nearly perfect.

“Did you even hear what I said?”

“Yes?” No.

Ryder narrowed his eyes at me. When would I learn that there was no point in lying to a detective? “I said, there's been a lot of shuffling around within the MNPD. Several old-timers are retiring, so the rest of us have had the chance to put in for transfers to different departments and promotions and things like that.”

“Is my friend Detective Cromwell among the retirees?” I asked hopefully. Cromwell, one of the MNPD's seasoned homicide detectives, had been a thorn in my side on a couple of occasions since I'd moved here to Nashville. He was a good detective, but I couldn't say I'd be sad to see him go.

Ryder chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I don't think he'll ever retire.”

“Figures,” I muttered, catching a glimpse of yet another marriage proposal a few tables away, this one between an older man and woman, and much less theatrical. The man reached into his jacket pocket and produced a little box, which he opened and gave to the woman. She smiled warmly and nodded her head, taking out the ring and placing it on her own finger. These two seemed to have worked out the details beforehand, because it didn't seem like this one was much of a surprise. I took a big swig of my drink.

“That's why I brought you here tonight.”

I snapped my head back to face Ryder, my heart thudding in my chest. “You…what?” This could not be happening. We had such a good thing going—why would he ruin it by taking things too quickly?

“Are you okay? You're being weird.” He seemed concerned, but I detected a definite hint of exasperation.

I took another drink before answering. “I'm okay. Just…this place isn't…I mean…”

Ryder rolled his eyes. “I brought you here to celebrate my promotion, not to ask you to marry me, Juliet.”

I heaved an enormous sigh of relief, chugging the rest of my drink.

“You don't have to be so relieved about that.” Yep. Definitely exasperation, and more than a hint.

“Sorry.” I changed the subject, genuinely happy for his news. “So congratulations on your promotion. That's fantastic! Are you the chief now, or what?”

He laughed. “No, not quite.”

“Well, do you at least have enough clout to hand out get-out-of-jail-free cards?”

“I think I've already given you one of those,” he said with a smile. “I guess it isn't a promotion in the literal sense, but to me it is. I'm going to be working homicide.”

I felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. “Homicide?” I choked out.

“Yep. And don't laugh, but I get to shadow Cromwell on the first case that pops up.”

It was bad enough that Ryder had to deal with criminals on a daily basis, but at least I could sleep at night knowing he only worked white-collar crimes. Embezzlers and con men didn't want to get caught, so they generally steered clear of the police and tried not to cause too much trouble. Now he was going to be chasing crazy psychopaths around!

My hands began trembling, so I stuck them in my lap to hide them. There was nothing that could be done about my shaky voice. “You…you want to work with dead bodies and…catch killers?”

“Yeah. You know I've always had an interest in it.”

Ryder's wife, Amanda, had been murdered years ago, and the case remained unsolved. It wasn't for lack of trying on his part—he'd investigated it on the side for the better part of ten years.

Grinning, he continued, “And thanks to you I've gotten a little taste of what working homicide is like. I think I'd be a great fit.”

“Hey!” I snapped, obviously a little too loudly judging from the disdainful looks I got from a few people at neighboring tables. “Don't put this on me. I don't want you working homicide.”

His smile faded, and he studied me for a moment. “So it's okay for you, an amateur without a damn clue what she's doing, to run around after killers, but I, a professional with a gun and years of experience and training, cannot?”

“Yes.”

He was pissed now. I could tell by the set of his jaw. “That is absolutely the most ridiculous thing you've ever said, and that's really saying something.”

I crossed my arms. “Well, excuse me for caring about your safety.”

“I'm a cop. My safety is on the line every day.” He shook his head. “I guess I was wrong to think my girlfriend would be happy for me.”

I rolled my eyes at his blatant attempt to shame me. “Oh, boo-frickedy-hoo.”

Poor choice of words, since I could have sworn I saw steam coming out of his ears just then.

“Maybe this dinner was a mistake,” he growled.

The next morning, I nearly fell asleep serving Pete's grandmother Gertie her coffee. Even though Ryder and I had agreed to disagree about his new job (and had some fantastic make-up sex), I'd barely slept at all, awake most of the night with crazy, fearful thoughts bombarding my brain.

“What's the matter with you?” Gertie asked, grumpily mopping up the coffee I'd splattered on the counter next to her mug.

I sighed. When I'd lived in Nashville during college, I would always go to Gertie with my problems. Now that I'd moved back, I found myself repeating old habits. “It's Ryder.”

“What the hell could be wrong with him? I doubt that stud muffin isn't getting the job done stuffing your muffin.”

I groaned. If Gertie were fifty years younger, I'd have to fight her for him. She had quite an old lady crush on Ryder. And a way with words. “It's not that. He told me last night he got moved into the homicide division at work.”

“Hot damn, that's good news. If there's one man in this town who can keep you under his thumb, it's Ryder. He won't stand for you nosing around another murder on his watch.” She smiled triumphantly. Gertie, who always thought of me as part of her family, had not taken kindly to my recent meddling in police cases.

“I know, but that's not why I'm upset about it. I'm terrified for his safety.”

Her already wrinkled brow wrinkled some more. “Are you trying to say that enormous hunk of muscle can't take care of himself? Horse hockey. The killers in this town had better watch out if he's after them.”

Gertie always knew what to say. I smiled. “I guess he
does
know what he's doing.”

“You're damn right he does. Don't you worry your pretty little head, Juliet.” She nodded in the direction of the door where Pete had just walked in. “I'd say you've got enough to worry about with that one.”

My very best friend in the world, Pete Bennett, was having a hard time of it lately. His girlfriend had died, and he had been accused of her murder. These days you never knew which Pete you were going to get on any given day. He could be sad, mad, reckless, or simply his normal self.

He slumped into the stool next to Gertie at the counter. “Hey,” he muttered.

“Coffee?” I asked gently.

Pete rubbed his face. “Not that it'll help, but yeah, I'll take some.”

While Gertie gave him a pat on the back and murmured something to him, I got our largest to-go cup and filled it full.

His gaze narrowed in on the cup I'd set in front of him. “No ceramic mug this morning? Are you trying to tell me something?”

I took a deep breath. I was still learning how to deal with the new Pete. Before his ordeal he'd been the happiest guy on the planet, always smiling and joking around. Now sometimes he was downright sullen, reminding me of one particular group of young Java Jive regulars that still clung to the emo movement. If he started wearing guyliner, I was doing an intervention.

Smiling contritely, I said, “No, I just thought since it's past the time you usually go to work, you'd be in a rush.” Pete had inherited Java Jive from his dad, but his real job was being an audio engineer at one of the major recording studios on Music Row, only a few blocks away from here.

“I don't need you to mother me, Juliet.” Pete never called me “Juliet” unless he was mad at me. It was always “Jules.” He'd called me by my real name a lot more times than I'd have liked in the past few months.

Gertie reached over and patted his hand. “Settle down, big fella. She didn't mean anything by it.” She gave him a motherly glare. “But you really should get your ass to work, especially since you're taking the afternoon off to gallivant around the countryside.” Pete and Ryder were going rock climbing this afternoon.

“Fine,” he groaned, getting up out of his seat and giving Gertie a peck on the cheek. He waved at me with a halfhearted attempt at a smile. My heart ached as I watched him slouch out of the coffeehouse with a marked lack of spring in his step.

“That boy needs to get laid.”

I rolled my eyes. “Gertie, come on. It's too soon. He's not ready to dive back into the dating world.”

“There are ways to get laid other than going out on a date.”

My skin crawled from that remark coming out of his
grandmother
. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.”

“Prude,” she muttered under her breath.

That morning we went through the motions of our daily grind at Java Jive: Rhonda, my least favorite daytime barista, was rude to several customers (who all deserved it, but still); Camille, my favorite daytime barista, took every opportunity to run back to the kitchen to flirt with the assistant cook, Wayne; and Brandon, the head cook, kept his head down and didn't say much to anyone. I did my normal routine of checking the freshness of our food and placing food supply orders, and then when it got busy at lunchtime, I helped out in the kitchen. Also, as expected, after our noon rush Ryder came in to eat lunch and to see me. I took Camille's place out front so she could have a break.