Page 40 of Fatal Mistake
“Wow.” Cal entered and paused to look around before carrying the groceries to the adjoining kitchen.
The scenic calm of the outdoors called to Tara. She stepped to the windows to gaze over the yard. Peace and tranquility sat on the other side of the glass. She rested a hand on the pane, feeling like a prisoner. How she wanted to go outside, sit in the cool of the shade, and draw in fresh air and clear out her fear and frustration. Maybe look for God in the beauty surrounding them and believe He really was watching over her.
Cal joined her, standing so close he took over her thoughts and reminded her to keep a solid wall between them.
She moved a few steps away. “Amazing view, right?”
“Not defensible, though,” he mumbled. “I’ll need you to stay away from these windows.”
She spun to look at him. “Oren can’t possibly know where I am right now, can he?”
“I can assure you we weren’t followed, but locals arranged this place, so anything is possible.” He offered her a flicker of a smile, but she’d gotten to know him well enough to tell it was forced. “For now, join me in the kitchen, and we can put away the groceries.”
He led the way, and she followed, glancing back at the window and now seeing what Cal had seen, walls of glass that Oren could shatter and step through to kill her.
“Omelets okay for dinner?” Cal asked as he unloaded contents from a paper bag onto the white quartz countertop.
She pulled another bag closer and dug inside. “I’m not very hungry.”
“But you will eat.” He eyed her. “You need to keep up your strength, and you didn’t eat lunch.”
She shot him a look over the bag. “You noticed?”
“I notice everything about you, Tara.”
She should have expected he wouldn’t miss anything, but the tone of his response had nothing to do with his role as an investigator. He’d moved into the personal realm, and she wouldn’t go there with him.
She turned back to the bag and lifted out a loaf of hearty wheat bread. “Looks like we have a good selection of food.”
Cal held up a bottle of orange juice. “Would you like some?”
She nodded, and while he grabbed glasses, she searched for a safe topic that didn’t involve Oren. But what did they have to talk about other than Oren or their personal lives?
Cal set a tall glass in front of her, poured thick, pulpy juice, then made eye contact.
“Do you like your job?” she said quickly before she fell prey to his bottomless brown eyes.
He set down the container, never taking his gaze from hers. “Do I make it seem like I don’t?”
Perfect. Irritate her by avoiding an answer again, and there was no danger that she’d fall prey to her developing feeling for him. “Do you ever answer a question instead of offering another question?”
“Sorry. I guess it’s a habit from my SEAL days, and to a great extent, something I need to practice as an FBI agent.”
“So do you like it?” she asked again. This time she was honestly interested and wasn’t making small talk.
“Most days.” He put the juice in the refrigerator.
“And on those other days?”
He shrugged and folded the paper bag. Was he as cool and in control as he always seemed, or was he a master at hiding his stress?
She suddenly wanted to know. “How do you deal with all the bad things you see on the job?”
He looked like he wanted to fire off an easy answer, but he planted his hands on the counter and met her gaze in earnest. “SEALs have a motto that explains it, I guess. The only easy day was yesterday.”
“Which means what when it comes to coping?”
“I prepare for the worst at the start of each day.” Staring down at the counter, he didn’t move. “Sometimes the day turns out to be the worst—like the first of the month when Keeler strikes.” He shook his head, then looked up and plastered one of his fake smiles on his face. “But terrible events like that don’t happen every day.”
