Page 102 of Tempted Hearts
Nope. Dangerous thoughts.
I jumped up.
“Right. I’ll take a quick shower and meet you there in ten minutes.”
Smiling the entire way to my bedroom, already looking forward to the day ahead a thousand times more than I had been this morning.
And for the first time since Italy, I wasn’t thinking about how this would end… only how much I wanted it to begin.
39
COLE
When I walked into the coffee shop, it was nearly full. No sign of Jules. I grabbed a two top and headed to the counter to order. Bringing our drinks back to the table, I pulled out my laptop and signed in.
I’d gone down a rabbit hole about a Renaissance scholar from Umbria in Italy on my sabbatical that I was planning to publish. Unfortunately, although the topic had held my interest previously, I found myself staring through the window of the café, waiting for her.
Not a good sign. Neither was waiting for her to text her schedule all day, knowing she probably wouldn’t. She liked me, that much was obvious. And I liked her too. But that was the problem.
When I saw her approach, Jules readjusting her laptop bag on your shoulder, it was like my insides had just come alive. If nothing else, I could at least admit I’ve never felt quite this way about a woman before.
The bell above the door tingled as Jules walked in. She scanned the room and found me. Our eyes locked. I smiled. She smiled, and then headed my way.
“Got you a coffee already,” I said as she put her bag down and opened up her laptop on the table.
She opened the lid. “This is the perfect color.”
“I know how you drink your coffee. But what I don’t know is how you’re going to get Marshall to figure out who the killer is.”
Jules lit up every time she talked about her book. I got the sense that there weren’t a lot of people around wanting to hear every detail, and I got it. I rarely talked about hidden Renaissance scholars with anyone but colleagues, and most often not them either.
“Marshall thinks he’s chasing motive,” she said. “Money, jealousy, revenge. The usual suspects.” She glanced up at him, eyes bright now. “But the killer isn’t driven by any of that. He’s trying to protect a story he’s been telling himself for years. That he’s the good guy.”
She leaned back, considering it.
“The trick is letting Marshall figure out that the crime isn’t the lie—the justification is. Once he sees that, the whole thing unravels.”
She tapped her laptop once, decisive.
“Okay,” she said. “Your turn. What are you working on today?”
I paused longer than I meant to.
“I’m revising an article,” I said finally. “About a Renaissance humanist who kept moving from city to city—Florence, Padua, Venice. Brilliant, respected. Always welcomed.” My mouth curved slightly. “Never stayed.”
I looked down at my notes, then back at her.
“I’m arguing that it wasn’t ambition that drove him. It was discomfort. He did his best work on the brink of leaving.”
“Wait, is that the same one you were telling me about on the train?”
“It is.” I pulled out my notepad and a pen.
“An actual notebook? You really are old school.”
“In some ways, I am. I like to take notes here”—I tapped the notebook with my pen—“and then synthesize on the laptop.”
She took a sip of coffee, gave me a bright smile, and started punching keys on her laptop.
