Page 20 of Flint’s Strike

Her gaze cuts to me, flashing with a quick warning. “Fine.” She stalks through the bullpen, pulling a pair of sunglasses from her pocket before we’re anywhere near the double doors. “But if you drive like Hardison, I’m getting out at the first light and walking to Cedar Park.”

“How does Hardison drive?”

“Like he’s got both somewhere else to be and nowhere else to be at the same time.” She stops a step from the door, then glances back at me. “It’s deeply unsettling.”

I push the door open, giving her plenty of space. “I’ll try to be more decisive. What’s your stance on small talk?”

“Don’t much care for it.”

The heat and humidity combine to smack us in the face the second we leave the air-conditioned building. I’ve lived in Texas my whole life and it still catches me off guard sometimes.

“Yours?” she asks, her gaze boring into me as I click the key fob.

With a shrug, I slide into the driver’s seat. “I spend most of my time alone. Fire doesn’t need words. I’m out of practice.”

“You just talked for almost ten minutes about an accelerant.”

“That wasn’t small talk. That was chemistry.”

She huffs, and I wonder what I could possibly say to get her to laugh the way she did back in her office. Because that sound is one I definitely want to hear again.

Chapter Seven

Parker

Eliot drums his fingers against the steering wheel as traffic slows to a crawl. I check my scanner app. “Accident half a mile up the road. This time of day, we’re gonna be sittin’ here for a while.”

With a quick glance in the rearview mirror, Eliot signals, then cuts across two lanes of traffic to take the next exit. “Decisive enough for you?” he asks as I white-knuckle the “oh shit” handle.

“If I was still a State Trooper, I’d be writing you a ticket for that move.”

He chuckles. “You’d have to catch me first.”

“Please. This is a government vehicle. It’s held together by stubbornness and budget reports.”

“That’s unfair.” He gives the dashboard a brief pat. “She’s also got enough zip ties and duct tape to qualify as a crime scene.”

The laugh slips out before I can stop it. His expression shifts from humor to surprise, with a hint of what might be…awe. We coast to a stop at a traffic light, and my cheeks start to burn.

I scramble for something—anything—to say.

“Eyes on the road, Flint. I still have Trooper friends who’d be happy to do me a solid and write you that ticket.”

“Yes, ma’am.” With a sharp nod, he makes a point of staring through the windshield, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.

I don’t like feeling off balance around anyone. Least of all a man who makes me wonder what it would take to get him to really smile.

“That chili recipe still an award winner?” I ask.

He cuts his gaze to me. “That ain’t in my personnel file.”

My lips curve. Balance restored. “I’m thorough. Is it worth sharing or not?”

“Might be.” He shrugs, the movement a little stiff. “I’ve spent the last ten years workin’ on it.”

Ten years on a chili recipe? Is that dedication? Or obsession? Finding out is suddenly extremely important.

“Ten years?”