Page 89 of What We Bury

“Detective Cross speaking.”

“Detective, we’ve got a potential homicide down in Salinas. Think you can handle it?”

I glance at my pile of cases. “Sure. Send me the details.”

TWENTY-FOUR

SAGE

“You’re back!”

Jamie looks up from the menu he’s reading and gives me an easy smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“Couldn’t stay away.”

“Have you found the spot with the best coffee yet?” I top off his mug, watching the dark stream fill the white ceramic.

“Honestly? The coffee is pretty mid everywhere. But the pie here is what everyone’s talking about.”

I grin at that. “Told you.”

I’m half a step away when a shadow passes across the glass. Knox.

Seems the afternoon shift has arrived.

I had Milo for breakfast service. Now the chaos gremlin has left, replaced by a mountain.

The hottest mountain I’ve ever seen . . .

Knox pushes through the door and takes the stool next to Jamie.

Besides Holden and Eli, the guys have graduated from skulking outside to planting themselves at my counter like paying customers.

It’s cute, the hovering. I appreciate it, even if I still don’t know what to do with five men orbiting my life for ten days and counting.

Jamie glances at Knox, then does a fast double-take, like he’s seeing a bear stroll into a Starbucks.

“Afternoon, Knox,” I sing-song, sliding a menu in front of him.

Knox slides the menu back to me then gives Jamie a nod. He props his elbows on the counter and absently rolls a silver quarter over the knuckles of one hand.

“Coffee,” he says, eyes meeting mine. “Please.”

“Coming right up.”

I collect the menu from both him and Jamie while Jamie just stares at me wide-eyed and mouths, “That voice,”and mimes chills by wiggling his fingers over his forearm.

As I pour Knox’s coffee, I bite back a grin and mouth back, “I know, right?”then say out loud, “Jamie, let me get you a slice of pie. Cherry again?”

“Perfect. And maybe a scoop of ice cream,” he calls after me. “I need to cool down.”

I snort and head to the kitchen window, trying to focus on the ticket in my hand instead of the mess inside my head.

It’s been a week since Micah’s mouth was on mine, his hand between my thighs. A week since I came apart against his fingers with Eli at the foot of the bed in that low, frayed voice—slower, let her suck your fingers, make her come—his hand hovering close without ever touching me.

That’s the part I keep coming back to. Seven days later and I still press my thighs together every time it surfaces.

I should not be this turned on at work.