The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(17)

She ordered an espresso, not because she needed another hit of caffeine, but because she needed an activity to keep her hands busy while she waited for Dakota.

As the young man behind the counter made her espresso, her phone buzzed. It was Dr. Kincaid. She drew in a breath and answered, “Dr. Kincaid.”

“Good, I caught you.” No chitchat. “The job is yours if you want it.”

She blinked, ducking her head as she moved away from the counter. She lowered her voice. “Really?” The job locked her into Richmond for a year. No avoiding or running away for twelve months. “That’s wonderful. I accept.”

“You don’t want to think about it?”

“No. I want this job.”

“All right, then. Can you start tomorrow? The sooner the better.”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning at seven. I’ll e-mail you details.”

“Great. See you then.”

She ended the call. When she paid the clerk and reached for her cup, her hand trembled just a little. Damn. She was taking the next step in her life. This was good news, right?

She dumped her extra change in the tip jar and chose a seat that put her back against the wall just as Sharp had shown her when they were dating. “Know your exits,” he’d said during one of his many safety lectures. At first she’d found the lectures endearing, but in the end she began to think he just didn’t trust her to stay safe. “I’m not a child, Dakota.”

She traced the rim of her cup, and then, fishing out her phone, replayed Dakota’s voice-mail message, hoping to glean any hints from his tone. As his terse voice rumbled in her ear, the bells on the front door jingled.

She looked up. Dakota stood in the door, the bright afternoon sun at his back. He wore his trademark dark glasses that hid what little emotion he projected, a black suit that skimmed broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt, and a conservative red tie she’d given to him for Christmas two years ago, though she doubted he remembered where he’d gotten it. He was leaner, and if possible, more rigid.

She shut off her phone and nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She moistened her lips and prayed her heart would stop beating against her ribs.

He pulled off the glasses, letting his eyes adjust to the room as they swept left to right. She thought for a moment he didn’t see her, but the gray eyes swung around like the barrel of a gun and landed on her. A muscle pulsed in his jaw as he moved toward her with a determined, if not grim, stride.

She shoved her phone back in her pocket before smoothing her hands over her jeans. She rose, bumping the table, jostling her coffee and sloshing it over the rim. Automatically she snagged a couple of napkins from a dispenser and mopped up the wet mess as it dripped over the edge of the table. By the time she looked up, he was standing next to her, staring, studying the soggy mush of napkins in her hand like one of his crime scenes.

Shit. So much for smooth. She pushed aside the coffee-soaked napkins, now a crumpled wet ball, and straightened. Coffee had splashed her jeans and dampened her fingertips, which she quickly wiped against the denim. Should she extend her hand or hug him? He made no attempt to break the ice or make this moment easy. She’d called the meeting, and he was letting her run the show.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “I know it was last-minute.”

“No problem, Tessa.”

“Can I get you a coffee?” she asked.

“No. Thank you.”

She muzzled the urge to prattle on and sat back down, fairly certain her legs might give way if she kept standing.

He pulled out a seat, moving it to the side so he had the front door in his peripheral vision.

“I can trade seats,” she said. “I know you like your back to the wall.”

“Not necessary.” Slowly he folded up his sunglasses and tucked them in his pocket.

“Right.”

When she didn’t expound, he raised a brow. “Why the meeting, Tessa?”

“I wanted to let you know I’m back in Richmond. I’ve applied for a yearlong fellowship at the medical examiner’s office. In fact, Dr. Kincaid just offered me the job. I start in the morning.”

That muscle twitched again in his jaw. “She’s smart. Manages a good shop. Why tell me?”

Ice coated each word. He wasn’t attempting cordial. But then it had never been easy with him. “We’re going to run into each other. In fact, the medical examiner’s office has one of your cases on the docket for tomorrow.”

“You could have told me all this in a text.”

“I know you don’t like texts.”

As he sat back, his jacket opened a fraction, offering a glimpse of his badge clipped to his belt, inches from the grip of his weapon. He waited.

She tucked another strand of hair behind her ear. “I understand this victim is young.”

He impatiently tugged at the edge of his jacket. “When you officially start, we’ll talk about it.”

Old frustrations stirred, and she remembered he could be abrupt, his tone blunt when he was upset. She knew he was angry with her. She’d blasted out of his life on a rush of emotion and little thought.

Now, when she wanted to say the right words to mend a once-strong connection shattered into so many pieces, words alone felt inadequate.