The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(3)
“I can see that,” I shoot back. Simon surfaces from his ad markers, staring at me. I don’t think he’s ever seen me with a guest in the office, ever. That’s because I don’t bring them. On purpose.
Herbal Tea Guy looks different than he did yesterday. He’s wearing slacks and a neat work shirt, though I note that it’s still rolled up at the sleeves. Even his skinny tie is fashionable. His five-o’clock shadow is gone, and I catch myself pondering whether I liked him better with scruff before I yank my mind back to the important question at hand: Why is he here at all?
“I brought you a coffee. Cinnamon dolce latte.” He offers it to me like an olive branch.
My eyebrows shoot up, and my traitorous hand sneaks out to take the cup. Caffeine is my body’s drug of choice, and it seems he’s found my weakness. And remembered my order.
Andy is still staring at us, and I don’t blame him. I still haven’t said anything. He shifts from foot to foot and straightens his woefully rumpled button-down in a self-conscious way. “I, uh . . . I’ll be over there if you need me.” He motions to his desk, the central one in the pod as befits his team art director status. Andy’s never been big on dialogue. That’s my specialty. Usually. Except right now, when I’m gaping like a fish out of water. We watch him go in a growingly awkward silence.
“Must be nice to have a hipster job where you can drink coffee at any hour,” the man says with a wink, looking pointedly at Kyle—watching us shamelessly in return, feet propped on his desk, large travel coffee mug in hand. Touché, Herbal Tea Guy.
And just like that I’m back, shields powering up. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” Or go with childish insults. Whichever.
He smiles, and damn it if I’m not back to thinking about whether the scruff made him more attractive. Smiling definitely does. You know, if you’re into hipster stalkers, which I’m not. The last part is a dictate to my subconscious to quit being ridiculous.
I’m finally about to boot this bozo out when he ups his ante again. “Is there a conference room or something that we can go talk in?” The question is quiet instead of suggestive, and his face is serious. Intriguing, and not at all how I picture hipster seduction taking place. He holds out a business card. This one seems to be a . . . gentleman stalker? I take it automatically and glance down. LAPD. Detective Matteo Kildaire.
Oh crap.
CHAPTER 2
“So, uh, how did you find me?” I sip my latte and try to suppress my moan of satisfaction. It’s the perfect temperature and exactly what I want right now, stressed as I am about my deadline.
“It wasn’t hard.” He sets his coffee cup across from mine, spins one of the chairs, and sits down opposite me. We’re jammed in the small conference room dedicated to our team just off the main workspace. The bad news is that everyone in my office seems to be taking every opportunity to walk past the glass door and glance in. The good news is that I love this room for the view. LA stretches out in front of the large window that makes up the back wall—the textile and fabric shops off Wall Street, my favorite part of the city.
“I thought you were an herbal tea guy.” “Americano” is scrawled across his white cup, along with something that looks suspiciously like a scrawled phone number. Order-Taking Girl, you go-getter, you.
“I’ve been trying to quit drinking coffee, but work has . . . amped up since yesterday, and I’m off the wagon,” he admits, taking a sip and meeting my curious stare. Studying me. I’m a little undone by his intense hazel gaze and long lashes. “It was easy to find you. Detective, remember? I noticed the Genius Comics name on your bag, called to see if anyone with purple hair worked here . . .”
“Et voilà,” I finish for him. Seeing as I’m the only woman in the office most days, and well . . . the purple hair. Not exactly rocket science. Something tells me that despite the pretty gorgeous set of peepers this Muggle has, he’s here on business. “All right, Sherlock, let’s cut onions. What can I do for you?”
“I need to talk to you about what you said in the shop.”
“You mean my completely ridiculous remark about the crime scene missing a golden arrow?”
“Yes. That.”
Our silence spans two sips. There’s no way. “You found a golden arrow?”
“Yes.”
Internally, I’m scrambling. They found a golden arrow. And my tinfoil suspicion suddenly doesn’t seem so coated in, well, tinfoil. But, then, why would the police be at my work? “So I’m, what, under arrest for guessing?”
An annoyingly infectious smile toys about his lips. It’s a legitimate question, Officer Herbal Tea, thankyouverymuch.
“No, if you were under arrest, I’d need to have just cause, proof, and read you your rights. I’m here purely on personal interest. I want to know how you knew that there would be an arrow at the scene. The LAPD hasn’t released that evidence to the media. No one knows but the crime scene investigators. Tell me how you knew.”
Well, that’s another thing I didn’t see coming. I bite back an acerbic response. Just answer the question, and he can leave and I can get back to my real work. I delve deep to distill all I know and love about my favorite comic. “I mean, it’s kind of a leap of imagination, but the picture I saw in the news looked so much like a panel out of a comic. The Hooded Falcon. Two goons trussed up on docks back-to-back. Classic superhero move. And there’s this . . . I don’t know . . . outline around the thieves that looks like a rabbit, which in the comic sometimes happened so the reader knew the goons belonged to Falcon’s nemesis. So you can see how an imagination in my employ would jump to a fantasy of comic book come to life. In the comic, the scenes are always marked with a literal golden arrow sign, Falcon’s signature.”