Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

God, I strongly disliked other girls who made me strongly dislike other girls. The two gathered their things, got up, and pranced toward their “friend.”

I sighed, turning back to the prep station and picking up the blender I’d just used. I took it to the small sink at the end of the counter.

“Water, please.”

I turned around, my gaze landing on a dark-haired man just sitting down, his head turned, eyes somewhere in the distance, fingers snapping in the air.

Fingers . . .

. . . snapping in the air.

At me.

To fetch him a water.

I growled softly under my breath, plastering a smile on my face and heading his way.

My, but this club was chock full of charmers.

“How may I serve you, sir?”

Apparently, he wasn’t so dense that he didn’t recognize the sarcasm in my tone, because he drew his gaze away from whatever he’d been staring at, and familiar whiskey-colored eyes met my own.

For a moment my confusion—and the impact of those eyes—rendered me speechless. When had I looked into those eyes before?

“Chief Hale,” I said, memory dawning.

“Haven from California.”

“Fancy seeing you here.”

He used his forearm to swipe the perspiration dotting his forehead. He was wearing gym shorts and a loose gray tank that swooped low under both arms, the material darker with sweat in several spots, obviously having just worked out. He set a lanyard with his VIP club pass on the counter.

I’d pegged him as a power-tripping cop.

But apparently, he was a snobby rich guy.

Could one be both?

Unlikely. The two identities didn’t exactly overlap in many areas. But perhaps this person was about to prove me wrong. Interesting.

Not everyone can be put into a box, Haven.

I reached behind me and grabbed a water out of the glass-doored mini-fridge and set it on the counter in front of him. “In addition to the water, might I interest you in something designed to help build muscle?” I asked sweetly.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as his head tipped minutely, the same look he’d given me on the side of the road after he’d all but murdered the plants I’d been rescuing. He glanced down at his left arm as though considering it. His tanned, beautifully muscled arm I had to concede, but only to myself, as I worked to keep my expression unimpressed. “Are my muscles not adequate?” He moved his arms forward, leaning on the counter and flexing very slightly as though the movement hadn’t been designed to do just that.

“Oh no, no. They are”—I paused—“adequate.” I laced the word with a heavy dose of disappointment.

His lip gave the smallest quirk. He sat back slowly, assessing me. “Sideswipe any drivers today?”

“Not today, no.”

“How are your plants?”

“I don’t know. When I went back, they weren’t there.”

He pressed his lips together, nodding. “This is serious. You should file a kidnapping report. The Feds will want to get involved.”

“Joke if you want, but those plants could very well be in the hands of a madman—or woman—facing untold hardships even as we speak.”

“My God, I almost think you’re serious.”

I was serious. But I wasn’t going to let this person mock me over my love of living things.

“I’m sorry your plants were stolen. Let us cling to the hope that whoever took them is providing a loving home filled with fertilizer and whispered words of encouragement to . . . grow and . . . make leaves and whatnot.”

Really? I resisted an eye roll, crossing my arms. “About that drink . . . since your muscles are clearly . . . adequate, maybe you’d like my avocado banana smoothie with leafy greens and turmeric? It aids cognitive function.”

Chief Hale paused and then grinned, a slow smile that blossomed from bemused to blinding. Wow. It was unfair that God sometimes gave grins like that to power-tripping snobs. Because it gave them more power. And self-justification to act snobby.

As a general rule.

That grin had probably been getting him cookies from the cookie jar, literally and figuratively, since he was big enough to reach for them.

His gaze moved behind where I stood to the place several pots of grasses and herbs lined a shelf. Those had been my contribution, and the woman who’d hired me had seemed enthusiastic about the additional offerings, especially after I told her she might consider raising the prices for fresh supplements.

He then stared at the basket of nutrition bars near where he sat at the counter, grimacing. “Let me explain something to you, Haven from California. Real men don’t eat grass and”—he gave the bars another hostile glance—“birdseed.”

I laughed. “No? What do real men eat?”

“Burgers. Things with bones.” He unscrewed the water bottle cap and tipped it to his lips.

I sighed. “Men and their obsession with boners.”

He choked on the sip he’d just taken, using his forearm to wipe his mouth. “Boners? I said bones.”

I widened my eyes in feigned embarrassment. “I know. So did I.”

He put his arm over the back of the stool next to him and chuckled softly. He gave me a slight nod, taking another sip of water, his eyes trained on me over the bottle. “I apologize for being rude. I was . . . distracted.” He looked off to the side to the place he’d been staring at before, somewhere around the corner of the covered smoothie bar out of my line of vision, the amusement that had just been clear in his expression suddenly gone.