She scanned the bar. Several pairs of female eyes were following his progress across the room. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed his good looks.
It was ten thirty and many customers were on the other side of tipsy. According to the signs, Happy Hour lasted from five until midnight, which suggested the manager needed a basic math lesson but certainly explained the raucous crowd.
Sheridan reached her booth and slid into the seat, moving close so they could talk without being overheard. His thigh brushed hers before he shifted away, and she jumped at the brief contact.
Way to play it cool, Ava.
She cleared her throat, searching for a nonchalance she wasn’t feeling. They weren’t on a date. This was business. This was about Van. “Where’d you leave your dog?”
He shrugged, and she tried not to notice the broadness of his shoulders. He was just a colleague. Hell, she didn’t think he even liked her very much, and she wasn’t a masochist.
“In the back of the car. I cracked the windows.” The night had cooled off.
The fact he cared more about his dog than the security of his Lexus ramped up his attractiveness by another factor of a thousand.
“You aren’t worried about those fancy leather seats getting chewed up?” She took a sip of beer. She wasn’t surprised his personal vehicle was a luxury model. He was a luxury model kind of guy.
An amused gleam lit his eyes. Her heart wanted to give a little flip, but she forced it to remain frozen in place.
“There was a time there would have been nothing left of the interior, but nowadays…” He shrugged. “He’s getting old. Slowing down, thank god. Like me.”
“Sure.”
The guy was in his prime and knew it. He sure as heck hadn’t looked like he was slowing down when they’d chased after the shooter yesterday morning.
“It’s true.” He laughed quietly, more relaxed than she’d seen him before. But the creases at the edge of his eyes were more pronounced today. She wondered if he’d gotten any sleep last night after the shooting. She certainly hadn’t.
Her server came over with the bucket of wings Ava had ordered. Ordering food had been the only way she’d been able to secure a table.
“What can I get you?” the server—“Caroline” according to her name tag—asked Sheridan with a big smile before running through the specials.
“Water, please.” He tapped his coaster on the table. “You have a big crowd in here like this every Tuesday night?”
The waitress wore a bright smile and a tight top that showcased a killer cleavage. Sheridan got top marks for not dropping his gaze below the woman’s chin, although those cherry lips were probably already accumulating a large tip.
Ava had once been those lips and that smile. She’d put herself through college waiting tables in a high-end joint in Portland. She’d had her ass pinched so many times it was a wonder she hadn’t stabbed somebody with a cocktail stick. Swapping high heels for steel-toe boots when she’d joined the Portland Police had been one of the happiest moments of her life, eclipsed only by graduating from the FBI Academy.
“Help yourself.” Ava indicated the wings when the server left. The chicken smelled good and she was drooling, but she wasn’t going to be the only one to eat and get messy. Sheridan already held too many aces. Good-looking, powerful, strong. Independently wealthy if his car was anything to go by—otherwise he owed the bank a lot of money.
He took a drumstick, chowing down as if he’d forgotten to eat lunch and dinner. Maybe he had. They were both using what precious little spare time they had to dig deeper into Van’s death. Food seemed irrelevant.
“You managed to get an evidence team out there?” She was surprised he’d contacted her to look at the footprints he’d found before calling Aldrich. Surprised and pleased. It didn’t mean he’d include her in anything else. But he’d wanted a second opinion before he’d reported it. The fact he’d called at all…maybe he wasn’t so bad.
Were those footprints proof of anything besides morbid curiosity? Were they from Van cleaning windows or doing some weeding? Or had someone gotten into Van’s house through that window? Shot him and staged a suicide? The main thing was to make sure the evidence was properly documented before it disappeared in case this thing ever went to court.
“ERT arrived before I left. After all, the director did leave orders he wanted ‘no stone unturned.’” He wiped his lips and fingers on a napkin and took a long drink of water.
Was that a dig at her? For what she’d done at the funeral?
“You called the director?”
She got the vibe Sheridan was connected to the higher ups, but she didn’t know for sure. Maybe he’d worked with them before. Maybe he knew them socially.
He shook his head, but something about the way he did it suggested he could have, if he’d wanted. He was connected all right.
“Aldrich. You going to eat anything?”
She picked up a drumstick and bit into the warm meat and the flavor dissolved onto her tongue. “Oh, my god, this is good.” She groaned. Fried chicken was the reason she could never be a vegetarian.
He glanced at her quickly and she slowed down, chewing her food self-consciously. He had a way of unsettling her, which irritated her. Her family were all about food. She’d grown up above a Greek restaurant in a small town in Oregon. Was it the fact he was senior to her? He was only a few years older, but being a Supervisory Special Agent was a world apart from someone who hadn’t yet officially graduated from New Agent status. Van had also been senior to her and she’d never felt self-conscious with him…
The structure of the FBI had appealed to her when she’d signed up. It gave her a target to aim for. She just hadn’t considered how it would feel to be on the bottom rung of that ladder after she left the academy with so many years to go.