I’d been so engrossed with Buckland’s writing that my coffee had gotten cold, so I returned to the kitchen to warm it up in the microwave. Jude was doing the same thing and we exchanged a laugh over the coincidence.
“It’s amazing how quickly an hour can pass when someone sends you an intriguing proposal,” Jude said. “I hope my guy responds quickly to my request for the full manuscript, because if I don’t act fast, someone else is going to snap him up. This author’s got a really gritty, edgy voice and his material is dark and gripping and a little warped. I love it.” Jude removed his coffee cup from the microwave and gestured for me to hand him mine. “Please, allow me,” he added, his seductive mouth curving up in a smile.
As I passed him the cup he intentionally covered my fingers with his. For a moment, I was transported to the summer evening in which Jude’s mouth had found mine. We’d kissed once, with what I’d foolishly believed was genuine passion, until we were interrupted. Now Sean was my man and Jude knew it, but neither of us could deny that a physical attraction still lingered between us. It had been months since my body had reacted to his presence, but the air crackled around our fingertips and I nearly sighed in relief when he finally let go.
Vicky came into the kitchen for a second cup of tea, and as soon as my coffee was reheated, I scurried out of the room like a teenage girl caught making out with her boyfriend in the backseat of the family car.
“I’m only responding to Jude because I miss Sean,” I mumbled once I’d reached the sanctuary of my office. My hot cheeks and clammy palms belied the truth of this statement. Jude was gorgeous. He was smart. He was sweet. And he was a womanizer. He was never going to be good for me. I didn’t want to expend another ounce of energy thinking about him.
Sitting primly in my chair, I focused on another email containing requested material. These were the first three chapters of T. J. West’s cozy mystery. His was set in a charming lakeside town, and I remembered the vivid setting as well as the plucky heroine—a widow who ran the town’s bed and breakfast. West called himself a medical professional, but he had attended culinary school and was a self-professed handyman. As a result, his cozy was replete with do-it-yourself home repair tips and included a tantalizing recipe section. He’d emailed a few recipes for me to peruse, and my stomach gurgled in appreciation as I scanned over the directions for preparing vegetable barley soup, bacon-wrapped maple pork loin, and gingerbread cake.
I spent the remainder of the morning reading West’s first three chapters. I had my doubts that a male writer could successfully pull off the voice of a feisty young widow, but West did it in spades. Not only did he create a rich, interesting heroine, but there were also sprinkles of romance and a splash of humor in those first three chapters. The only mistake he made resided within his synopsis. At the pitch session he’d mentioned that a child’s toy would play a role in the murderer’s capture. I’d responded by advising him to alter that clue, but he hadn’t made the change. Cozy readers don’t like children to be closely associated to a murder case, and while Ashley Buckland’s Men at Home series included kids, they were never present when violence occurred. Buckland’s kids remained in the background, which was where they belonged.
I was just explaining this in an email to T. J. West when my fingers froze over the keyboard. Turning back to his synopsis, I reread the brief description of the child’s toy. “A beloved yellow teddy bear,” were the exact words.
Instantly, the photograph of the plush Winnie the Pooh clasped in Melissa’s dead hand flashed in front of my eyes.
“No,” I whispered to my computer screen, my eyes locked on T. J. West’s email address. “You’re a harmless mystery writer. You have nothing to do with that picture of Silas’s bear. It’s just a crazy coincidence and proof that I need a lunch break.”
I sent off the email, shouldered my purse, and was trying to decide whether to grab a sandwich at Catcher in the Rye or head to the hot food bar at How Green Was My Valley when Vicky’s voice came over my phone’s speaker.
“Ms. Wilkins, Ms. Burlington-Duke would like a word with you,” she said succinctly.
“Right now?”
There was the briefest of pauses. “Ms. Burlington-Duke did not specify a time, but I was under the impression she meant for you to appear in her office within the next five minutes.”
“Then I’m on my way. Thanks.”
Vicky didn’t reply, and I decided to bring my purse into my boss’s office. Maybe Bentley would realize that I was on my way out and would keep our impromptu meeting short and sweet.
No such luck.