down and picked up her glass of water. “You were going to tell me why Trent was given a court date and Aiden was locked up,” she reminded him.
“Because Trent was a passenger in the car that Aiden was driving.”
“Where’d they find the car?” she asked.
“Parked, with the key in the cup holder, in the driveway of the owner’s house on Mountainview Road.”
Katelyn shook her head. “Anyone who leaves, in plain view, the key to a fancy car deserves to have it stolen.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that.”
“How mad was Rebecca Blake when she realized her car had been taken?”
“Beyond mad,” he admitted. “And more than a little embarrassed, because she knew that she’d left the key in it.”
“She was at Elsie Hampton’s funeral—and she’s known Aiden since he was in diapers,” Katelyn told him. “As mad and embarrassed as she was, I’m a little surprised that she wanted to press charges.”
“It wasn’t her choice,” he said.
“You do know you’ll never get a conviction on grand larceny, don’t you? It would be a waste of time and resources to even take it to trial.”
“That’s an argument better saved for your discussions with the prosecutor,” he suggested.
“Maybe it’s different in Echo Ridge, but here the prosecutor doesn’t usually make decisions about the disposition of charges without first consulting the Sheriff’s Office.”
“I investigated the complaint of a stolen vehicle and made the appropriate arrests,” he said. “Now it’s up to your pal in the ADA’s office to decide what to do with the defendants.”
“Dustin Perry’s not my pal,” she told him.
“I saw the two of you chatting while waiting for the judge. He seemed...favorably inclined toward you.”
“You know, for a guy who was quick to point out that he’s not a lawyer, you sound an awful lot like one at times.”
He frowned. “Are you trying to spoil my appetite?”
She looked at his almost empty plate. “Not much chance of that.”
“What can I say? This is great pasta,” he said.
And it was. The red sauce had chunks of tomato, pepper and onion and was just a little bit spicy. But while he’d been mopping up sauce with a second slice of crusty bread, he noticed that she’d hardly touched her meal. She had her fork in hand and was pushing the pasta around on her plate, but she’d rarely lifted the utensil to her mouth.
“I didn’t make anything for dessert, but I do have ice cream,” she told him.
“What kind?”
She pushed her chair away from the table and went to open the freezer drawer below the refrigerator. Her appliances were all top of the line—as was everything else that he could see. Whoever had renovated the building had spared no expense in the dark walnut cupboards, natural granite countertops, marble tile and hardwood floors.
“Chocolate, chocolate ’n’ peanut butter or chocolate chip cookie dough,” she offered.
“Nothing with chocolate?” he asked drily.
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Do you have cones?”
“No, but I have waffle bowls,” she told him.
“Even better,” he decided.
“What kind do you want?”
“Cookie dough.”
She took the container out of the freezer and set it on the counter, then opened the cupboard and stood on her toes. “If they were more easily accessible, I’d indulge all the time,” she explained, as she stretched toward the top shelf.
“If you didn’t want to indulge, you wouldn’t buy them,” he commented, easily reaching over her head for the box.
She pulled open a drawer to retrieve an ice-cream scoop. “That’s just the kind of logic I’d expect from a man.”
He set the box on the corner, then lifted his hand to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertip slowly tracing the outer shell.
The scoop slipped from her grasp, bounced on the counter.
“I don’t remember you being skittish,” he said.
She swallowed. “I’m not usually.”
“So what has you strung so tight now?” he wondered aloud. “Are you worried that I’m going to make a move?” He stepped closer, so that she was trapped between the counter at her back and him at her front. “Or that I’m not?”
The pulse at the base of her jaw was racing, and her slightly parted lips—so tempting and soft—were mere inches from his own. Her gaze went to his mouth, lingered, as if she wanted his kiss as much as he wanted to kiss her.
Then she turned her head away and shifted to the left, sidestepping both him and his question.
“What’s going on, Katelyn?” he pressed, because it was obvious that something was.
She nibbled on her bottom lip as she pried the lid off the ice-cream container.
“Katelyn?” he prompted, ignoring the caution lights that were flashing in his head.
Finally, she looked at him, her big blue eyes filled with wariness and worry. “I’m pregnant.”
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