so bad about that part of town?”
“Kind of run-down. More crime. The Roost is the type of motel where—” He leaned back in his chair and scrunched his face. “How do I put this delicately?”
“No need. I understand your point.” She lifted a fork, not letting him see that his words troubled her. Not for herself, but for that lonely teen and her baby. “I was a police officer before becoming a private detective. I’m well trained, and like I said, I can take care of myself.”
Sometimes she’d made a mess of things, but she’d survived and grown wiser from the experience. She didn’t need or trust anyone’s protection but her own.
Sliding her fork into the potatoes, she prepared to enjoy what appeared to be a delicious meal. Sawyer, she noted, had yet to begin. She shot him a questioning look. “Something wrong?”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “Grace.”
“Oh.” She lowered her fork and bowed her head but kept one eye on the man across the table, bracing for a major show so everyone in the place would know how devout he was.
Sawyer discreetly murmured a few words followed with “Amen.” As he opened his eyes, she sat back, studying him while battling the slight guilt that she’d been focused on the man instead of the blessing.
When she’d left home, she’d left her faith behind. Not that she’d ever had much to begin with. She wasn’t mad at God or anything like that. She was just...tired of the hassle.
But Sawyer Buchanon didn’t fit her concept of loud, judgmental Christians. Those she knew and understood. This quiet faith, offered up with a smile and courtesy, bewildered her.
“What?”
She shook her head. “Nothing really.”
“I offended you by praying?” Those magnificent eyes were serious but not apologetic. Could a man really have eyelashes that long and black?
“No. Your faith is your business.”
“I take it you’re not a believer?”
“Religion isn’t my thing.”
“Did I mention religion?” He tilted his head in the cutest way.
“Religion. Christianity. Same thing.”
She took up her fork again and tasted a bite of tender roast beef and fought to suppress a moan. She’d always been an auditory eater, and this was seriously delicious.
Sawyer squinted at her, the fork in his left hand paused above the steaming, aromatic food. “Not hardly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Religions are about rules and laws. Christianity is about my personal relationship with Jesus.”
She’d heard that before but all this personal relationship stuff went right over her head. She knew faith didn’t work like that. Her daddy had religion and claimed to be a Christian. She couldn’t see the difference. Do this. Don’t do that. If she stepped out of line, God would get her and she would suffer.
All she knew about faith was that her father twisted Bible verses to control his wife and kids.
If that was Christianity, she didn’t want any part of it. Or any part of another smiling, handsome man who claimed, like Cam had, to be a man of faith.
* * *
Sawyer, quick mind that he was, instantly caught her anti-religion vibe. Somebody or something had turned her off the Lord. To him, and to every Buchanon old enough to think, her reaction was tragic. All the more because he liked her.
Something beneath the surface of the cool, serious PI intrigued him. She was much more than she’d let him see.
Yeah, and he must be sniffing too much sawdust.
Whatever. He’d take Mom’s sage advice and live his faith instead of preaching it.
With that in mind, he shifted easily to her other interesting statement. “How long were you a cop?”
She sipped her tea, and for a second Sawyer thought she would tell him to mind his own business. Again.
She set the glass down and rubbed damp fingers on her napkin. In this heat, the tea glass condensed faster than Campbell’s soup.
“Four years in Paris. Texas, not France.”
Was that the hint of a real smile he spotted dancing around her pretty mouth? Being a naturally happy guy, he couldn’t help offering a smile in response.
Apparently, discussing her job was preferable to talking about God.
“You’ve probably had to say that a million times.”
“At least. Mostly on the phone. People here in Texoma land know the real Paris is in Texas.”
A joke. They were making progress. Pepped him right up. “Did you like being a cop?”
“Loved it. Most of the time.”
“Then why switch careers?”
“Oh, you know.” She shrugged, contemplating a biscuit and a pat of real butter. “Did you always want to be a carpenter?”
Changing topics. Nice diversion. Or was that a cop tactic to dig for info?
“No. When I was six I wanted to be Batman. Still do, but they tell me the job is taken.”
A spark lit her eyes. “Your degree is in business.”
He slapped a hand against his chest, pretending shock. “Are you saying Batman didn’t have a business plan?”
This time she actually smiled. And the result knocked his socks off. He was tempted to look under the table to see if they were still there. Except he was wearing work boots.
“Seriously. Why a business degree if you planned to build things?”
“Dad was a stickler. All of us kids had to at least try college—preferably his alma mater, Tech. I liked college life and stuck around to get a degree.” Mostly because of the good times, but he didn’t tell her that part. “Even if I pound nails for the family company, I’m still a businessman. What about you? Did you attend college?”
He held his breath waiting for the cold shoulder.
“Community college classes in criminal justice and then police academy and some investigation courses. I always knew what I wanted to do.”
“How does one know such a thing? Especially you, being a woman.” He held up both hands. “No insult intended, but you’ve probably taken some flack as a female in a male-dominated field.”
She stiffened up. “I can handle myself.”
“No doubt.” One blast of that arctic stare
