Fifty-two

“WHAT’S in the bag?”

Mike was nuzzling my neck again, only this time he was the one who smelled of soap. All freshly showered and shaved, he curled an arm around me as I stood at the kitchen counter, unpacking morning treats from downstairs—

“I’ve got hot cups of Breakfast blend and Blueberry Cream Cheese Scones with Vanilla-Lemon Glaze.”

“I was hungry for something else,” he growled in my ear. “But now I’m thinking—”

“Let’s eat,” we agreed together.

The day was humming along nicely. I’d opened the coffeehouse to a slow but steady stream of our neighborhood regulars. Then Dante and one of our part-timers arrived, and I left the front to check inventory for our big event this evening.

I also checked my phone for contact from Joy, but there was nothing. So I set aside my mother-hen worrying. (It wasn’t easy.)

“Ahhh . . .” Mike’s sounds of bliss as he chewed and sipped brought my attention back to our little breakfast, and I dug into my own.

The warm scones were tender and flaky with bits of lemon zest in the vanilla glaze perfectly balancing the sweetness of the glazing sugar and bursting blueberries.

I licked my fingers, enjoying the pastry as much as the rare sight of Mike out of suit and tie. His long legs, which always seemed to go on forever in my cozy Village kitchen, were clad in comfy NYPD sweatpants while his still-damp hair rained tiny droplets on his worn gray T-shirt. He looked homey and relaxed—and sexy, too, with his broad shoulders squaring off the tee’s thin material and his biceps straining the short sleeves.

“Thanks for letting me sleep in,” he said.

“I could see you needed it.”

“Yeah, yesterday was a long one. But for good reason . . .”

As Mike paused to drain his cup, I was about to tell him that I’d had a long day, too, and was anticipating another. But before I could bring him up to speed with our Barista APB or our big event tonight, he dropped his own news . . .

“I’m going to London.”

“London, England?!”

He nodded. “For a week.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake? You had a mad impulse to watch the Changing of the Guard and eat fish and chips?”

“Not quite, although I’d never say no to fish and chips . . .”

According to Mike, a senior officer in the Joint Operations group was scheduled to give a presentation at an NCA conference. But the officer’s wife went into early labor.

“Most of yesterday, I was briefing the man for his presentation,” he said. “Now I’ve been ordered to deliver it.”

“Wait, back up,” I said. “What is NCA?”

“The National Crime Agency. It’s a UK law enforcement entity that focuses on organized crime, including drug trafficking. They’ve got more data on Styx than we do—it’s been in the UK much longer. We still have no leads on how it’s being trafficked into this country. So we’re going to share information. The DEA is sending an agent, as well.”

“When are you leaving?” I asked.

“Soon . . .” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to pack and get to JFK by three. The conference begins early Monday, and I’ll need to get settled in at the hotel.”

“Call me when you can, okay?”

His blue eyes smiled. “At night, when I’m all alone in that big hotel bed, you bet I’ll be calling.”

“Don’t forget, you’ll be five hours ahead.”

“Yeah, you’re right . . .” He rubbed his jaw in thought. “How do you feel about planning a few late afternoon breaks this week? You know, for a sexy bubble bath or change of clothes in your bedroom?”

I raised an eyebrow. “With the phone camera pointed in my direction, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

“We’ll see . . .”