Keagan watched from inside a friend’s barbershop, across the street and north of the coffee shop.
He needed a haircut anyway.
Even from half a block’s distance he could tell that Jasmyn’s friend Quinn had not exaggerated about the resemblance. If no one noticed that Manda Smith was about five foot four and not five two, she could use Jasmyn’s ID and board a plane, no questions asked.
The women met on the sidewalk. They seemed to hesitate before speaking, before shaking hands. Then they went into the coffee shop, Manda Smith leading the way. He guessed she was the take-charge type. Assertive. A woman who drove big rigs up and down the coast would require a good dose of moxie.
He ran his hand down his face. Prejudging Manda Smith was uncalled for. He had done further research that indicated she was an upstanding citizen.
He knew the names of her high school and college, that her degree was in business. He knew her political persuasion, the church she married in, her husband’s history, their kids’ names and birth dates. He knew their address.
He knew the maiden name of Carlos Anibal’s widow and that she was sixty-five, lived in a guest house on the Smiths’ property, still helped with the business, and belonged to a Portuguese community club. He knew when the parents of Carlos Anibal had died.
He knew Anibal Cargo was a reputable firm. No one involved with it had a criminal record.
So what was his problem?
Jasmyn Albright.
He could have done without the hug at the airport, without the hours spent giving her a safe space to unravel. Being with her, up close, watching her go from discombobulated to calm to resolved had ratcheted up his attraction to her.
He hadn’t even wanted to tell her goodbye, but it was obvious he was the one to escort her to the airport. One thing led to another. He responded. Despite what sweet, impassioned Inez insisted, Keagan was not a knight in shining armor, waiting in the wings to rescue damsels in distress.
Later, he and Liv researched Manda Smith. After that, he researched some more. Not to rescue Jasmyn, but simply because he liked to solve puzzles.
He rubbed his forehead. Yeah, right.
But it was true. As a kid, he was obsessed with puzzles of all kinds: words, numbers, jigsaw, mechanical, why the neighbor grew strange plants in his basement. Even during his crazy teen years, he did not lose interest. His grandfather finally outfitted a corner in the garage where he could be up at all hours and not disturb his grandmother, a light sleeper.
As an adult, he submitted to officers who ensured he excelled at the whole business of puzzle solving: assess a situation and resolve it. As a DEA agent, his life and others’ depended on that ability.
It wasn’t something that left one’s system like the flu.
He smirked to himself now. The phrase was Amy’s, her response to his anger about his inability to slow his brain that ran too often in overdrive.
And what would she tell him in this situation? How would the woman he had loved so deeply—and who surprisingly had loved him so deeply in return—how would she explain his infatuation with Jasmyn?
With a start he realized that was an easy one.
Jasmyn is one of the good ones, caring and giving no matter how crazy her world gets. And you know what, Sean? That’s perfectly all right. Six years is long enough to grieve. She would huff and roll her eyes. Get a life already.
The past faded from his mind. Through the coffee shop window he saw the indistinct figures of Jasmyn and the twin stranger.
He’d been unprepared for her. He’d been blindsided. Why her? Why now? What if this newfound family did nothing but propel her back to the Midwest? What if she bought that restaurant and got on with life?
What if… He locked his jaw, willing the questions to stop.
Heart puzzles were the worst.