Read Online Murder in the Smokies by Paula Graves - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paula Graves
Ads: Link
change of clothes before food.”
Her gaze lifted slowly to meet his, mysteries roiling in those dark brown eyes. “There’s a bathroom down the hall.” She pointed him in the right direction. “The spare room is right next to that. It’s a little cluttered but the fold-out sofa is pretty comfortable. I’ll get you some sheets when you’re ready to bunk down.”
By the time he had showered and changed into warmer clothes, Ivy had somehow managed to do the same, for when he found her in the kitchen, looking through her pantry, her hair was twisted into a towel turban. The jeans were gone, replaced by a pair of black yoga pants under a long-sleeved UT-Chattanooga T-shirt. She smelled like green apples.
“I’m thinking a cup of nice hot soup and maybe a grilled cheese sandwich?” She looked over her shoulder at him for his input.
“Sounds great,” he agreed. “I could make the sandwiches while you heat up the soup. Just point me to a pan.”
They worked in efficient silence for the next few moments, and as the rumbling of his stomach began to overcome the hot-and-bothered feeling he’d gotten at the sight and smell of a freshly showered Ivy Hawkins, Sutton began to think he might be able to handle all this forced togetherness after all.
For one night, at least.
“I don’t think they’ll find the shooter,” Ivy said a few minutes later as she poured steaming tomato soup into a couple of mugs. “Do you?”
“Probably not,” he agreed. He handed her a plate holding a crispy grilled cheese sandwich. He still hadn’t quite wrapped his mind around who the shooter could be. He’d been in plenty of dangerous hot spots over the past decade or so, made a few enemies, at least in the abstract. But Special Forces operatives toiled mostly in anonymity.
“Do you know anyone who might want you dead?” Ivy sat at the small breakfast nook table and waved at the opposite chair, inviting him to take a seat. She wrapped her hands around the mug of soup, making a contented noise deep in her throat, undermining Sutton’s earlier confidence that his sleepover at Ivy’s would be easier than expected.
“I was just thinking about that,” he admitted. “I’m sure I did things while I was in the army that might earn me some enemies. But none of them ever knew my real name. I was never captured, never had my story written up in a newspaper. I was the mystery man in the civvies and beard—they probably thought I was CIA rather than Special Forces.”
Ivy’s eyes narrowed slightly at his answer, and he wondered what she was thinking. He’d always been pretty good at reading people’s thoughts in their expressions and their body language, but Ivy Hawkins kept her emotions and thoughts well hidden these days. He wondered how much of that particular talent had come as a natural result of covering up for a sexually promiscuous mother with dangerous taste in men. How many lies had she been forced to tell just to keep the Department of Children’s Services away from her door?
He’d told a few lies like that in his day, especially after his mother died. His growing disdain for his father’s con games had been eclipsed only by the fear of getting sucked into the foster care system. He’d known kids in Bitterwood who’d been pulled onto that particular governmental merry-go-round, and he’d promised himself he’d put up with anything Cleve might do as long as he didn’t have to leave home and go live with strangers.
Of course, the first thing he’d done the second he’d left Bitterwood behind was sign up for the army and spend the next months and years putting his life in the hands of strangers who wore the same uniform he did.
“You don’t think it could have anything to do with the murders, do you?” Ivy asked.
“I don’t see how. Not many people even know I’m back in town, much less that I’m investigating April Billings’s murder.”
“Word flies pretty fast in a small town.” She took a sip of
Her gaze lifted slowly to meet his, mysteries roiling in those dark brown eyes. “There’s a bathroom down the hall.” She pointed him in the right direction. “The spare room is right next to that. It’s a little cluttered but the fold-out sofa is pretty comfortable. I’ll get you some sheets when you’re ready to bunk down.”
By the time he had showered and changed into warmer clothes, Ivy had somehow managed to do the same, for when he found her in the kitchen, looking through her pantry, her hair was twisted into a towel turban. The jeans were gone, replaced by a pair of black yoga pants under a long-sleeved UT-Chattanooga T-shirt. She smelled like green apples.
“I’m thinking a cup of nice hot soup and maybe a grilled cheese sandwich?” She looked over her shoulder at him for his input.
“Sounds great,” he agreed. “I could make the sandwiches while you heat up the soup. Just point me to a pan.”
They worked in efficient silence for the next few moments, and as the rumbling of his stomach began to overcome the hot-and-bothered feeling he’d gotten at the sight and smell of a freshly showered Ivy Hawkins, Sutton began to think he might be able to handle all this forced togetherness after all.
For one night, at least.
“I don’t think they’ll find the shooter,” Ivy said a few minutes later as she poured steaming tomato soup into a couple of mugs. “Do you?”
“Probably not,” he agreed. He handed her a plate holding a crispy grilled cheese sandwich. He still hadn’t quite wrapped his mind around who the shooter could be. He’d been in plenty of dangerous hot spots over the past decade or so, made a few enemies, at least in the abstract. But Special Forces operatives toiled mostly in anonymity.
“Do you know anyone who might want you dead?” Ivy sat at the small breakfast nook table and waved at the opposite chair, inviting him to take a seat. She wrapped her hands around the mug of soup, making a contented noise deep in her throat, undermining Sutton’s earlier confidence that his sleepover at Ivy’s would be easier than expected.
“I was just thinking about that,” he admitted. “I’m sure I did things while I was in the army that might earn me some enemies. But none of them ever knew my real name. I was never captured, never had my story written up in a newspaper. I was the mystery man in the civvies and beard—they probably thought I was CIA rather than Special Forces.”
Ivy’s eyes narrowed slightly at his answer, and he wondered what she was thinking. He’d always been pretty good at reading people’s thoughts in their expressions and their body language, but Ivy Hawkins kept her emotions and thoughts well hidden these days. He wondered how much of that particular talent had come as a natural result of covering up for a sexually promiscuous mother with dangerous taste in men. How many lies had she been forced to tell just to keep the Department of Children’s Services away from her door?
He’d told a few lies like that in his day, especially after his mother died. His growing disdain for his father’s con games had been eclipsed only by the fear of getting sucked into the foster care system. He’d known kids in Bitterwood who’d been pulled onto that particular governmental merry-go-round, and he’d promised himself he’d put up with anything Cleve might do as long as he didn’t have to leave home and go live with strangers.
Of course, the first thing he’d done the second he’d left Bitterwood behind was sign up for the army and spend the next months and years putting his life in the hands of strangers who wore the same uniform he did.
“You don’t think it could have anything to do with the murders, do you?” Ivy asked.
“I don’t see how. Not many people even know I’m back in town, much less that I’m investigating April Billings’s murder.”
“Word flies pretty fast in a small town.” She took a sip of
Similar Books
