In the privacy of the kitchen, Brynne set to work. The fry cook was at the dentist and would be back in time for the evening rush. Brynne listened to the low rumble of male voices as she turned the dial on the grill to medium-high, washed her hands and gathered the makings of a deluxe burger—a thick meat pattie from the fridge, then a bowl of sliced onion, a plump tomato, a block of cheese, a slab of bacon.

One of the three hunks started up the jukebox.

Charlie Daniels fiddled his way into “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” and Brynne tapped one foot to the rhythm as the burger sizzled on the grill in front of her. The song was an oldie, but it was still a popular choice among the patrons of Bailey’s, along with a lot of other golden relics.

She added a slice of cheese to the burger, dropped the fries into the basket and lowered them into the bubbling oil, and, against her better judgment, let her thoughts drift back to her time in Boston.

And Clayton.

Clayton “Clay” Nicholls, a detective with the robbery division of Boston PD.

Brynne had met Clay when the gallery she managed had been robbed. Tall and muscular, with sandy-colored hair and a truly disarming smile, he’d caught her attention in that first moment they’d shared and held on to it long after the reports were filed and the investigation had been successfully closed.

Like museums, art galleries were usually targeted by very sophisticated thieves, familiar with state-of-the-art security systems and patient enough to plan their heists for months, if not years, before making a move.

In this case, the perps were young, inexperienced and impulsive.

The pair had been identified and tracked down within a few hours, balaclavas notwithstanding, caught on camera as they lugged armloads of paintings out the back way and piled them—Brynne still winced at the memory—into a rusted-out van with its doors open and its license plate clearly visible.

The plate would have led to an arrest all by itself, but these two, like most petty criminals, were a few trillion gray cells short of a brain. They’d yanked off their balaclavas, in plain sight of the security camera above the back door, high-fived each other in jubilant self-congratulation.

Clay and his team had had them in cuffs before the sun went down.

The stolen artworks had been recovered, expertly restored their former glory and returned to the gallery walls.

Of course Brynne had been relieved and grateful and, when Clay called three days after the incident to ask her out, she’d said yes without hesitation.

They’d gone for coffee on their first date and talked for hours.