“I’ve been busy,” I said. “Work and my social life leave me with about four hours to sleep if I’m lucky. Life’s good.” Great—like he wouldn’t see through my lonely, desperate, fake-cheerful routine. “How have you been?”

“Busy chasing assholes in Porsches, drug mules, idiots with no taillights and eating bank candy. We did have a chicken truck burst into flames the other day and that was exciting. Almost called KFC to pick up the whole barbecue before the fire guys showed up.”

“That’s horrible, Rick.”

“Actually, the fire was out before one feather was singed. I even talked softly to the chickens to calm them down.”

“You are my hero.” I paused. “I had no idea you were Trooper of the Year and all that stuff.”

“It was a slow year with no other likely candidates. I did what any Boy Scout would’ve done, and a reporter happened to see it. Good PR for the Patrol. You been Googling me?” I was pretty sure I heard a smug laugh.

“Just my usual is-this-guy-an-ax-murderer research. Girl’s gotta be careful.”

“Especially one as beautiful as you,” he answered. “So, are you buying me a rib dinner or not? I know a fantastic place in Oxford, and it’s on the way to something I’d like to show you. Saturday, about five, maybe? Wear jeans and bring extra clothes.”

“Are the ribs that messy?”

“No, we’re going on a small adventure. I want you to be prepared.” I could practically see him grinning through the phone. “You don’t work Sundays, right?”

“Are you stalking me?”

“Only in the most professional manner. I’ll pick you up at your apartment Saturday at five. I have to run. Be good.” Be good? He hung up before I could say another word.

I had three days to lose five pounds, get my hair highlighted, de-pimple my chin, clean the apartment, and find some cute jeans. Somehow I’d fit in a chapter or two of Violet’s book, which was truly starting to intrigue me. I had read and re-read what I’d written and found it as appealing as most novels I checked out of the library. Research had shown me the odds of getting it published were about like getting struck by lightning while standing in a basement thirty miles from a thunderstorm, but maybe Mr. Sobel’s niece would show me first-time-writer mercy and offer advice.

Saturday at 4:58 p.m. I was peeking through the living room blinds when a shiny black BMW pulled up next to Ruby. “Jeez Louise. Flashy car for a cop,” I told Halle. “Maybe Rick takes bribes from drug dealers. Maybe this is a huge mistake.” I swiped my sweaty palms on the overpriced jeans I’d squeezed into as the cat sensed a stranger and darted off to hide under the bed. Rick’s knock on the door matched the thudding of my heart.