“Does, uh, that mean I’ll be able to sleep in my own bed tonight?” She tried for a casual, conversational manner—and came close to pulling it off.

“I don’t see why not. We’ll be around the area for a few hours talking to neighbors, searching for any evidence the delivery person left behind—but you can go back to your usual routine.”

Usual routine? After finding a pseudo bomb on her front porch?

Ha.

The chances of a routine Friday night were zero to none.

“Or not.”

She blinked at his postscript. “What?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Reading people’s expressions is a handy skill in my business. You’re thinking normal won’t be in your vocabulary for a while.”

“I guess a poker-playing career isn’t in my future.”

“Let’s just say winning a fortune at blackjack in Vegas probably shouldn’t be on your bucket list.”

“Never was, never will be. Cycling through Tuscany, however—different story.”

“Now that sounds appealing.” His gaze locked on hers, warming for an instant before he stood abruptly. “Will you be okay here by yourself?”

“Uh . . . sure. I’m used to going solo.”

He hesitated, as if debating whether to respond—but in the end walked away.

Easing back against the wooden slats of the bench, Eve watched him until he disappeared behind a fire truck.

Interesting man.

Intriguing, even.

The kind of man who could be an enjoyable companion on her wish-list cycling trip to Italy.

Perhaps even the kind of man who could be an enjoyable companion period.

Now wouldn’t that be fun to explore?

Except Brent Lange was here in an official capacity, and she was just one of many victims he dealt with every day. The odds of their paths crossing again after this incident was put to rest were about as low as the odds had been that her bomb was real.

She sighed.

Too bad.

Because confident as she was in her ability to stand up to intimidation, it would be comforting to have someone like Brent in her corner if by chance today’s prank morphed into a much more ominous threat.

“Honey, I’m home.” Meg Jackson dropped her purse on the kitchen table and continued toward the booming TV in the living room.

Steve glared at her from his overstuffed chair as she entered. “Why didn’t you call and tell me about this?” Muting the sound, he waved a hand toward the screen, where video footage of Eve’s scary afternoon was front and center on the evening news.

“Doug didn’t tell me until five—and I was anxious to get home.” Summoning up a smile, she continued toward her husband of eighteen months, trying to settle the flutter in her stomach. She should have called. Given how negative he was about her job, it was a no-brainer he’d be upset about today’s incident.