I nodded. Spring was months away. Where would I be by then? I honestly didn’t know.

“Don’t look now,” Mac said, “but we’ve got company.”

Every hair on my freckled forearms lifted, and it took an embarrassingly long time for me to realize Mac was grinning over my shoulder. I turned to see yet another man striding across the restaurant, this one carrying two mugs of coffee from the self-serve counter near the entrance.

I hadn’t seen much of Tim Wellington in recent weeks, with my suspension and the therapy sessions I was required to complete, plus the fact that I was actively avoiding him. The sight of him trying not to dribble coffee onto the floor made me smile, but the corners of my mouth quickly fell back into place. Tim wasn’t alone.

“Sheriff.” He shook McIntyre’s hand. Then, “Long time, Shane.”

The nickname, a reference to an old western movie, was starting to grow on me. I considered grumbling about it anyway, for old times’ sake, but my gaze slid to the woman by his side. I didn’t recognize her. She was in her early thirties like Tim and had a small face and perfectly round eyes, not unlike those of a creepy Victorian doll. She accepted one of the coffees from Tim and their hands brushed for an instant before she curled hers around the mug. Eight a.m. on a Saturday morning’s a strange time for a date, I thought. Tim was keeping a respectable distance, but his cheeks were pinker than usual, and there was stubble on his jaw. Not a date, then. Just breakfast.

Well, well. Good for Tim.

As happy as I was to see him, I wasn’t happy to see him now. I’d intended to deal with my demons and arrive back at the station the detective I was before Tim, before Carson, and most importantly, before Blake Bram. I didn’t want any of my investigators asking me how I was doing, especially not this one. Especially not in front of a doll-faced woman and Mac.

“This is Kelsea,” Tim said. The woman rattled off a greeting, commented on the unseasonal weather. A local, like Tim. When she was done, Tim turned to me. “Looks like you need a refill. I’ll come with.”

I eyeballed his fresh pour, fragrant and steaming in his hand, and the woman he was about to abandon. “Right,” I said, getting to my feet.

We left Kelsea with Mac and made our way into the anteroom, where we found the coffee bar unoccupied. Tim, who hadn’t thought to leave his overfilled mug behind, cursed under his breath as the hot drink sloshed onto his wrist.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, grabbing a wad of paper napkins as I reached past the thermal carafe of decaf for the good stuff. “That’s looking better.”

He was talking about my hand. The burns I’d sustained during my last case, caused by a pot of boiling water and a troubled teenage girl, were healing well. Before I could make a joke about swearing off cooking for life, Tim said, “How are things?”