It’s after ten when I arrive at the farm. I’m preoccupied with the case, the conversations and suppositions of the day. Thoughts of work evaporate when I spot Tomasetti’s Tahoe parked in its usual spot. Anticipation swells in my chest. It seems like days since I last saw him. In reality it’s been less than twenty-four hours, but suddenly I can’t wait to see him. I park beside his vehicle, shut down the engine, and get out. It’s raining again, so I grab my umbrella from the backseat and hightail it to the house.

I open the door and step into the brightly lit kitchen. Tomasetti is sitting at the table, his laptop open in front of him. The room smells of spaghetti and the bowl of potpourri I keep on the console table in the hall.

He looks up from his computer as I shake the rain from my coat. “Hey,” he says, rising.

“Hi.” I hang my coat on the hook, but not before I notice the tumbler of whiskey on the table beside his laptop.

He goes to the cupboard and pulls out the bottle of cabernet we opened the day before. He pours a generous amount into a glass and hands it to me. “You look tired,” he says.

I take the drink. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Tomasetti.”

“In that case, first things first.” Taking the glass from me, he sets it on the counter, then raises his hands to either side of my face and kisses me.

Even after living with him for almost six months, this kind of intimacy still feels foreign and new. It moves me and I lean into him, my legs seeming to melt beneath me.

After a moment, he pulls back and hands me the wine. “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

He turns to the stove and removes the lid from a small saucepan. “Leftovers okay?”

“You’re not trying to make up for leaving without a word this morning and avoiding me all day, are you?” I ask.

He looks at me over his shoulder and grins. “I thought I’d try.”

“It’s working.” I walk to the stove and look into the saucepan to see that he kept spaghetti warm for me. “Smells great.”

“Have a seat.”

I take my glass to the table and sit across from where he was sitting and sip the wine. It’s dark and rich and leaves my tongue with a happy aftertaste.

Tomasetti places a plate of spaghetti, French bread, and a small salad in front of me. “So how’s the case going?” he asks as he takes the chair across from me.

I give him the highlights, ending with a recap of my conversation with Blue Branson.

“You think he’s involved with the murder?” he asks.

“I don’t think so, but he’s hiding something.”

“Protecting someone?”

“Maybe,” I tell him.