Page 30 of The Darkest Chase

Something melancholy about him, like a human echo of Still Lake itself.

I don’t realize I’m straight-up staring until our eyes meet.

My heart lurches—and then tries to stop its frantic beating when he smiles.

Yes, he sort of smiled at me a few times this morning. But it was a curt, professional cop smile meant to put me at ease.

This is a small, reserved smile, too. But more honest, more real.

It also suits him better when he’s so quiet with his feelings and shows only as much as he needs to.

I try to smile back, but my lips won’t work. I can’t even remember to blink as he makes his way closer.

“Miss Grey,” he says, drawing into earshot.

“Hi!” I’m already mentally kicking myself.

Seriously, why am I freezing up?

To distract myself, I look at the dog because it’s easier than looking at him.

“I heard you had a dog,” I say, offering my fingers for the German Shepherd to sniff. “What’s his name?”

“Rolf,” he answers. “He’s a K-9 retiree from New York. He makes good company.”

“Oh, wow. I bet he does.” I can’t help smiling while Rolf stretches his neck, tongue lolling, and sniffs my hand.

But his ears flip back with a disgruntled sound and he turns his face away, the slow wag of his tail completely stopping.

“I’m sorry?” I pull my hand back.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ainsley says. “He’s old, spoiled, and set in his ways. He doesn’t warm up to new people easily. Always takes the guys on the police crew a hundred treats to bribe him into feeling civil.”

I smile again, wondering if he’s talking about the dog or himself.

With a nervous laugh, I look away and run a hand through my hair.

“It probably doesn’t help that I still smell like varnish no matter how much I shower. That stuff’s potent, and aren’t their noses pretty sensitive? He’s a drug dog, right?”

“He was,” he says.

Then nothing.

I look him over carefully. He’s staring out over the water, his face pensive. Rolf settles at his feet, quietly leaning against his legs.

“So, what did you want to talk about, Officer Ainsley?”

“Micah,” he clips, his lips firm. “I’m not on the job right now.”

I huff out a breath. “Wait. I’m supposed to call you Micah, but I’m still Miss Grey? I’m not on the clock, either.”

“Using a respectful title has nothing to do with your job.” He’s so still, so quiet, the only motion is his thumb rubbing the leash looped around his cragged knuckles. “You can call me Mr. Ainsley, if you’d like.”

“It just feels stiff. I’m fine with calling you Micah if you are. You’re the one who won’t say my name.”

“Talia,” Officer Ainsley—Micah—growls.

Oh God.