Page 53 of Reckless
“Jazz mention to you yet why she tried to investigate Bass’s shooting on her own?”
“Not yet.” They’d literally had zero conversations about work or anything remotely related to any hot-button issue. All of that was going to have to wait. “Anything come up on his killing?”
When Jazz had disappeared, all efforts to find Bass’s killer had been put aside.
“No, not really. Serena put together a sketch based on the descriptions of the kitchen workers, but there were so many contradictions about them, she doesn’t feel comfortable with it.”
That wasn’t a surprise. Even though the guy had worked at the restaurant for almost two months, the descriptions given to them by the people who’d worked side by side with the killer had been blurry at best. He’d somehow subtly changed his appearance numerous times, but not so much that those alterations had been glaringly obvious. Xavier wasn’t one to admire a cold-blooded killer, but he had to give this guy props for being so crafty.
“Yeah,” Xavier said, “even his height and weight fluctuated. That’s a helluva talent.”
“Indeed. The man’s a professional. Finding him might even be harder than getting to the root of Wren itself.”
The sound of a timer going off caught his attention. “Gotta go. My bread is done.”
“You’re baking bread?”
“Yeah…maybe.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
The call clicked off on Ash’s guffaw of laughter. Grumbling to himself, Xavier raced to the kitchen to see just how bad this evening’s meal was going to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Being as discreet as possible, Jazz spit the burnt piece of food into her napkin. She wasn’t quite sure what it had been, but it no longer resembled anything edible. She knew there were bad cooks in this world—she was one of them. Xavier Quinn had taken it to a new level.
“Sorry, I think I overcooked the roast beef.”
So that’s what it was supposed to be.
“You told me once that you weren’t much of a cook.”
A chagrined expression appeared on his face. “Yeah…sorry. That hasn’t changed.”
“I’m not much of one either, but maybe, between the two of us, we can work together and see what happens.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s learn how to cook together.”
Humor gleamed in his eyes. “I promise I’ll get better. You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I have rested. I’m feeling tons better.”
“It’s only been a few days. Give it a few more, and then we’ll see.”
“But—”
“Seriously, Jazz. You’re recovering from three bullet wounds, dehydration, and food deprivation. Not to mention the psychological trauma you went through. I’m not letting you work until you’ve regained some of your strength.”
“You’re not letting me? As far as I know, you’re not my boss.”
“No, I’m not your boss. I’m your partner and someone who cares about you a helluva lot more than you seem to care about yourself.”
“I know what my strengths are and my limits.”