Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,20

speak to him anymore.

But he’d been wrong. The land itself was a potent reminder that there had been beauty among the ruins of his childhood. Happiness that even misery hadn’t destroyed.

And there had been Ivy Hawkins, who’d understood him without having to be told what he was feeling. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed having someone in his life he could trust that way.

Ivy parked the Jeep in the driveway, leaving room for him to pull up parallel with her. She waited on the driveway for him to get out of the truck, greeting him with an oddly anxious smile.

“This is it.” She looked at the house and back at him.

“I like it,” he said truthfully.

Her pleased look made his chest ache a little. “It’s not very big, but I have a spare room with a fold-out bed you can use. Are you hungry? I’m starving.” She started down the walkway to the house at a brisk clip, forcing him to move quickly to catch up at the door.

Inside, the house was surprisingly cozy for a place belonging to an unmarried cop who lived alone. The front door opened into a small den decorated in warm shades of brown, green and amber. Despite the almost utilitarian lines of the furnishings, feminine touches surprised the eye here and there—a pair of lacy throw pillows in a deep shade of crimson tossed on each end of the brown leather sofa, a dreamy impressionist landscape hanging over the river-stone hearth, a pair of fuzzy yellow slippers lying at the foot of the overstuffed armchair near the window.

He felt Ivy’s gaze on his face, as if she was waiting for his reaction. He looked at her and smiled just to see her smile back at him. “I like it inside, too. It feels like a home.”

Her cheeks went pink as she bent to pick up a magazine that lay open on the coffee table. He caught a glimpse of a colorful garden on the front of the magazine before she deposited it into a wood rack by the sofa, where it joined a small pile of other magazines. “I’m not sure I spend enough time here for it to really feel like a home,” she admitted, unbuckling her shoulder holster as she crossed to a tall, four-drawer chest standing near an open archway that seemed to lead into a hall. She withdrew the Smith & Wesson from the holster, unlocked a drawer that contained a gun case and locked the pistol inside.

“You don’t keep a gun nearby at all times?” Sutton’s own pistol felt like an appendage to him. He’d learned never to get caught without it. Fortunately, Tennessee honored his Alabama concealed carry license. He wouldn’t have wanted to come back to Bitterwood unarmed.

The Calhouns had made too many enemies over the past few generations for him to walk around unprotected.

“That’s my work-issued sidearm,” she answered with a little grin that made his gut clench with pure male hunger. She unlocked the second drawer down and pulled out another case. Inside lay a compact Glock 26. She checked the chamber and the magazine, then held it up to show Sutton. “This is my personal weapon.”

She put the Glock in an unattached ankle holster. “You hungry?”

“Yeah, but mostly I’m cold and wet,” he admitted. “I could use a shower and change of clothes before food.”

Her gaze lifted slowly to meet his, mysteries roiling in those dark brown eyes. “There’s a bathroom down the hall.” She pointed him in the right direction. “The spare room is right next to that. It’s a little cluttered but the fold-out sofa is pretty comfortable. I’ll get you some sheets when you’re ready to bunk down.”

By the time he had showered and changed into warmer clothes, Ivy had somehow managed to do the same, for when he found her in the kitchen, looking through her pantry, her hair was twisted into a towel turban. The jeans were gone, replaced by a pair of black yoga pants under a long-sleeved UT-Chattanooga T-shirt. She smelled like green apples.

“I’m thinking a cup of nice hot soup and maybe a grilled cheese sandwich?” She looked over her shoulder at him for his input.

“Sounds great,” he agreed. “I could make the sandwiches while you heat up the soup. Just point me to a pan.”

They worked in efficient silence for the next few moments, and as the rumbling of his stomach began to overcome the hot-and-bothered feeling he’d gotten at the sight and