She was wearing a wool overcoat, the design of it somehow cinched it at her tiny waist which had the effect of throwing her curves into visible relief. It had a shawl collar around the neck and the coat was cream, its color highlighting the dark auburn of her hair. A light blue, knit cap was pulled down to her ears and, with the color of the coat, this accentuated her hair, displaying far more prominently an alluring feature that couldn’t be missed. She had on dark brown leather low-heeled boots and he knew she was wearing a dress or skirt under that coat because that was what she normally wore but also because all he could see on her legs up to the hem of her coat were the boots.
Her makeup, as he noted it normally was, was subtle. There simply to highlight her natural prettiness, not falsify it.
Her wounded, crystal blue eyes were wide.
“Do you want me to make a reservation at Reynaldo’s?” his mother asked.
“Yeah, Ma,” he answered. “That’d be good. Now I gotta go.”
This time, hearing his voice sound took Faye out of her freeze and she didn’t hesitate to turn right around and hurry out the door.
“But, Chace –” his mother began.
Instinctively and definitely stupidly, Chace moved swiftly to the door. “Something just came up, Ma. Really, gotta go.”
He heard his mother sigh then, “Okay, honey. See you weekend after next.”
“Weekend after next. Love you, Ma, ‘bye.”
He heard her good-bye but vaguely. He was out the door and moving quickly down the sidewalk behind a quickly moving Faye Goodknight.
And he had no idea why.
Except he still felt the pain of seeing the hurt he’d given her stamped in her features and he had to do something about it.
He closed on her and called, “Miz Goodknight.”
She hastened her step.
Chace went faster.
“Miz Goodknight.”
She started run-walking.
His long strides no match for her, Chace easily caught up to her, wrapped his fingers around her bicep and halted her, turning her to him at the same time he turned his body into her and said softly, “Faye.”
Her beautiful, injured eyes lifted to him, wounding him as sure as if she’d shoved a knife in his gut.
But her shoulders straightened. She was calling up the backbone.
“Good morning, Detective Keaton,” she greeted, voice not cold but her usual quiet and now, unlike that night in Harker’s Wood, definitely distant.
He kept his hand on her as he murmured distractedly, “Chace.”
He said no more mostly because he had no f**king clue what to say.
She didn’t speak.
This carried on awhile.
Then she spoke. “As you’re detaining me,” she slightly moved the arm he was holding likely to point out he was still holding it and she didn’t want that, “is there something I can help you with?”
“Yeah, actually,” he replied, “I’d like to apologize for the other night.”
“Apology accepted,” she stated instantly. Then, again slightly shifting her arm in his hold, making her point that she wanted him to let her go, she finished, “Now you have a nice day.”
He didn’t let her go.