Chapter 10

10

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

T he interior of Cost Club is a vast expanse of Goliath shelves and wide aisles teeming with shoppers.

Bright fluorescent lights illuminate the space, casting a stark glow over everything from towering stacks of canned goods to the miles of refrigerated sections in the back brimming with fresh produce and dairy.

The place is packed to the hilt, but it's relatively quiet with each shopper minding their own carts as they drift from gigantic aisle to aisle.

"Organized chaos at its finest," I say as families and individuals alike navigate their carts like seasoned pilots in pursuit of the best bulk deals. "I've been a few times, but I'm not a member."

"Feel free to throw a few things into the cart." Jack doesn't hesitate to do the same as we stride by a wall of new sale items and he picks up a three-pack of men's deodorant.

"Thank you for that. And thank you for the offer as well." I give a satisfied smile at the tiny dig and he scowls my way.

We spot Owen up ahead and make our way in that direction, staying far enough behind for him to not suspect a thing.

In the meantime, groups of women, from young moms to seasoned shoppers, shoot glances at Jack, whispering and smirking among themselves as if he were the object of the latest gossip. More like the object of their desire. Come to find out, it's not an uncommon occurrence and I can't really blame the women.

Jack is handsome to a fault. I might have even done a double take had I run across him in the wild prior to working with him.

It's clear the women of the world find the tall, fit agent with his crooked smile and sharp blue eyes more intriguing than the latest sale on organic blueberries.

We push our cart down the bustling aisles, trailing well behind Owen Marcus, who seems more focused on his grocery list than on any potential stalkers.

And interestingly enough, Owen doesn't seem to want to miss a thing, as evidenced by his prolonged detour through housewares.

I'll admit, the trio of large baskets for less than twenty bucks garnered my attention.

We finally make it to the produce where I spot a bag of lemons, and once I see the price, I stop cold.

"Five bucks for five pounds?" I pick up a bag and admire the almost too-perfect- to-be-true yellow wonders. "I'm starting to think going to the local grocery store is a rip-off. I squeeze one of these babies in my water every day."

"Get it." Jack motions for me to fling it into the cart.

"No, that's okay. This is a lot of lemons to have on hand despite the fact."

"We can split it," he says, picking up a bag and landing it in the cart. "In fact, I'd be more than happy to split anything you want. Half the time I don't have enough room to store the stuff."

"Deal," I say, and soon we're scooping up oranges, apples, chocolate and blueberry muffins—still far too many despite the fact we'll be dividing them up between us.

We follow Owen over to the meat department where Jack and I each buy our own rotisserie chickens, a block of Irish organic cheese, and a trio of lunch meats, along with minimally proceeded turkey breast that looks slow-roasted to perfection.

" Ooh ," I say, reaching over and grabbing a box of spinach quiche, three pies deep.

"Spinach pie?" He lifts a brow my way as if he's questioning my sanity.

"It's a quiche," I correct him. "And this one happens to boast being made with Gruyere cheese. That's an insane combination if you ask me."

"It sounds insane, all right."

"My mother used to make them all the time. It's basically high-end comfort food. I'll make it soon, and when I do, Buddy and I will invite you over. Sort of a reward for letting me mooch off your membership."

"Sounds more like a punishment."

We move along and Jack tosses a family-sized bag of frozen pizza into our cart with a triumphant grin.

"Planning to feed an army, or just prepping for a lonely agent's weekend?" I ask, watching him eye a package of frozen burger patties as long as my arm.

"An FBI agent's gotta eat," he retorts. "And I prefer to think of it as stocking up on essential food groups. Bread, cheese, more bread."

A laugh strums from me as we turn down the next aisle.

Owen is just a few feet ahead, inspecting labels on canned goods with the intensity of a man on a mission.

"Looks like our suspect has a thing for organic beans," I whisper. "Should we be concerned?"

Jack shakes his head, adding a two-pack of peanut butter to our growing collection. "Only if he starts hurling them at us. Keep your eyes peeled for that."

We continue our leisurely pursuit of blending in with the other shoppers and scouring the deals. Every so often, Jack makes a show of debating the merits of various snacks before tossing them into the cart. And considering that most of those snacks are laden with chocolate, I can't wait to get my fair share of them. We reach the pet section and Jack pauses in front of the dog food, his expression suddenly serious.

"I think Buddy would appreciate some gourmet kibble," he says, genuinely contemplating the options.

"Hey, the kibble I give him is gourmet," I say, lacking any confidence to back up my claim. All I know is that the dog pictured on the bag looks happy to be salivating in front of a bowl filled with the award-winning nuggets.

"Hate to break it to you, but it's sawdust repackaged," he says, landing the forty-pound bag on the rungs under the basket. "Besides, he's been such a good sport for putting up with our crazy hours. And you know he works just as hard as we do."

"Harder, some might argue."

"And that's exactly why I'm throwing in a bed for him," he says, picking up a sherpa lined circular dog bed large enough for me to curl up in and it eats up most of the real estate of our cart.

"That's really nice of you," I say. "But he sleeps in bed with me at night. I hardly think that's going to change. And besides my bed, he prefers the couch. He's not even going to know what that thing is."

"Are you kidding? He knows everything. The dog is practically a Rhodes Scholar."

"I'm not shipping him to Oxford."

"It's tough when your own mother won't support your scholarly dreams. But not to worry, Buddy. I've got your back." He pats the overgrown pillow. "He still deserves his own space. Think of this as his fluffy little man cave. Besides, you never know, you might find three's a crowd and want to give Buddy the boot."

" Three's a crowd?" I muse.

"Yeah, you know, in case I land in it one day. I may not want Buddy kicking me in the night."

"You are not landing in my bed," I inform him with a laugh. "And if you did, it would be me kicking you—as in kicking you out."

His brows dip in the middle and, I'll admit, it's a stunning look, but I'm far from sharing a pillow with him.

"You'd let me in if we were going undercover," he teases back. Good grief, I hope he's teasing. "And I do mean undercover."

"Not true," I say without hesitation.

"You wouldn't kiss me if we had to pose as a couple?"

"Maybe," I say, thinking about it. "But only if it was do or die, and it would totally be one of those make-believe Hollywood kisses."

"And what's that?"

"You know, lips hardly touching, bodies hardly touching, and for goodness' sake, no tongue."

"Make-believe Hollywood kisses." He shakes his head as he mutters. "What movies have you been watching? Because Hollywood really knows how to lay it on. There's nothing but soft porn out there."

"I am definitely not watching the same things you are."

Owen picks up the pace, and before we know it, he's meandering down the coffee aisle, pausing in front of the whole bean selection.

"Hang back," I whisper as I speed ahead.

I walk just to the left of our suspect, under the guise of inspecting some specialty java placed strategically near him. I lean forward, pretending to read the labels, but my eyes are scanning his cart—a random assortment of high-end meats and some organic vegetables.

He eats well.

"Excuse me," I say as my arm crosses in front of him, reaching out to grab a bag.

"Not a problem," he says, sounding like the perfect gentleman, and I can feel him sizing me up.

"Would you look at that?" He gives a playful chuckle. Owen is tall, built like a refrigerator, baby-faced, but with reddish-brown facial scruff that matches his short hair. He's dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and I can practically see the cologne radiating off of him like fumes. "Couldn't help but notice we seem to have picked up the same coffee," he says with a touch of pride. "You must have excellent taste."

I force a laugh. Coming across as friendly isn't exactly my strong suit.

"Or maybe it's you who has excellent taste," I reply, keeping the conversation light while I take a quick inventory of his cart's contents once again. Nothing out of the ordinary, or at least not yet, just a bachelor's diet by the looks of it. But I'm sure Lydia wouldn't protest eating any of that stuff if need be.

"Maybe I could show you a few other selections you might like?" Owen says, edging a bit closer and growing miles bolder.

"Maybe another time," I say. "I'm actually here with someone." I nod down the aisle in the event he was wondering. My badge is growing hot and heavy in my purse and I'm tempted to pull it.

He glances back to see Jack inspecting a jug of chocolate-flavored powder that promises to transform a glass of milk into a chocolaty wonder. I drank it by the gallon in third grade.

And into the cart, it goes.

"Ah, I see." Owen ticks his head wistfully. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were with your husband."

"Oh, he's not my husband," I say a little too quickly for me to mitigate the words coming from my mouth. "I'm very much single." Something tells me I'll need to be to get anywhere with this guy.

His lips curve with a greasy smile. "Well, good news, so am I. In fact, I'm not sure if you're busy later, but there's a bar called the Oasis in Denver. They're hosting a speed dating thing there tonight. I'm actually the sponsor."

"Really?" I hike a brow, amused.

"Yup, tonight at eight. If you stop by, I'll be there. Of course, I'm participating, too. It goes with the territory on my end. I sell beverages for a living." He wrinkles his nose without extrapolating.

Way to keep the mystery alive.

"You might just see me there."

"I hope I do." He waggles his brows before pushing his cart right out of the aisle, and Jack pushes our cart this way, looking vexed.

"Why did you have to tell him you were single?" he growls as if he took personal offense to my relationship status.

"Because it's not a lie," I tell him, dropping the gourmet coffee beans into the cart.

Jack nods, resigned to the fact. "So tonight at eight?"

"It's a date and I won't be late."

"You won't be alone either," he says. "I'm coming with you."