20 KentKent inhaled the mingled scents of bacon, sausage, grilled peppers, and onions. His mouth watered and his fingers closed around the heavy silver handle of his fork.
“Plate’s hot,” the slender waitress warned. Her coal-black hair was swept into a topknot that accented her Eurasian features.
She wore a long-sleeved white shirt with dark slacks, her outfit protected from neck to knees by a black cotton apron.
A careful woman, he concluded.
As if to confirm his judgment, she added, “Don’t burn yourself.”
“No reason to be concerned.” Kent used his cop-voice. “I’m trained to handle dangerous situations.”
Grinning, she gestured at his blue uniform shirt. “I can see that, Trooper. Your English muffins will be ready in just a minute.”
After topping off his coffee mug, she waved toward
