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Scott Hunter

With nothing but trees and farms for miles, a shiver runs down my spine. In single-digit temperatures, I exit my Explorer. My eyes stinging, my breath’s wispy smoke freezes instantly to my face. Icy snow crunches under my dress shoes as I trot to the US Customs and Border Protection sign. A stone’s throw away from Canada, I knock on the cement building’s thick green door.

No one answers. Too damn cold to wait, I turn the handle.

When I push, frigid metal hinges creak, a blast of heat warms my face, then a soprano voice calls out, “Give me a sec. Be right wid’cha.”

Border Agent Kelly O’Malley’s cute accent has a twist of French Canadian mixed with classic New England.

“No hurry.” Smiling, I pull off my heavy gloves, unbutton my coat, and tug off my hat. As I shake off the melting snow, a white cat jumps atop a file cabinet, daring me to stare back.

“Hey there.” With my hand forward, I squat on my heels, closing my eyes. Before long, four paws plunk down on the wood, followed by a wet nose against my knuckles.

“Well, that’s a new one. Monstro hates everyone.” Her footsteps closer, I lift my lids.

Whoa, steady Hunt. Ignoring the blood rushing below my belt, I reboot my brain.

Part pixie, the siren tilts her head, no doubt waiting for my jaw to snap closed.

My reaction is not my fault. Nothing in my FBI file had prepared me for those vibrant green eyes, pert freckled nose, and shy smile.

Standing, I hold out my hand. “Jack Gurion, Vermont Fish and Wildlife. Chief Patrol Agent Robert Dante is expecting me.” The lie floats effortlessly off my tongue.

“He’s not here.” Despite my wide-open grin, she steps back. Eyes guarded, she slowly retracts her arm until her fingers brush against her sidearm’s handle.

Why the vigilance? The techies assured me my cover was tight. Wiggling my left digits, I slip my right hand toward my lapel.

“Do you mind if I take out my wallet?”

Her nod causes loose curls to escape from her ponytail. After they tumble around her face, an image of kissing her soft pink lips flips across my consciousness.

Insta-lust set aside, I pull out my ID card. Once I place it on her neat desk, she purses her lips, then scans my six-foot-two inches as if studying some weird insect.

“Department of the Interior, huh?” Her scrunched face is a clear tell.

She’s not buying the ruse, but why? Does my team have a leak?

I walk behind a wooden table near a coffee pot shelf, stifling a yawn. “Would you mind if I make myself a cup of joe? I had to leave Burlington in the middle of the night.”

After a curt bob of her head, I place a mug underneath the spigot, a pod in the machine, then press the start button—liquid slurps. Inhaling the delicious dark roast, I lower into a rickety antique chair.

“Meowph.” Sudden pressure on my lap is followed by purring. Elf-green eyes continue their assessment—the woman’s, not the cat’s.

“Forgive me, but your outfit doesn’t scream outdoorsy.” As she eases into a seat across from me, I shrug.

She’s right. Having no time to shop for flannel, I chose one of my warmer wool suits. “Listen, I’d love to talk fashion, but I’m on the clock. The guys in Swanson told me I would find your boss here. Was I misinformed?”

A honk outside makes her jump up. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Slipping into her thick jacket, she races toward a 1980s F-150, which just stopped at the candy-striped barrier. A quick chat later, she studies a senior gent’s passport before raising the gate and allowing the truck to enter the States.

She stomps her feet on the mat, then plops behind her desk. “I’m sorry you drove all this way for nothing, Mr. Gurion. Like I said, the chief’s not here.”

Those sly green eyes don’t fool me. She may not be lying, but she’s holding back intel. My team lead, FBI Special Agent Batt Hornsby, told me to connect with the man directly, precisely what I intend to do.

Arms crossed, I lean back in the creaky chair. “Sorry, I can’t leave without speaking to him.”

Her cheeks brighten into a deep red. “Well, you can’t. My boss has been ah… out on assignment. We haven’t been in contact for a couple of days.”

“Is that normal?” It’s my turn to stare. Mine is way scarier.

While she averts her gaze, the furball jumps off my lap. Tail in the air, he saunters to his bowl, paws it twice, then turns toward me.

“Mrumph?”

The poor guy’s thirsty. What kind of pet mommy is she?

After I fill the container and set it down, his pink tongue slurps greedily.

Mimicking my scowl, she points at the cat. “I filled his damn bucket this morning.”

“What? Did I say anything?” At my scoff, her frown deepens.

“No, but you might as well have. The little shit tips it over every five minutes. After, he expects me to drop everything to refill it.”

“Meeeow?” Monstro hops on the countertop, knocks over a package of coffee stirrers, then zooms under the desk.

“See what I mean?” She kneels to pick up the mess and feeling a bit guilty, I help.

Sharing this small act lessens the tension, so I use it to my advantage. “Back to your chief, Dante—I called twice last week to confirm our meeting. He assured me he would be here.”

“Like I said before, he’s not, plus I don’t expect him back anytime soon. I’m his acting deputy. Why not tell me what you need?”

Ah, sweetheart. There’s a whole lot you could help me with, but none of it work-related.