Frankie choked on her coffee. “You have got to be kidding me.” She wiped her eyes and tried not to guffaw. “What kind of name is that? Roman?”
“It’s Italian, actually.”
The baritone behind her had her jumping to her feet. She sloshed coffee down the front of her black T-shirt, the hot liquid scalding her taut stomach as she spun around.
Wow. The man standing there had to be a mirage. No one was this good-looking in real life. Heck, not even the heroes in her weekly TV binges came close. It was as if a travel brochure had fallen open long enough for him to walk off the pages, bringing with him all the dark-haired, dark-eyed, muscular intensity found in the men of the Mediterranean. Normally she preferred her men clean cut, but she had to admit, the thick, dark hair and five o’clock shadow notched him up another fifty points on the testosterone meter.
She had to inch her chin up to get the full picture of him and felt her face flush in feminine appreciation of the six-foot-plus frame, wide, sturdy chest and biceps she’d bet could lift a small building. “I should probably call him my hero behind his back,” she muttered under her breath.
“Shut it, Frankie.” Bud elbowed her as he passed. “Roman. Good to put a face to the name and voice. You’re early. We weren’t expecting you until Friday.”
“I’m not one to sit around waiting, so I got into my car and drove on out.” Roman accepted the handshake offered before his gaze flicked to Frankie.
“Ah, right. Roman Salazar, this is Captain Frankie Bettencourt.”
“Pleasure,” Frankie lied as she shook his hand. The earth didn’t move. Completely. But the warmth that shot through her palm certainly tilted her off her axis.
“Pleasure’s mine, Captain. And for the record, I know my way around homemade pasta and bocce ball tournaments, in case it ever comes up.”
Smooth, she thought. Smooth and confident. Not a good combination in her experience.
Roman lounged against the door frame and slipped his hand into the pocket of jeans she’d swear had been tailor-made for him.
“Well, welcome to Butterfly Harbor,” Bud said when Frankie didn’t respond. “I was just about to fill Frankie in on your—”
“Pedigree.” Unable to stop all the snark, Frankie leaned against the edge of Bud’s desk and drank more coffee. “Where are you from, Salazar?”
“Orlando. By way of Boston and before that Chicago.”
Frankie rolled her head to the side to look at Bud. “What is it about Chicagoans that they’re ending up out here? He’s what? Number four? First Luke, then Jason, then Xander?”
“Jason has a restaurant in Chicago, but he’s from New York,” Bud corrected her. “Sorry—” He returned his attention to Roman. “She has a bit of a point. Luke Saxon, the town sheriff, arrived a few years back. He’s settled down now with a local girl, Holly Campbell. Just had twins this past May. Boy and a girl. And of course there’s their older boy, Simon. With affection, we call him our town supervillain. Smartest kid you’re going to find out here.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Charlie Bradley could give him a run for his money,” Frankie argued. “Jason Corwin’s our town celebrity chef.” Frankie figured Roman might as well get used to the small-town tendency for gossip and information overload. “Owns and operates Flutterby Dreams over at the Flutterby Inn. You might also catch his food truck bustling around.”
Roman blinked as if processing the information. “And Xander would be?”
“Xander Costas.”
“The architect?” Roman’s eyebrows disappeared under his too-long hair. “His family’s pretty well known back east. My grandfather and his worked on a project together, restoring one of Chicago’s historic firehouses. I’ll have to be sure to introduce myself.”
“You’ll find him up at the construction site for the butterfly sanctuary or at Duskywing Farm. And before you ask, yes—” Frankie gave him the widest smile she could muster “—you will be tested later on all these names.”
“I’m excellent at tests.” That glint in his eye only brightened.
Frankie bit the inside of her cheek. She’d just bet he was.
“So, who feels like giving me the nickel tour?” Roman moved in a way that made the leather of his jacket creak. “I’d like to hit the ground running come Monday morning.”
“Wow. And your predecessor’s not even out the door yet. Happy holidays. Nice.”
“Frankie—” Bud warned again.
“No, she’s right.” Roman nodded. “I apologize. New job and all. Anxious to get started, get everything set in my mind, see how things operate around here.”