It was more a light drizzle, really—regular Oregon rain—but it was still wet and dark, and he wore a gray hoodie that obscured his face. A few moments later he slid open the door from the back patio, a flurry of wind and rain following him inside. “Almost done,” he said, picking up his own glass. “Don’t overcook mine. Please, God,” September said. “Not a chance.” He smiled and she lifted one brow because the last time he’d barbecued they’d gotten distracted and her steak had turned into the proverbial shoe leather. Jake didn’t mind his meat well done, but September felt medium rare could maybe have been left on the grill too long. “So, tell me what Pauline Kirby said,” he prompted her. “Not until after you finish the steaks.” “Huh.” September didn’t really want to talk about the voracious reporter who’d called her just as she was getting ready to leave work.
