Grilling the Subject Read Online Free PDF

are you staring at?” Rhett set Tigger down and gripped my shoulders. “Jenna.”
    â€œI . . . I thought I saw someone dart behind that tree.” I pointed at a massive sycamore near my aunt’s house.
    â€œI’ll go check.”
    â€œNo, don’t.” Pinpoints of angst nicked my eyelids. “It must have been a squirrel or something.”
    â€œYou said
someone
, not something.
Someone
is not a squirrel.”
    He had a point. There were no yetis or bears in our neck of the woods, either.
    â€œMaybe a large section of newspaper blew off the beach and disappeared behind the tree,” I said. “I’m sure my eyes were playing tricks on me. I’m just jittery because . . .” I told Rhett about the edgy feelings I’d awakened with on Sunday morning and about seeing the driver of the Prius later in the day. “Something’s got hold of me. You know how it is.”
    He shook his head. He didn’t know how it felt to be afraid.
Ah, men.
They were lucky. Living as a single woman in San Francisco hadn’t done me any favors in the trust department. After an incident the first year I was at Taylor & Squibb, I never went into a parking garage alone anymore. I rarely got on an elevator by myself.
    â€œTigger’s not jumpy,” I said, “and he’s usually my barometer that something is amiss. Maybe it’s the weather. It’s crisper than normal. Almost electric.” I grabbed my things and kissed Tigger good-bye.
    As we drove down the driveway, Rhett slowed past the sycamore. No one was hiding behind it. My fear meltedaway, and I made a mental note to set up an eye doctor appointment . . . and possibly a visit with a therapist.
    When we arrived at Fisherman’s Village, we jogged upstairs to the second floor. The line for The Cameo was surprisingly long, weaving back and forth along the landing like a snake. Obviously, we weren’t the only people who were looking forward to watching an old-fashioned classic movie on the big screen at the bargain deal of two for the price of one.
    â€œJenna!” a man ahead of us in line called.
    â€œWho’s that?” Rhett asked.
    â€œShane Maverick,” I said.
    Shane beckoned us to join him and Emily Hawthorne, who was, indeed,
very
pregnant. In her lace blouse and long skirt, she reminded me of a woman who belonged in a Brontë novel: pearly white skin, large innocent eyes, and long curly locks hanging delicately in front of her shoulders.
    â€œJenna,” Shane said, “so great to see you.”
    â€œYou, too,” I replied. He looked even better than he had when I’d run into him at the gym a few months ago, and at that time I had thought he was as fit as an Olympic athlete. Now, he resembled the Marlboro Man. Maybe it was the cowboy hat; maybe it was the jeans and plaid shirt and deep tan. His hair was all one color, too—no gray streak—which made him look younger than his forty-five years.
    Shane gave me a hug and then thrust a hand at Rhett while flashing an easy smile. “Shane Maverick.”
    â€œRhett Jackson.”
    â€œNice to meet you, dude.”
    They shook heartily, but I couldn’t help notice that they were sizing each other up.
    â€œShane and I used to work at the advertising agency together,” I said to Rhett. “Now he’s managing the Wild West Extravaganza, which has relocated its offices here.”
    â€œCongratulations,” Rhett said.
    Shane grinned. “Life is full of changes. Speaking ofwhich, Jenna, you know my fiancée, Emily, don’t you?” He threw an arm around Emily and squeezed her shoulder.
    â€œSure do,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
    â€œGood.” Emily had a dainty, childlike voice.
    â€œWhat are you having?” I asked. “A boy or a girl, or is it a secret?”
    â€œA boy.” She instinctively touched her pregnant belly and