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holstered in a gun belt, low around his hips.
    Jamie slouched down now, next to A.J. on the couch, putting his feet up on Alison’s desk.
    “She’s not exactly the wicked witch spinster professor we imagined her to be, is she?” he asked.
    “Nope,” A.J. answered.
    “Hmm,” Jamie said. “She’s kind of … mysteriously attractive. I can’t quite figure out what it is about her. I suppose, if you go for interesting-looking women …”
    A.J. didn’t say another word. He didn’t shift in his seat, didn’t move, barely even breathed.
    And yet, somehow Jamie turned and looked at him, his blue eyes perceptive and astute as he nodded. “You see it, too. That whatever-it-is. I can tell by the way you look at her. You like her,” he concluded. “Well, well, well. First day in Arizona and Mr. Ice Cube’s already starting to thaw? I’ll be damned. Which is not something I say lightly anymore.”
    A.J. just shook his head.
    Jamie whistled softly through his teeth. “So … what’s the plan? Ask her to dinner before you tell her that you’re not the actor who’s playing me in this movie? Save the bombshell that her book is a fictional piece of crap with nary a fact within its pages for dessert?”
    A.J. laughed in despair. Yeah, that would work.
    And Alison hung up her phone. “What’s so funny?” she asked, eager to be let in on the joke.
    “Um,” he said, because she was smiling at him again, and he was an idiot.
    It was idiotic that he let himself get tongue-tied, that he didn’t simply ignore the way his pulse sped up when this woman met his eyes.
    Because, really. What did he think was going to happen here?
    Even if she got past the news that he’d come here to explode every so-called historical “fact” that she believed about Silas Quinn, there was the little matter of Jamie.
    Hi, my name’s A.J. and I like fresh spinach salad and slow-cooked pot roast, hikes in the mountains in the fresh morning air, classic rock, the Arts and Crafts period for architecture and furniture, the comedies of Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, and oh, yes, long walks on the beach at sunset
while having heart-to-heart talks with the ghost of my long-dead great-grandfather
.
    There was no point in delaying any of this. There was no way to finesse this situation.
    When he ponied up the truth about why he was here in Jubilation, Dr. Alison Carter was going to hate him or dismiss him. Either way, the friendly smiles and sparkling eye contact would cease.
    He took a deep breath, but Alison beat him to the punch. “You know, it just occurred to me that I don’t know your name.”
    “Showtime,” Jamie said, heavy on the
sh
. “You gonna tell her your real name or make something up? I always liked Ferd McGurgle. It’s not one of those names you forget, where you have to stop and think,
Now, who did I say I was again, Tom Smith or Bill Jones …?”
    “Actually,” A.J. said, trying his best to ignore Jamie’s
help
, “you
do
know my name.” He cleared his throat as she looked puzzled, that little ever-present almost-smile ready to expand across her face. He exhaled and just said it. “It’s Gallagher.”
    “Nicely
done.” Jamie applauded. “Good segue, good choice—honesty. Much better than Ferd. I’m proud of you, kid.”
    But Alison was still puzzled, still about to smile, until she realized what he’d said. Her mouth dropped open, but she closed it fast. “Gallagher?” she repeated and the smile was definitely gone. “As in … 
Gallagher?”
    “As in Austin James Gallagher,” A.J. told her with a nod. “I’m A.J., for short. I was named after my great-grandfather.” He lifted her file. “Jamie. He dropped the Austin after he came west. Too many people thought he was from Texas, which kind of pissed him off.” He tried to make a joke. “He’d met a few Texans he didn’t particularly like, so …”
    Silence.
    Yeah.
    Alison was just sitting there behind her desk, gazing at him with