Sweatshirt falling open to reveal one of Mother Nature’s masterpieces, he went out to his rooftop garden. Instead of using his absence to regain her equilibrium, she followed him.

He was pulling up something she at first thought was an onion but then realized was a leek. He looked so much more at home here than he did working the crowd at Spiral. Utterly relaxed. It struck her how much digging in the dirt with those big, competent hands suited him.

“It doesn’t feel right,” she said. “Somebody like you owning a nightclub.”

“I don’t know why you’d say that.”

“Because Farmer Coop was born to plow the fields.”

“That’s Rancher Coop to you. I’m from Oklahoma, remember? And I’ve never been so glad to get out of a place.”

Despite the chilly weather, he was barefoot and still hadn’t zipped his sweatshirt, but the cold didn’t seem to bother him. She glanced over at the cozy nook not far from the French doors: round, slate-topped table; a cushioned chaise wide enough for two.

“Your bio doesn’t say much about your childhood,” she observed. “Only that you grew up on a ranch and lost your mother when you were young.” The same as she had. “It’s as though you barely existed before you started playing for Oklahoma State.”

He’d composted most of the tomato plants, but a few remained, and he pulled off a couple of small tomatoes, popping one into his mouth. “We were tenant ranchers. Just my dad and me. Sixty acres, not all of it good. Some cattle and pigs. Feed corn. He was a Vietnam vet before anybody understood much about PTSD. Sometimes he was okay. Other times, he wasn’t.”

She sensed what was coming next—the alcoholism, the physical abuse. She wished she hadn’t brought up the subject.

But he surprised her. “Dad was a gentle guy—one reason the war was so hard on him. A lot of the time, he couldn’t function—could barely get out of bed—so I had to take over.” He pulled the cover off a pot of herbs he’d been guarding from frost. “I was around seven the first time I drove the truck. I remember sitting on a pile of feed sacks and riggin’ up some blocks so I could reach the pedals.” He laughed, but she didn’t find it all that funny. “There were a couple of winters where I swear I missed more school than I attended.”

“That’s not right.”

He shrugged and gathered up his harvest. “Animals have to be fed and watered, and Dad couldn’t always leave the house.”

“A hard life for a kid.”

“I didn’t know any different.”

She followed him inside. He set what he’d picked next to the sink and turned on the faucet. His sweatpants had fallen so low on his hips, she was glad his back was turned to her. “The first big city I ever visited was Norman,” he said. “I was sixteen, and I thought I’d walked into paradise. Once Dad died, I never looked back.”

She dropped her jacket over the back of a counter stool. “There must be something about rural life you miss, or you wouldn’t have created that amazing garden.”

“I like growing things. Always have.” He tossed some spinach into a stainless-steel colander. “I started out at Oklahoma State with a major in plant and soil science, but then I discovered I’d actually have to go to class. ‘Student athlete’—now there’s an oxymoron.” He splashed water on the spinach and shook the colander. “I love the pace of city life, and as much as I like animals, I didn’t like raising them. Especially pigs.” He cleaned a handful of herbs and laid them on a paper towel. “I can’t tell you how many times those bastards managed to get out of their pen and tear up my vegetable garden. Pigs are the only animal I hate.”

She thought of Oinky. “Pigs are sweet!”

“That’s right. You sleep with one.”

“I don’t sleep with—”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “See how sweet you’d think they are, city girl, if you’d been six years old and had those two-hundred-pound porkers charge you whenever you went into their pen. One slip, and you’re lunch. They’ll eat anything.”

“Well, we eat them, so . . .”

“I’m not saying there isn’t some kind of divine justice at work, but kids and pigs don’t belong together.” He pulled out a chef’s knife. “I still have nightmares about them.”

“Let me get this straight. You, Cooper Graham, five-time first team All-Pro, two-time NFL MVP, are afraid of pigs?”

“Yep.” The blade hit the cutting board.

She laughed, then remembered she wasn’t here to be entertained. “I went to see Dell this morning. Not a single bruise on him.”

“Are you back to this again?”

“Did you know your close pal Keith and his girlfriend Taylor moved out of their place without leaving a forwarding address?”

He pointed the tip of the knife in her general direction. “For the last time. It was a mugging, not some preplanned attack.”

“I’m sure you’d like to think so. Help me sort through it, will you, so I can stop obsessing about it?”

He scraped the back of his hand over the beard scruff on his jaw. “Keith’s a hothead, but the two of us already had it out.”

“That was before Taylor got fired, right?” She located the eggs.

“Staging an ambush isn’t his style.”

“You have more faith in your old pal than I do.” She rummaged for some cheese and found a chunk of imported cheddar.

“While you’re sorting things out . . .” He gazed across the counter at her. She wished he’d pull up his pants. Or zip his sweatshirt. Or go bald. Except he’d still look great.

“Aren’t you overlooking a couple of more obvious villains in your imaginary scenario?” He carried the leeks over to a chopping board. “Starting with that mysterious client who hired you to follow me?”

“If I had any doubts about my former client, don’t you think I would have acted on them?” She located a skillet and cheese grater. “I promise you, my mystery client isn’t a threat.”

“Exactly. Nobody is. It was a random crime. Some thug who was lurking in the alley looking for easy prey.”

She wasn’t getting any more out of him now, and she temporarily backed off. “How are things with Deidre coming along?”