He was attractive. Alarmingly so. A big guy, but quite well distributed. He obviously worked out, but she could tell he didn't take it too far. He wore a light blue oxford shirt rolled up at the elbows, and carried off his charcoal-gray dress pants verrry nicely.

Hayley swallowed and zoomed in a little further. An appealing little scarred area stood out on his left forearm...he had a bit of a tan going, dark brown hair cut short around the neck and sides but not too short on top. And he was sweating, of course, although in his case it didn't seem gross.

By the time Hayley looked up into his honey-colored...no, "honey-colored" was too feminine. They were closer to amber. By the time Hayley looked up into his amber-colored eyes, her only coherent thought was how glad she was that she'd opted for a dressier look today. She sported her new black strappy sandals, a delightful, flippy little black three-quarter-length skirt, and a black spaghetti strap tank. And she'd had her faux-messy cropped haircut highlighted just last Saturday. It made her feel a little more confident.

"I'm Lt. Grant Hutchinson, a police detective with the San Francisco Police Department. I know this is a difficult time, but I need to ask you some questions about Fred Leary," he said. And then he looked down her body. Literally, his gaze moved straight down from head to toe.

Hayley leaned back against the refrigerator because she knew she was blushing and she needed something cool against her skin.

He looked away, apparently entranced by the espresso machine on the far counter, and repeated, "Um, Miss Smith?"

Nothing to be nervous about, Hayley. He's shy! How sweet. She could draw him from his shell, perhaps. "Call me Hayley."

"Um." He turned his face toward her again, looked her right in the eyes, and meaningfully lifted one gorgeous, perfect eyebrow.

Much later, Hayley would try to blame everything on this moment, that eyebrow. Or maybe it was the way he lifted his finger slightly and crooked it at her and quickly dropped his hand back down as if startled by his own boldness.

"Grant." Hayley said his name quietly. In a nice, encouraging sort of way. She didn't want to scare him or anything.

He looked confused. He raised his finger again with a little nod.

And with a kind of swamping horror, Hayley realized that it wasn't a beckoning sort of finger; it was a pointing sort of finger. Pointing downward. Specifically at her. She swallowed hard and looked down.

Her skirt was plastered up her thigh, the condensation from the refrigerator literally gluing the fabric partially above the waist. How attractive. Not. I think I'm going to kill myself now. Fred and I can share a plot.

"Right. Thanks." She shoved her skirt down and cleared her throat. Smiling brightly, she added, "I'll just be at my desk when you're ready with your questions." Then she ran past him out the door.

For the next ten minutes Hayley sat in her cube in semiparalysis, with her head in her hands. Eventually Grant came into the cube, slid the plastic door shut, and leaned against the desktop. Since the cubes didn't have ceilings and Hayley could still hear everything going on with the medical examiner next door, it seemed like a funny thing to do.