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"Barely," he says, and the word leaves his mouth before he can stop it. His jaw stiffens slightly, as though he hadn't intended to say it aloud.

I grin. "There he is."

His eyes narrow. "Who?"

"The person hiding underneath all the professionalism."

"I am professional."

"You look professional," I agree. "There's a difference."

His lips twitches again. Victory — a small one, but it still counts. Then an idea forms, quick and certain, and I pull away from the counter before I can talk myself out of it.

"No," Brock says.

"I haven't said anything." I mutter.

"You have that look."

"What look?"

"The one that means you're about to become difficult."

I point at him. "That's profiling."

"It's experience." He folds his arms. "Whatever you're thinking, the answer is no."

"I'm joining you today."

"No."

"I wasn't asking." I reply swiftly.

"You were."

I glare at him and he stares right back. Unfortunately, he's very good at it. "I'm the victim here," I say.

"That's not how investigations work."

"It should be." I lean forward. "You need me out there with you right now,"

His eyebrows rise — that reaction alone is worth the argument. "Need you?"

"Nobody knows this bakery better than I do," I press. "Whoever is doing this knows my business. I'll notice things you won't." That gets his attention; I can see it immediately. The investigator in him is listening now, not the inspector. Different animal entirely.

Brock exhales slowly. "I'll regret this."

"Definitely," I agree.

His eyes close briefly. "Fine."

That was easier than expected, and apparently my surprise is obvious.

"Don't look so shocked," he mutters.

"I was prepared to argue longer."

"I'm aware."