Out of Eden
Out of Eden
Beth Ciotta
Sometimes paradise isn't all it's cracked up to beThat's what I, Kylie McGraw, have discovered since sacrificing my dreams of traveling the world to run the family shoe store. But if I have my way, peaceful Eden, Indiana, is in for a major shake-up….It all began on my birthday, when I got drunk and disorderly all over Eden's hunky new police chief (and my former high school crush), Jack Reynolds. Then I may have, in my Cosmo haze, witnessed a murder in progress. Now I'm almost certain I'm being stalked by the mob, while he-of-the-distracting-abs Jack continues to think I'm nuts. However, there comes a time when a girl has to kick off her sensible shoes (size 7, cushion insoles) and go after what she wants. So if I can just survive long enough to put on my sexy new red heels, that's exactly what I intend to do….
Dear Reader,
Even though I’ve lived the life of an east-coast city girl for almost half of my life, I was born and raised in a small Midwestern town. You know the saying: you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. Or something like that. Personally, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I cherish my small-town roots.
Some of my fondest memories are connected to a town much like Eden—the fictional setting of this book. Although as a teenager I recall I couldn’t wait to get out. I had big dreams! It’s been a wild ride to be sure, but sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if circumstances had kept me tied to that small, old-fashioned town. What of my adventurous spirit? What of my romantic nature?
Join me as I step into Kylie McGraw’s funky shoes and shake things up in a bid to have it all!
Cheers!
Beth
Praise for
Beth Ciotta’s
Chameleon Chronicles series
EVIE EVER AFTER
“Ciotta pulls out all the stops as she follows All About Evie and Everybody Loves Evie with another winner.”
—Booklist
“Ciotta deserves major kudos for creating such an array of memorable characters and such a fun-filled series.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars)
EVERYBODY LOVES EVIE
“Ciotta’s wry humor; sexy, multifaceted characters; and layered plotlines make this a fun spy romp.”
—Booklist
“Everybody loves a skillfully characterized, humorously narrated and undeniably well-plotted novel.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars, Top Pick)
ALL ABOUT EVIE
“All About Evie is an amazing charmer…I look forward to more works, sure to dazzle and entertain, by this wonderfully talented author.”
—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham
“Everything about Ciotta’s latest novel is fabulous: the lovable heroine, the sexy hero, the consistently humorous internal monologue, the smooth narration and the delightfully original plot.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars, Top Pick)
Out of Eden
Beth Ciotta
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to my brother, Bob Miller—a courageous and inspiring spirit. Ride that bull!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is where I get to thank the awesome people who helped give this story life.
Two very special ladies brainstormed and critiqued this tale from beginning to end. Barb Hisle and Cynthia Valero—if I baked, I’d whip you up a lifetime of mouthwatering brownies!
Two other very special ladies provided me with never-ending cyber hugs and support. Mary Stella and Julia Templeton—clinking my cyber champagne glass to yours!
One very special husband put up with my cranky moods and crappy housekeeping when in the throes of deadline hell. Steve Ciotta—are you feeling the love?
One special agent who “gets me” and “champions me.” Amy Moore-Benson—I’m saving a dance, any dance, for you.
One special editor who handled this story and the creator with tender loving care. Keyren Gerlach—you’re one of a kind.
One special soul who bid on a mention in this tale via a donation to an extremely worthy cause. Kerri Waldo—your generous spirit gave a character life. Enjoy!
Countless special individuals at HQN who worked together to create a fantastic package (love my cover!) and to market this story far and wide—my heartfelt gratitude.
Last, but most importantly, a mega-huge, very enthusiastic nod to booksellers, librarians and YOU, the reader. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to share the stories of my heart.
Thank you all!
Out of Eden
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
“YOU ARE A HEEL. A chunky heel. A chunky, boring heel. Please don’t take this personally, but I’m over you.”
“I knew it was a mistake to let you drink cosmopolitans.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re talking to your shoe.”
“I was talking to my shoe. Now I’m talking to you.” Sensible slip-on in one hand, toxic cocktail in the other, Kylie McGraw leaned back against the red vinyl seat of one of the four booths in Boone’s Bar and Grill and frowned across the table at Faye Tyler, two of her—strike that—one of her splendiferous best friends. They’d grown up together in Eden, Indiana—Paradise in the Heartland according to the slogan emblazoned on the green water tower planted on the outskirts of town. Someone had even painted red apples on the elevated tank so that the tower resembled a, you got it, apple tree. This was, after all, Eden, a place where most residents lived out their years because who would want to leave paradise? Except for the occasional thrill-seeker and random oddball. Although sometimes fate intervened and even they stuck around. Kylie and Faye were prime examples.
Kylie sipped her drink and studied her friend, reflecting on how they’d come to this moment.
Faye, who’d wanted to be a rock star, was married with two kids and owned the local bed-and-breakfast.
Kylie, who’d wanted a husband and kids, was single and running a business she should have inherited. Nothing was going according to plan. Even her dream of touring Asia, a dream she’d nurtured since the age of thirteen, seemed doomed. It’s not that her life was horrible—just horribly boring.
This morning she’d woken up another year older, thinking about another year of the same. Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days of ordinary. She’d barely made it through the long, uneventful, dull-as-the-mayor’s-speeches day. Then Faye had picked her up for her birthday celebration and it was official. Kylie had reached the end of her extraordinarily vast and famous patience.
Faye and her slightly blurry twin snapped their fingers two inches from Kylie’s face. “Earth to McGraw. Are you zoning or comatose?”
Kylie adjusted her black oval glasses and blinked away the double image, conceding cosmopolitans packed a mighty punch. Either that or Boone had screwed up the ingredients. Possible, since he’d referred to a mix recipe and his reading glasses were forever perched on top of his balding head. “Okay. Maybe I am a teensy bit tipsy, but I am not, absolutely not drunk. And even if I was—” she grappled for a righteous excuse “—it is my birthday.”
“I’m not saying you aren’t entitled to cut loose,” Faye said, nursing a frosty mug of Budweiser. “It’s just that you always drink beer.”
“Exactly!” Kylie jabbed her shoe in the air to emphasize her point. “I always drink beer.”
Faye sighed. “I have no idea what that means.”
“It means I can’t take it anymore.”
“Define it?”
“The predictability. The routine. The mundane. The run-of-the-mill, unremarkable, habitual sameness—”
“I get the picture.”
“Today is my birthday.”
“September 15. Same day every year.”
“And every year we spend my birthday together.”
“Since you turned twelve, yes. We’ve yet to miss a celebration, which goes to show how much I love you. I could be home watching MTV.”
“You see my point.”
“Not really.”
“Same ol’, same ol’.”
Faye shrugged, smiled. “Not following.”
“Every year we celebrate my birthday the same way. Pizza King. Movie. And since we turned twenty-one, Boone’s Bar and Grill.”
“Except we skipped the movie this time and came straight to Boone’s,” she said with a frown. “It’s 7:00 p.m. We’re the only ones here aside from a few guys throwing back happy hour brewskies and you’re already half tanked.”
Kylie scrunched her nose. “I heard that mobster flick’s more violent than The Godfather and The Departed combined. Did you really want to see it?”
“Not really. But since the Bixley only runs one feature, it’s not like we had a choice. We could have closed our eyes during the gory parts.”
“We would’ve missed three-quarters of the movie!”
“That’s not the point! We always celebrate your birthday the same way. Pizza. Movie. Boone’s. It’s tradition.”
“It’s boring.” Maybe it was the alcohol, but Kylie could swear the curls of Faye’s bleached hair drooped along with her smile. “Not you,” she clarified, “tradition.”
She glanced at her friend’s manicured fingernails. Tonight they were metallic blue. Tomorrow they could be vivid orange or neon pink. Sometimes she even adorned them with decals and rhinestones. She was nearly as creative with her hairstyles, although she changed the shade every other month rather than every other day. Her thrift shop wardrobe ranged from 1960s Annette Funicello to 1990s Madonna. “You,” Kylie said with sincere admiration, “are the Gwen Stefani of Eden.”
Faye tucked her shoulder-length platinum curls behind her ears and quirked a thinly tweezed, meticulously penciled brow. “I take back the scathing remark I mentally slung your way.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Kylie was not so adventurous with her appearance. Her wardrobe was casual. Loose-fitting clothes in muted, earthy tones. Minimal makeup and accessories. She came from the less-is-more camp. She wasn’t sexy or funky or feminine. She was…sensible.
She was also miserable.
She set aside her right shoe—the left was still on her foot—and wrangled her natural blah-boring brown, overly thick, overly long hair into a loosely knotted ponytail. “It’s hot in here.”
“Blame it on the cosmos or your heated rant,” Faye said. “It’s the same as always—comfortable. Boone keeps the thermostat set at sixty-eight year round. You know that.”
Kylie wanted to scream at yet another example of predictability. Instead, she propped her elbow on the table, footwear in hand. “My life is like this shoe. Sensible. This town is like this shoe. Practical.”
“Hello? Your family’s motto? Practical shoes for practical people. It’s written on the plaque hanging behind the cashier counter.”
Kylie narrowed her eyes. “That plaque is so gone. In fact, I’m going to redecorate the entire store,” she said on a whim. “Bright colors. Maybe even pink. Pepto-Bismol pink with banana-yellow trim. Acrylic racks. Leopard seat cushions. Art posters splashed with funky period high heels. I saw this Andy Warhol print on the Internet. Diamond Dust Shoes. Weird, but fun.”
“You know me,” Faye said. “I’m all for kitschy. But that’s radical. If your mom and grandma were here—”
“One would applaud my vision. The other would nix it.” She didn’t know which woman would take what stance. She just knew they’d take opposing views. They bickered constantly and Kylie was forever playing mediator. She’d been given a short reprieve since they were currently enjoying (or not) the Alaskan cruise Grandma McGraw had won at the church’s silent auction, but they’d be back. “I’m bypassing the debate and making an executive decision as the store’s manager.”
“Without consulting Spenser?”
Kylie bristled. When her treasure hunting brother had been presented with an opportunity to host a cable series on the Explorer Channel, she hadn’t thought twice about taking full responsibility and running McGraw’s Shoe Store.
A: Because she loved Spenser to pieces.
B: Unlike her brother, she had an actual interest in shoes and the business as a whole.
It’s just that she hadn’t expected to be in charge for so long without an extended break.
Closing the store for a month was not an option, and she was too territorial to trust the business to a nonfamily member. Leaving the store in the hands of her mom and grandma was unthinkable. They’d kill each other. Or the business. Or both.
Last month when she’d talked to Spenser, he’d said he’d be coming home after he finished a shoot in Egypt, which meant any day now. She’d intended to discuss her dream trip then. In person. Except this morning, when he’d called to wish her happy birthday, he’d explained that he and his cameraman had finally obtained permission to visit Pitcairn—the secluded island inhabited by the ancestors of Fletcher Christian and the other mutineers of the Bounty.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Kitten,” he’d said.
They were all once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.
“Just a few more weeks,” he’d said.
Which in Spenser-speak meant a few more months, maybe years.
Okay. That was overdramatic. But as sure as Kylie opened the store every day, Tuesday through Saturday at 9:00 a.m., he’d be broadening his horizons while hers flat-lined. “I know the store’s in Spenser’s name,” she grumbled, “but he saddled me with the responsibility.”
“Temporarily,” Faye said. “Although I admit his idea of ‘temporary’ differs from most folks. Still, if I recall, you’re supposed to run things status quo. Knowing your brother, I don’t think he’d be keen on pink walls and weird posters.”
“Spenser can kiss my—”
“Ashe sent this over.” Wanda, Boone’s wife, who usually manned the kitchen whipping up her locally famous kick-butt chicken wings, seasoned mozzarella sticks and other assorted yummies, was currently working the floor due to a server shortage. She set another cosmo on the table. “Be warned, the silver-tongued dog paid Boone for a double shot of vodka.”
“Happy birthday, Kylie,” Ashe called from his bar stool.
He probably thought that winking thing was sexy. Smarmy was more like it. “Thanks.” She saluted the cocky car dealer with a dismissive smile. Ashe Davis had been trying to score with her since her almost-fiancé, make that ex-almost-fiancé, fled paradise last year. At no point in time had she suggested he had a snowball’s chance in hell, but the man was persistent. Handsome and successful, thirty-six and never married, he was considered by some the perfect catch. Only thus far he’d proved too slippery for any of the eligible women in Eden and even a few of the not-so-eligible. With Ashe it was all about the hunt. Once he bagged his prey, he lost interest. If Kylie wanted a brief, hot fling, he’d be the perfect choice. That is, if she could stomach sleeping with a self-absorbed womanizer.
“He’s thinking tonight’s his lucky night,” Faye said with a roll of her blue-shadowed eyes.
“I’d have to be blitzed out of my gourd to sleep with Ashe.”
“Drink that third cosmo and consider yourself boinked,” said Faye.
Kylie pushed her glasses up her nose and focused, sort of, on Wanda. “Do I appear inebriated to you?”
“I did see you talking to your shoe, dear.”
“That’s because this shoe represents the crux of my discontent.”
“Don’t ask,” Faye said, then sipped her beer.
“Giving you blisters?”
Faye slapped a palm to her forehead, metallic-blue nails glittering.
Ironically, or maybe not, someone punched A12 on the jukebox—Kylie knew that jukebox by heart—flooding the bar with the retro hit: “These Boots Are Made for Walking.” Probably someone was making fun of her current shoe fixation, but she was more inspired than insulted. The music provided the perfect background for her on-the-spot promo.
“These,” she said, displaying the slip-on for Wanda’s keener inspection, “are Aerosoles. Padded insoles. Lightweight and flexible. They do not cause blisters. A smart buy for someone who spends a lot of time on their feet. Someone like you.”
“You introduced me to that brand the last time I was in your shop,” Wanda said while snapping her gum. “Felt like I was walking on clouds, but Boone would have a cow if I paid that kind of money for one pair of shoes.”
“Yes, but they’d last longer than the bargain canvas sneakers you’re wearing, plus they’d offer proper arch support. Given your occupation, don’t your feet deserve better?”
“Stop trying to sell my wife fancy shoes!” Boone shouted over the music while sliding a beer down to Ashe.
“They’re not fancy!” Kylie shouted back. “They’re practical!”
“I’m thinking it’s a birthday crisis,” Faye said to Wanda. “Did you wig out when you turned thirty-two?”
“No.” Gaze fixed on the far wall, she shifted and tapped the empty tray against her thigh in time with the music. She blew a pink bubble and when the bubble burst, spoke her mind. “Although I did go through a funk when I turned thirty-nine. All I could think was, I’m one year from forty. Then of course, I panicked when I turned the big five-oh. Who doesn’t?”
“You’re a size seven, right?” Kylie asked, bulldozing over their talk of a birthday crisis. This wasn’t about age, although it was about another passing year.
“Yes, but—”
“Take them.” Desperate to take action, any action to shake up her life, she shoved her right shoe in Wanda’s free hand, toed off the left and handed that over, as well. “They’re yours.”
“They look brand-new.” The redheaded, gum-cracking woman flipped them over, inspected the soles and heels. “No scuffs, no wear.”
“I’ve worn them three times max.”
“Are you sure you want to give them up?”
“Trust me. I’ve got loads of sensible shoes.”
“Shoes, schmooze!” someone complained. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some chicken wings around here?”
They turned their attention to the grumpy complainant, Max Grogan, the town’s retired fire chief, seventy-two and prickly as a porcupine. Armed with two bottles of beer each, he and his cronies—Jay Jarvis (of J.J.’s Pharmacy and Sundry), Ray Keystone (Keystone Barbershop) and Dick Wilson (the town mayor)—were engrossed in their biweekly game of cards.
“Keep your pants on, Max!” Wanda shouted.
“An image I can do without.” Faye shuddered. “Max’s dingy.”
“You can tell you’ve got a five-year-old at home,” Wanda said with a grin. “Dingy. That’s cute, hon. Thanks for the shoes, Kylie, and Happy Birthday,” she added before leaving.
“I wish.” Kylie downed Ashe’s alcoholic gift in two swallows, then slid aside the empty glass with a snort. “Didn’t taste stronger than the first two.”
“Probably because your taste buds are numb.” Faye pursed her cherry-red lips. “Good thing I’m driving.”
“Wash those hands before you handle my wings!” Max yelled when Wanda disappeared into the kitchen.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing dingy’s Max,” Kylie said, tripping over her words. She pinched the end of her tongue. Also numb. Dang. “I mean Max’s dingy.”
Her friend groaned, then leaned forward. “You have got to be kidding. I know you’ve been sexually deprived since the asshole split town, but you cannot be that desperate for a thrill.”
“Actually, I am.” Although, it was spurred by lack of zest, not sex. She’d felt melancholy and hollow since Spenser’s phone call this morning. She wasn’t a stranger to disappointment, and usually she sucked it up and moved on, doing what she had to do, doing what was best for all involved even if it didn’t feel best for her. But today she hadn’t been able to wrangle the disappointment, and as the day crawled by, depression had given way to desperation and uncharacteristic behavior. She mentally kissed her nurturing, passive self goodbye. Time to take action. Time to shake up the life she was stuck with.
“At least it would cause a sensation,” Kylie said, shocked at the vehemence in her tone. “Can you imagine the headlines?” She mimicked a newspaper barker, shouting her concocted news just as the song ended and the noise level dipped. “Max Grogan drops his pants in protest of tardy service!”
“I ain’t flashing my willy just because you’re bored, Kylie McGraw.” Max grunted as he dealt a new hand. “Kids.”
“Kids who don’t know when they’ve had enough,” said the mayor. “Even worse.”
“Maybe you should switch to soda,” called Mr. Keystone.
“Maybe you should mind your own beeswax,” said Kylie.
J.J. tsked. “She’s usually so nice.”
“Yeah, but tonight she’s fun.” Ashe approached Kylie with another cosmo and a smarmy grin. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”
Kylie dropped her head in her hands with a groan.
“Go away,” Faye said. “And take that evil drink with you.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to please the birthday girl. She said she wants a sensation.”
Kylie banged her fists to the table and frowned up at the man. “I’m talking about something extraordinary, you thick-skulled bozo. People expect you to seduce me and they expect me to fall under your spell. Boone knows Max and gang will show up twice a week to play pinochle and they know they’ll get two-fer beers, kick-butt chicken wings and a comfortable room temperature of sixty-eight. Faye expects me to drink beer because I always drink beer. I expect Faye to whine about her summer guests because she always whines about her summer guests. The majority of Eden will watch Into the Wild Saturday night and gossip about Spenser’s adventures most of Sunday. The Bixley will never expand to a multiplex theater and storefronts on Main Street will always look as they did in 1955, because progress moves at a snail’s pace in Eden! Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens!” Kylie vented, voice slurred and shrill. “You can set your watch by this town. We are boring people!”
“Ooo-kay.” Ashe backed away with the drink, his free hand raised in surrender.
But Kylie wasn’t done. “I bet I know what you’ve been talking about,” she said to Max and friends. “Omertà. That’s all you ever talk about because you’re obsessed. Never mind the mob series is off the air and you’re just now catching up compliments of DVD. That’s typical. Out of step with fashion and the arts. Yup. That’s us! Behind the times. Boring and passé.”
“I came in here for cards and beer,” shouted Max. “Not to be insulted!”
“That does it,” Boone called from behind the bar. “You’re cut off, Kylie.”
She jabbed a finger in his direction. “I knew you’d say that.”
“Predictable,” Faye grumbled.
“Exactly.”
“But wise.” Looking harried, the normally unflappable woman rooted in her oversize purse and pulled out her Orchard House souvenir key chain, available at the front desk for the bargain price of $3.99. “I’m taking you home,” Faye snapped. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
Fueled by years of frustration and three cosmopolitans, Kylie pushed out of the booth, her compact body trembling with Godzilla-like rage. “Well, get used to it. All of you! Because starting tomorrow there’s a new Kylie McGraw in town. I’m going to shake up paradise. Just you wait and see!” She made it halfway across the hardwood floor before her nylon footies slid out from under her and Kylie tumbled butt over heels.
J.J. whistled low. “Wasn’t much of a wait.”
Dazed, she squinted at the sea of faces spinning above her. “Stand still, you guys.”
“We aren’t moving.” Faye stooped and inspected Kylie’s noggin. “How hard did you hit your head? Are you seeing double?”
“Of course she’s seeing double,” Boone said. “She’s shit-faced.”
Swearing, Faye tried to pull her friend to her feet, but Kylie’s arms and legs went all noodly. “I could use some help getting her in my van,” she said to the men.
Ashe, the smug, blurry dog, rubbed his paws together and smiled. “I’ll do it.”
“Touch her, Davis, and I’ll kick your ass.”
It was a voice she hadn’t heard in a long time, but one she’d know anywhere and in any state of mind.
Ashe knew it, too. “Just trying to help.”
Knowing the dog’s true intention, the circle of faces that had been staring at Kylie snorted, then turned their attention to the don’t-challenge-me stranger. Only he wasn’t a stranger. He was one of Eden’s own. Or at least he used to be.
Jack Reynolds. Kylie’s first major crush. Although crush was putting it mildly. Best high school bud of her infuriating brother, this man had made tofu of her teen hormones and ruined her for other men well into her twenties. He’d also broken her heart. Three times, to be exact. Not that he knew it, but that wasn’t the point.
She adjusted her crooked glasses and blinked up at the obsession of her youth. Dark cropped hair. River-blue eyes. A buff body and a warrior’s heart. Hands on denim-clad hips, the most handsome man in the universe ever towered above her. Then again, she was flat out on the floor. She hadn’t seen him in years, and usually her stomach fluttered when she did. Either she was completely over him or the mass quantities of vodka had paralyzed her vital organs along with her limbs. “Heard you were back in town.”
“No secrets in Eden.”
No kidding. That’s why Kylie generally guarded her words. Jack’s sister, on the other hand, vented to anyone who would listen. Jessica Lynn shared Jack’s good looks, but none of his good sense. A self-centered former beauty queen, it was always: Enough about you, let’s talk about me. Hence, most everyone knew about the feud between the estranged siblings, plus some of the particulars. Kylie noted the particular of most interest to her. “So, did you accept the job as Eden’s chief of police?”
“I did.”
She quirked a hopeful grin. “You been in here long, Chief Reynolds?”
“Long enough.”
“Going to arrest me for drunk and disorderly behavior?”
“No.”
“Shoot,” she complained as he hauled her off the floor. That would have brought Spenser running.
Dizzy, she rested her head against Jack’s shoulder, her face nuzzled against his neck.
God, he smelled good.
He tightened his hold and suddenly she was hyperaware of where she was.
In Jack Reynolds’s arms!
That’s when she felt it. Her traitorous stomach fluttered. Or maybe she’d overindulged in pepperoni pizza and cosmopolitans. Yeah, that was it. Crushing on Jack was hazardous to her heart. Better to battle an upset stomach than a doomed attraction. At least she could cure the former with Alka-Seltzer.
CHAPTER TWO
JACK REYNOLDS HAD BEEN in town for four days. Settling into his new home. Meeting with the mayor. Being courted by the town council and snubbed by his sister. Mostly he’d been reacclimating. Even though he’d grown up in Eden, he’d spent a lifetime in New York City, working for the NYPD. Big difference between the Big Apple and Eden. His friend’s little sister didn’t know how good she had it. Unless that was the alcohol talking. Either way, she’d just provided Eden with a week’s worth of gossip.
Jack had never seen the squeaky-clean McGraw sauced. Then again, he’d been avoiding Eden for years. Ever since he’d clocked his sister’s husband on their wedding day. He’d refused to tell Jessie why—effectively severing their dysfunctional relationship. Instead of going to hell, as she’d demanded, he’d returned to NYC. Over the next ten years, he made homicide detective, got married, got divorced, and tempted the devil as he took accelerated risks on the streets.
His wake-up call had come last month in the form of a young woman. A victim of a mob hit. He’d seen a lot of death. He knew how to manage his emotions. How to temper the revulsion and outrage. But how the fuck did you manage numb? Maybe he’d gone to hell after all. Jack Reynolds. Zombie cop. He’d sworn long ago that if he ever stopped feeling, he’d get out.
Easier said than done.
He’d resorted to drowning his misery and indecision in whiskey.
His sister’s crisis had kicked his drunken ass into action. When he’d learned through the grapevine that Jessie’s bastard husband had deserted her and her daughter, he’d sworn off the hard stuff and given his notice. Time to look after his own. The job opening for chief of police had been coincidental. Or maybe it was fate. In the end it had been too convenient to pass up.
Jack made eye contact with every man and woman in Boone’s as he carried Kylie out of the bar. These people, this town, would be his salvation. At least that was the plan. Reconnect with your roots, reconnect with your soul.
As for Kylie…he couldn’t get over how much she’d changed. He’d seen her briefly at her dad’s funeral eleven years ago, but they’d both been preoccupied. Mostly, he remembered her as the gawky, skinny kid who’d shadowed her big brother. Spenser used to run her off with a smile and teasing words. Spense loved his sister, but he was a daredevil and she was an angel. Spunky, but sweet. Kitten, he called her.
Jack tempered a smile, flashing on the episode that made it impossible for him to think of her as Kitten. An episode he’d sworn to a then fourteen-year-old Kylie he would never reveal to her brother. A promise he’d kept.
He glanced down at the woman in his arms, recognizing the big chocolate eyes and thick wild hair and little else. He was keenly aware of her compact curves and her quirky, pretty features. No wonder Ashe was sniffing. Kylie was an interesting package.
She pushed at his shoulder. “I can walk.”
“Whatever you say, Tiger.” He set her on her stocking feet but kept his arm around her waist in case she faltered. She did.
“I don’t get it,” she lamented as he escorted her outside and onto the sidewalk. “I can usually hold my liquor.”
“You usually drink beer,” Faye said.
“I wouldn’t reference the usual just now,” Jack told Kylie’s eccentric friend, though the harm was already done. He shook his head as the youngest McGraw launched into another gripe about routine.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Faye told Jack. “Except the obvious, of course.” The bleached-blonde unlocked the passenger side of a cherry-red minivan.
He’d never imagined the girl who dressed like a retro pop star would drive a minivan. He’d never imagined her as a mother, either, but the toys and books scattered in the backseat along with the Spider-Man sun shield confirmed what he’d heard. Faye Tyler, formally Powell, was married with children. Children she’d named after nineties musical icons.
Jack helped Kylie, who continued to vent, into the van while Faye answered her ringing cell. “What do you mean Sting threw up? Does he have a fever? He what? Where were you when… Yes, I know you can’t stomach vomit, Stan. For crying out loud. Okay. Yes. Yes. Be right there.” She tossed her phone in her purse, looked at her friend, then Jack. “There’s a bit of a crisis at home.”
“Is Sting okay?” Kylie asked, struggling to fasten her seat belt.
“He got into the freezer—don’t ask how—and ate an entire tub of double-fudge ice cream. He’ll be fine, which is more than I can say for my husband when I get hold of him.”
Jack remembered Stan Tyler. A short but solid man, former captain of the high school wrestling team. He didn’t figure Faye could take him, but it would be fun to watch her try, especially since he knew Stan would cut off his hand before raising it to a lady. “You live in the converted carriage house next to the B and B, right?”
“Right,” she said. “And Kylie lives in the opposite direction in the boonies. Do you think—”
“Sure.” He unbuckled the seat belt Kylie had just managed to fasten. “Come on, Tiger.”
“Stop calling me that.” She batted away his hands and glared at him through her oval, plastic-rimmed glasses. No-nonsense glasses, black, like her no-nonsense clothes—cropped, wide-legged pants and a loose-fitting blouse. He thought about the no-nonsense shoes she’d given away and decided she must’ve gone out on the town straight from work. “And I don’t need a ride home. From you, I mean. Max lives out my way.”
“Max plays cards from six until eight,” Faye said as she scurried to the driver’s side. “He’s got another forty-five minutes to go. He’s not going to break away early for anything other than a four-alarm fire.”
“I’ll wait.” Shoeless, Kylie strode unsteadily toward Boone’s Bar and Grill.
“Stop where you are. Hello? Splinters! Broken glass!” Faye snapped, clearly in mother mode. “Jack?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stepped in and hauled Kylie over his shoulder. “Drive safe, Faye. Best to Stan.”
She saluted and pulled away from the curb.
Kylie kicked like a swimmer on speed. “Put me down, darn you!”
He pressed the lock release on his key fob as he reached his Chrysler Aspen. The new SUV would serve as his personal and professional wheels. Though he didn’t have a weak stomach like Stan, he hoped Kylie didn’t hurl on his new leather seats.
“I’m serious, Jack. Don’t make me hurt you.”
He quirked an amused brow. “You wouldn’t assault an officer of the law, would you, Miss McGraw?”
“Would you throw me in jail?”
“No.”
“Dang. What’s a girl gotta do to get tossed in the clink?” she asked as he poured her into the passenger seat.
“Why are you determined to spend the night in jail?”
“Because it would set this birthday apart from all the others.”
“I can think of more pleasurable distinctions,” he said while buckling her in.
She nabbed his shirt collar and got in his face. Her hair tumbled free of the ponytail, overwhelming her delicate face and ramping her sexuality ten points. “You offering up a distinctive pleasure, Jack?”
Kylie, flirting? The kid who got tongue-tied when Spense teased her about boys?
Only she isn’t a kid anymore.
Jack held her sultry gaze, breathed in her flowery scent and cursed an unexpected boner.
“Touch her,” he could hear Spenser saying, “and I’ll kick your ass.”
He wouldn’t blame his friend for trying. He’d threatened to do the same to Ashe Davis, a serial womanizer. This was Kylie, for Christ’s sake. Sweet. Naive. Drunk.
She licked her lush lower lip. “Well?”
“Let’s not go there, Tiger.”
“Too bad for you. I’m a yoga geek.” She raised one brow. “You know what that means.”
“Flexible?”
“Like Gumby.”
The retro green guy that could bend every which way and back.
Christ.
He shut her door, rounded the Aspen and claimed the driver’s seat. “Where am I headed?”
“Route 50, a half a mile past Max’s place. Do you remember where Max lives?”
Flicking on his headlights, he eased onto Adams Street and headed north. “The boonies.” A twenty-minute drive from town, midway between Eden and Kokomo. Corn and soybean fields. Patches of woods. Pig farms. Pastures of grazing cows and horses. Sporadic century-old farmhouses and the occasional contemporary modular home. A wide-open area where the nearest neighbor lived a mile or a half mile away. He shot her a look. “You live alone out there?”
She smirked. “I’m single, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking if you live alone. No roommate?”
“I like my privacy.”
“You could live alone here in town.”
“I like the solitude.”
He couldn’t argue with that. He’d rented a home on the outskirts of town, an old two-story brick house on two acres of land. He, too, liked the idea of solitude. Peace and quiet. The exact opposite of what he’d had when he’d lived in the high-rise in Brooklyn. Difference was he was a trained cop, capable of handling a crisis in any form. She was…Kylie. Kylie all grown up, he thought, raking his gaze over her body.
“I didn’t used to live alone. I used to be almost engaged. Are you shocked?”
“That you were almost engaged? Or that you were living in sin?” he teased.
“Either, or.”
“Neither.”
“His name was Bobby Jones. You wouldn’t know him. He was a free spirit.”
You mean a freeloader. “Spenser mentioned him.” Jack kept in touch with his friend via e-mail. Mostly they talked sports and global affairs, but they always touched on family.
“Spenser never liked Bobby.”
That was putting it mildly, but Jack held his tongue.
“I’m not fond of my brother right now.”
“Because he didn’t approve of Bobby?”
“Because he’s an insensitive boob.”
Jack swallowed a laugh. “Did he forget your birthday?”
“No. He forgot I’m human.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I have dreams, too.”
He started to ask specifics, but she’d slumped against the window, eyes closed. She’d either passed out or clammed up. One thing he’d learned on the force, sometimes the easiest way to learn something was not to ask. He’d let it go for now and she’d talk when she was ready.
He tapped the radio media key, scanned his presets and chose a local classic rock station. The same music he’d listened to in his teens while cruising these back country roads. He grinned at the irony when the speakers rattled with the Cars’ “Shake It Up.” What did Kylie plan on doing, anyway? TP-ing every tree in town? Spraying Eden’s sacred water tower with graffiti? Streaking down the center of Main Street?
A vivid image of the woman sitting next to him exploded in his mind. Ivory flesh and toned curves. It was the second time in less than twenty minutes he’d imagined Kylie McGraw naked. Damn. He shifted in his seat, frowning when “Shake It Up” segued into “Keep Your Hands to Yourself.” Seemed the DJ had coordinated a playlist specifically fitted to Jack’s evening. He lowered the volume and concentrated on the road, not Kylie. The scenery, not Kylie.
She’d changed. He’d changed. But aside from a random new home, this rural area had remained the same. Between the music and landscape, he easily slipped back in time. He soaked in the serenity as if it were a restorative drug.
Ten minutes later he zipped by Max Grogan’s place. The antique fire engine parked in the drive had been in the old man’s possession for more than twenty years. He wondered if Red Rover still ran. He relived a few choice memories regarding that red hook-and-ladder truck while keeping an eye out for Kylie’s house. A half mile past Max’s place, she’d said.
He was about to wake her when he spied a lone mailbox and rolled to a stop. Brightly colored shoes were painted up and down the white post and McGraw was scripted on the box alongside #312. He turned his SUV into the crushed-stone drive that led him into the woods and soon after his headlights flashed on a mobile home. Not only did she live alone in the boonies, she lived in a disaster waiting to happen. Eden was smack in the middle of Tornado Alley. If a twister touched down, she’d be gone with the wind. What was she thinking? Why hadn’t Spenser intervened?
She stirred along with his annoyance. “You found it,” she said in a slurred, husky voice. “Great. Thanks for the lift.” Then her lids drifted back shut and Jack smiled in spite of his unease. Damn, she was cute.
Three seconds later he sidestepped potted flowers and carried the dozing woman toward her green mobile home. Moonlight bathed the tended lawn. The warm evening breeze rustled the leaves of the surrounding oak and maple trees and the bamboo wind chimes hanging from a wrought-iron pole rooted next to a bird feeder. He smelled earth and flowers and perfume. “Kylie?”
“Hmm?”
“Keys.”
“Purse.”
“Where?”
She furrowed her brow.
“Let me guess. You left it at Boone’s.”
“No problem. Mat.”
“Who’s Matt?”
“Doormat. Hey, it’s like a knock-knock joke. Funny,” she said with a loopy smile, then slipped back into la-la Land.
If he hadn’t been pissed about her obvious hiding place for the spare key, he would’ve laughed. The joke wasn’t funny, but she was. “When you’re sober, you and I are going to have a talk about home protection, Tiger.”
He fished the key from under the mat and unlocked the door, no easy feat while juggling a living rag doll. Once inside he flicked on a wall switch, bathing the compact living and dining area in muted light. “Spotless” was his first thought, quickly followed by “sparse.” Minimal furnishings with an oriental flair. He noted the framed prints on the wall. Japanese temples and landscapes. A movie poster of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Huh.
He located her bedroom, wishing she hadn’t mentioned her agility, compliments of yoga. Oriental images of an erotic nature flashed in his mind as he laid her on her black-and-red comforter.
Time to leave.
He took off her glasses and placed them on the nightstand, noted a book on Zen and travel brochures on China and Japan. Spenser had never mentioned her obsession with the Orient. He wondered if he knew. He thought about what she’d said earlier. “I have dreams, too.” After one peek at her living quarters, any idiot could deduce her dreams involved Asia. He filed away the knowledge, slipped into the bathroom and nabbed a glass of water and two aspirin. He returned and nudged her awake. “Take these and drink this. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
Bleary-eyed, she complied, then fell back on the pillow with a groan.
“Sleep tight, kid.” I’m outta here.
Warm toes skimmed up his T-shirt and across his lower back. “Jack?”
Wary, he turned back and nabbed Kylie’s adventurous foot. The wide pant leg slid toward her body, revealing a toned thigh and a glimpse of red panties. Damn.
“I’m not getting any younger,” she said.
Hit the road, Jack. “Meaning?”
“Meaning if I wait for what I want, I’ll never get it. At least that’s the way it’s worked so far.” She shoved her hair out of her eyes, then wagged a finger in his direction to emphasize another thought. “Although, I did grab the bull by the horns once, if you catch my drift, and I know you do, and I didn’t get what I wanted that time, either. I gotta tell ya, life has been one big-butt disappointment.”
She sounded pitiful and angry at the same time, and he cursed himself a pig for imagining the pleasure zone beneath those satin panties. He released her sexy foot and tugged her pant leg back past her knee. Against his better judgment, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Today in particular stunk.”
“Want to tell me what Spenser said or did to ruin your birthday?”
“It’s what he didn’t say or do.”
“You’re losing me.”
“It’s not about my birthday, but my life.”
“Definitely lost.”
“But it is what it is so I need to make the most of what I have, which isn’t much. I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
He pressed a finger to his temple, rubbed.
“Creative visualization is a beautiful thing. I will have my adventure, just you wait and see.”
“Back to shaking up things in Eden, huh?”
“I was planning to start tomorrow, but you know what they say…” She quirked a brow, waited.
“No time like the present?”
Her full lips curved into another of those loopy grins. “For the past year, I’ve spent every night in this bed alone. It would certainly break my blah, boring routine if you—”
“No.”
“—kissed me.”
Shit.
“It’s the least you could do.”
“For?”
“Refusing to be my first.”
He scratched his forehead, reflecting on the episode he’d sworn to take to his grave. “You were fourteen.”
She scrunched her brow. “So? How old were you when you first—”
“That’s different.”
“Why? Because you’re a guy? That’s a stupid argument,” she slurred, “but I’ll let it slide and point out that I am now thirty-two.”
“You’re also blitzed.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What if I was sober?”
“You’d still be Spenser’s little sister.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. Then she stretched like a languid cat, teasing him with thoughts of Gumby flexibility.
“I know,” he said, only half kidding. “My loss.”
“My stinky birthday.” She stuck out her lower lip in a contrived but alluring pout.
He knew when he was being played. His ex had been a master manipulator. Not that Kylie was in Amanda’s league. Kylie was drunk. He scrambled for a graceful exit without hurting her feelings.
She mistook his hesitation as an invitation. “A pleasurable distinction,” she whispered, then pressed those pouty lips to his.
Soft. Sweet. Hot.
Holy shit.
He froze.
She sighed. “Thanks for the birthday kiss, Jack.”
He grappled for a casual response.
“Too bad I didn’t feel anything.”
CHAPTER THREE
ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE.
Hell would have been preferable.
As was his routine for the past seven years, Travis Martin rose at 6:00 a.m. He showered—using bargain-brand soap, shampoo and shaving cream. He dressed in Lee Dungarees Carpenter Jeans, a plaid shirt and beige work boots. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal, white toast and a cup of Folgers. He scanned the local newspaper while he ate. The only upset in this routine was the absence of his wife. She’d died three months earlier. Life had been difficult before. Now it was painful.
Still, Travis stayed the course.
At 7:00 a.m. he pinned on his name tag and tugged on a cap embroidered with his employer’s logo: Hank’s Hardware.
At 7:05 he was out the door of his run-down farmhouse and behind the wheel of his 1995 Chevy pickup. The truck, like his clothes, was nondescript. He blended with the male population of Eden. He was just another hardworking, blue collar stiff who occasionally attended church on Sunday mornings—not that he got anything out of the preacher’s sermons. Now and then he dropped by Kerri’s Confections where he indulged in doughnuts and coffee. What he really wanted was a cannoli and espresso, not that he ever asked. Once in a while, like most of the men in these parts, he made an appearance at Boone’s Bar and Grill, where he tossed back a couple of beers. Last night he’d been sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a bottle of Pabst and craving a glass of Chianti, when Kylie McGraw, who was typically as unassuming as himself, went a little oobatz. Unlike anyone else in Boone’s, Travis had empathized.
Like Kylie, he despised the tedium of this Midwestern mom-and-pop town.
Unlike Kylie, he had no intention of shaking things up. He’d flirted with danger a month earlier, a moment of weakness. A mistake he’d quickly rectified. Drawing attention to himself was not an option.
Or was it?
At 7:40, Travis parked his pickup in the alley behind the hardware store. He entered through the back door, traded greetings with his boss and two coworkers. He tidied his work station and skimmed new orders. He did everything exactly as he always did, only this morning, like that one unfortunate night, he couldn’t calm his inner self. His true self.
At 8:00 a.m., his boss opened for business and Travis struggled to maintain his composure, his wife’s last request ringing in his ears. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Unfortunately, as his loneliness and frustration escalated, the warning packed less punch.
CHAPTER FOUR
KYLIE WOKE UP WITH a blinding headache and a gross taste in her mouth. Her memory was splotchy, too, but it could have been worse. She could have woken up next to Ashe. Or she could have puked up her guts. Although, if she had slept with Ashe, she would have felt wretched and not because of a hangover. She didn’t care how good-looking he was, the man was a bed-hopping sleaze with a checkered past, and she had scruples.
She also had a stabbing pain behind her dust-dry eyeballs.
Who would have thought a trendy drink could be so lethal? Except she’d had three, four if you counted the third as a double, over a short period of time. She regretted taking a spill at Boone’s—not exactly a shining moment—and she sort of felt bad for lashing out at Max and gang. But she didn’t regret her vow to shake things up. She’d meant every word, well, the ones she remembered. At the very least, she could attack her own dull-as-dirt existence. She could be bold. She could take risks.
A moment blipped in her mind.
Her. Jack.
She smacked her forehead, winced.
“Stupid cosmos.”
She had a big-butt hangover and one mortifying memory. Her lame attempt at seducing Jack Reynolds. He’d resisted her flirting. He’d tolerated her kiss. She didn’t know what else to call it. He didn’t jerk back, but he didn’t reciprocate. But that wasn’t the shocker.
There’d been no spark!
Considering the Mount Fuji-size crush she’d had on the man for most of her freaking life, she’d expected to go up in flames the moment she’d sampled that sexy mouth. Instead, she’d felt nothing, nada, numb. Either the alcohol had obliterated her senses or she really was over him. Completely. She chose to believe the latter. Otherwise, living in the same town with him, again, would be torture.
She still couldn’t believe he’d moved back to Eden in the first place. He’d devoted his life to fighting the bad guy. Even as a kid, Jack had been the first to stand up to schoolyard bullies, usually in defense of others, because you’d have to be nuttier than a squirrel’s hoard to tangle with Jack Reynolds. He and Spenser were both motivated by macho protector instincts. Only Jack gravitated toward fighting crime in the big city, and Spenser had joined the fight against evil on foreign soil. Kylie had never been to New York City, but she knew it brimmed with art, music and literature, diverse cultures and interesting people. So much to do and see…unlike in Eden. Plenty of criminal butts to kick…unlike in Eden.
“The man will be bored to tears within a month,” she mumbled into the murky predawn. Good thing she was no longer crushing on him, because he wouldn’t be here for long. Unlike Kylie. The way things were going she’d be here until she was six feet under. Not that she wanted to leave Eden forever. Just for a while. Just long enough to experience the beauty and wonder of Asia. Although at this point, an adventure on any level would do.
“You can hide under the blankets feeling sorry for yourself or you can attack the day with gusto, McGraw.” Despite the nauseating pulse behind her dry, bleary eyeballs, she swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed. “Gusto it is.” She grimaced at the aftertaste of the nacho chips she’d wolfed down, compliments of the midnight munchies. “But first I’m brushing my teeth.”
“HOW THE HELL DID YOU get my toothbrush? Oh, shit. Wait. Shit.”
Note to self, Jack thought as the stray mutt peed on his bathroom floor, don’t yell at the dog. Any time he exhibited frustration, Shy—he had to call her something—peed. Not a lot, just a nervous sprinkle. Still. “Damn.”
He grabbed a wad of tissue and soaked up the mess.
Shy cowered on the bath mat.
Two nights earlier, he’d found the midsize stray cowering under the old rocker on his back porch. She was scared of thunderstorms. She was scared, from what he’d witnessed so far, of everything. Starved, wet and frightened, the pitiful thing had allowed him to coax her inside. Next, he’d called animal control, but no one had reported a missing dog that looked like a miniature German shepherd. He’d told himself, and Shy, that he’d only keep her until he found her owner or a suitable home. The way things were going, that day couldn’t come too soon.
He adopted the casual manner he used to soothe victimized humans. “Easy, girl.” He flushed the soiled tissue, then washed his hands. Noting the dog’s stricken look, he ruffled her bowed head. Five seconds later, she trotted after him and into the kitchen, tail wagging.
He opened the fridge and nabbed the makings of a mushroom omelet.
Shy circled twice, then curled on the braided rug in front of the sink.
“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re coming with me today.” Yesterday, she’d destroyed one of his shoes, two books and a magazine. Either she’d been pissed because he’d left her alone, or bored. He wasn’t a doggy shrink, but this pup had issues. She was a complication he didn’t want or need. His goal was to simplify.
Jack beat three eggs, then poured them into a heated skillet, his mind veering to another complicated doe-eyed female. Kylie McGraw. Her goofy smile and fiery spirit. Her red panties and lush lips.
That freaking birthday kiss.
Too bad I didn’t feel anything.
It’s not like he’d put any effort into it. Still. He’d felt something and she hadn’t. Then again, she’d passed out seconds later. Maybe she’d been too trashed to feel anything. His ego demanded a second shot. Logic said, let it go. The only thing worse than a mutual attraction would be acting on it. This was Kylie. Sweet and responsible. Except when she’s trashed. She was the marrying kind and he was the kind who wrecked marriages.
Shy barked.
“A recipe for disaster, huh?”
Another bark.
“Right.”
Jack fed the mutt a half a can of beef kibble, then loaded up his own plate with an omelet and toast. He ate standing up at the counter. Sipped coffee. Flipped through Law and Order magazine and contemplated his first official day as chief of police.
He wondered if Kylie would go through with her threat to shake things up or if she’d lose her nerve when she gained her sobriety. He had better things to do than reading her the riot act for disturbing the peace. Like organizing his new office and finding a home for Shy. There were also security issues pertaining to the upcoming Apple Festival.
One thing he wouldn’t be doing was investigating a gang shooting or a mafia hit. Those two factions didn’t exist in Eden. Hell, there hadn’t been a murder of any kind in this town for several decades. No atrocities. No risk that he’d experience that damned numbness that made him wonder what he’d become. No self-disgust binge drinking.
Who needed a shrink, he thought as he topped off his coffee. He had Eden.
A SLICE OF DRY TOAST, one banana, two cups of strong black tea and a hot shower later, Kylie felt rejuvenated enough to attempt gusto. Wanting to shake up her routine straight away, she raided her closet in search of anything bold. She passed over conservative ensembles and settled on a flared black skirt and a fitted black T-shirt featuring a sequined green-and-red dragon breathing sparkly gold fire. Bypassing a dozen pairs of sensible shoes, she snagged the flower-power combat boots she’d ordered and never worn. Whimsical and daring. “The new me.”
Feeding off nervous energy, she skipped morning meditation, although she did chant affirmations as she applied mascara and lip balm and tamed her thick hair into her signature ponytail. “I will act out of the ordinary in order to attract and promote change. Change is exciting. Change is good.”
She repeated that three times while staring at her reflection in the mirror, although her mind trailed off to the un-extraordinary. She considered her pale freckled cheeks, her juvenile ponytail, her poor vision. Maybe she should experiment with cosmetics and a stylish haircut. Investing in laser surgery seemed extreme, but she could definitely afford new glasses. Her body benefited from years of yoga, but typically she hid her toned form beneath loose clothing, choosing timeless classics over here-today-gone-tomorrow trends. She’d never fussed over style, choosing instead to focus on inner beauty. Thing was, men were visual creatures, stimulated by what they could see and touch.
She knew Jack’s type and she wasn’t it. That explained his lack of enthusiasm when she’d leaned in for a kiss. Plus, she’d been drunk and vulnerable, and wouldn’t that be so Jack—a gentlemen even when you ached to be ravished.
Been there. Lived through the embarrassment. Twice now.
She sighed and turned away from the mirror. There were other ways to shake up her life aside from burning up the sheets with Jack Reynolds. Not that she was tempted to do so. She was, thank goodness, over him. No, she was going to concentrate on her daring decision to renovate McGraw’s Shoe Store.
Sporting a devilish grin, she called Faye while tugging on a pair of thick green socks.
Her friend picked up after the second ring. Despising telemarketers, Faye always screened her calls. “You’re alive.”
“Rough around the edges, but a lesson learned. What about Sting?”
“Rough around the edges, but a lesson learned.”
Kylie frowned at Faye’s gruff tone. “What about Spice? Did she survive her first slumber party without getting her undies frozen?” Spice was Faye’s thirteen-year-old daughter. As quirky as her mom, but not as outgoing. Her first slumber party—the kid wasn’t exactly Miss Popular—had been a very big deal. Maybe it had been a disaster.
“She had a blast.”
Kylie waited for details. None came. She squirmed as the silence stretched. What the heck? “Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?”
Kylie pursed her lips and racked her fuzzy brain. “Because I made a spectacle of myself?”
Faye grunted. “Do you even remember last night?”
“Most of it. Okay. Parts of it.”
Another long stretch of silence.
Kylie bristled. So, she’d had too much to drink. So, she’d gotten a little loud, given away her shoes and taken a spill in Boone’s. It wasn’t like Faye to be so easily embarrassed. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Jack?” Kylie blurted, because normally that’s exactly what her friend would do. Faye knew all about Kylie’s longtime infatuation, although she didn’t know about the never-to-be-mentioned-ever episode. “He gave me a birthday kiss. Actually, I stole a kiss. He just sort of sat there. Disappointing.”
“You expected Jack to take advantage of you?”
“I expected fireworks.”
“You always expect fireworks,” Faye said. “And you’re always disappointed.”
“Yes, but this was Jack. It’s supposed to be different with him.”
“It’s supposed to be different with someone who sets your soul on fire. I thought you were over Jack.”
“I am.”
“Are you sure about that? For someone who’s having a hard time remembering parts of last night, you have a damn clear recollection of that kiss.”
“You are mad at me.” Kylie padded to her medicine cabinet and nabbed a bottle of aspirin. Between the hangover and Faye’s snippy mood, she felt queasy. To make matters worse, Stan shouted something in the background and Faye shouted back. Okay. So maybe she’d just caught her friend at a bad time. “Are you guys fighting about Sting and the ice cream fiasco?”
“Not exactly.” Faye blew out a breath and lowered her voice. “Just do me a favor, Kylie. Don’t drink any more cosmopolitans.”
“Trust me, it’s not on the agenda.” Stomach rolling, Kylie popped an antacid along with the aspirin.
“So what instigated that birthday meltdown, anyway?”
A change of subject and a softer tone. Sort of. She’d take it. “Spenser.”
“Let me guess,” Faye said. “He extended his shooting tour. Which means you have to postpone your trip. Again.”
So far Kylie had missed out on two opportunities to travel the Orient. Both times due to a family crisis. The latter had wiped out her bank account. Now, after years of living frugally and saving (again), she finally (almost) had enough money to fund her dream trip. Problem was, Spenser’s change of plans put a glitch in her plans. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”
Faye snorted. “Maybe you should tell Spenser why you need him to come home and to take responsibility for the business he inherited.”
“I don’t want to step on his dream. Into the Wild is a huge hit. He’s in his fifth season and the ratings are consistently high.”
“What about your dream?”
Kylie faltered. Her gut said she needed to attack the here and now. The real world. Her world. “If I went to Asia now,” she said sensibly, “I’d still have to deal with my dull existence when I got back.”
“Meaning?”
Kylie shoved on her glasses, glanced at the shoe-order confirmation and the paint samples she’d printed off the Internet. She smiled. “Meet me at the hardware store in two hours.”
CHAPTER FIVE
JACK STEERED HIS SUV into the chief of police’s designated parking space. He glanced at the black-and-white parked to his left—one of two department cruisers. Chief Curtis had used his own wheels. Jack opted to do the same. Small towns have small budgets. Police vehicles were costly. Better to allocate funds to staffing, programming and equipment. Besides, driving an unmarked vehicle suited his purpose as did his semicasual uniform.
He cut the engine, looked at Shy over the metal rims of his polarized Oakleys. Instead of the backseat where he’d put her, she now sat on the passenger seat. Slobber streaked the partially open window. Short blond hairs coated his black dashboard. His new car didn’t look so new anymore. Didn’t smell new, either. Was there such a thing as dog Beano?
“So is this because of the canned kibble?” Jack asked, waving off the noxious odor. “Or because you’re nervous?”
Shy barked.
“Uh-huh.”
Maybe a trip to the vet was in order. Not that he planned on keeping her. But as long as Shy was in his care, he didn’t want her stinking up his air.
“Okay. Listen up. The squad’s still mourning Curtis. They’re not sold on me. I have no idea how they feel about dogs.”
Shy angled her head, whimpered.
“Relax. I’m not locking you in the car for eight hours. Just…behave. No chewing. No peeing. No farting.”
Her tail wagged.
“You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”
She barked again.
“Right.” He climbed out and jerked a thumb. “Let’s roll.”
Shy leaped to the sidewalk. He half expected, half hoped she’d run. Run home. Run off. Anything to relieve him of this newfound responsibility.
She sat by his side.
Great.
New job. New life. New, and unwanted, complication.
In an effort to root himself, he scanned Main Street and assessed the area. No skyscrapers. No public transportation. No street vendors or homeless beggers. Just a scenic grid of two-story buildings, antique street lamps, and meter-free curbside parking.
Eden, Indiana.
Smalltown, U.S.A.
Four eateries: Pizza King, The Box Car, Boone’s Bar and Grill and Kerri’s Confections.
One grocery store. One hardware store. One barbershop, beauty salon, car dealership, car wash, Realtor, dollar store, library, shoe store and pharmacy/sundry. One convenience store—Circle K. One department store—Kmart. Two churches—both Protestant. Two gas stations and one bank. Two dentists. Two doctors. Two lawyers—one of those being his brother-in-law, Frank Cortez, or as Jack called him: the Cheating Bastard.
Jack shook off the thought of the man who made him see red. His numbness did not extend to TCB. He breathed in the crisp autumn air and a heady dose of Americana.
Considering where he’d spent the past several years, he felt as if he’d traveled back in time. Kylie was right. Eden hadn’t changed in decades. The storefronts looked exactly as they had when he’d been a kid. J.J.’s place still had a soda fountain. A red-and-white-striped barber pole spun outside Keystone’s and the Bixley still showed feature films at bargain prices.
Unlike Kylie, he found comfort in the familiar. Especially when the familiar included old-fashioned values. His CSI cynicism could use a dose of Leave It to Beaver innocence. Dog at his side, he strode toward the station house, soaking in the sunshine and breathing smog-free air.
To think he’d blown out of paradise the day after he’d graduated high school. He’d been hungry for purpose and action. Jessie had accused him of having superhero syndrome. She’d said it like it was a bad thing.
Turned out, she was right.
As soon as she stopped giving him the cold shoulder, he’d concede and give her a chance to say I told you so. At least it would mean they were talking.
He shoved aside thoughts of his sister. She wasn’t the only one’s favor he needed to gain. He needed to earn the respect of his new unit. A skeletal crew divided among three shifts for twenty-four-hour coverage. His second in command, Deputy Ed Ziffel, worked 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. Officer Andy Anderson covered the 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. The night shift belonged to Officer Bo Hooper. Dorothy Vine, their administrative assistant, pulled nine to five. Jack would float, working longer hours and where needed. He’d get to know the unit, but it would take time.
Prepared for the morning shift, Jack entered the station house along with the perky-eared, stink-ass dog.
Ed Ziffel sat at a dinged metal desk immersed in a book while devouring a powdery pastry. Ziffel had graduated high school two years behind Jack. They’d never been friends, but they weren’t enemies, either. After an hour in the man’s company yesterday, Jack knew why the town council hadn’t promoted from within. Some men are born to lead. Some…aren’t.
Jack cleared his throat.
Ziffel jerked his nose out of the book and brushed crumbs from his dark blue tie. He noted Jack’s attire. “Chief Curtis dressed in the official EPD uniform,” he said by way of a greeting.
“I know.” Part of the reason Jack had deviated. Dark blue Dutymax cargo pants and black LITESpeed running boots. He wore a white T-shirt under his tan polo shirt and a lightweight nylon blue jacket with Police embroidered on the right. His gold badge was clipped to his belt. His .40 caliber semiautomatic Glock was holstered at his hip. His headgear of choice—a blue ball cap—was embroidered with stark white letters: EPD.
His goal was to appear official yet approachable. According to the mayor, the former police chief had fallen out of touch with the populace. Burned out? Maybe. Probably. Christ. The man had been on the job thirty-five years. Shit happens.
Jack knew shit. He also knew people. He was an expert at reading personalities. An expert at blending. He could converse and connect with butchers, bakers and cold-blooded killers. His goal to bond with the citizens of Eden was both professional and personal.
“Guess you’re more comfortable in plainclothes seeing as you were a detective.”
Jack didn’t argue. He didn’t want to speak ill of Ben Curtis. He didn’t feel obliged to explain his clothes, though not official EPD attire, were in fact regulation. He took off his Oakleys, slid them into his inner jacket pocket. “Any activity I should know about?”
“Hooper got a call from dispatch at 2:31 a.m. Mrs. Carmichael reporting a possible break-in. Or vandalism. She swore someone was skulking around her house.”
The E911 Dispatch Center also dispatched calls to the Eden fire department, ambulance service, and to the animal control officer. Jack wondered how they kept up. Then again, this was Eden. They probably got four calls a day, total. “And?”
“Hooper drove out even though he knew he wouldn’t find any threat.”
Jack raised a brow.
“We get calls from the old woman at least once a week.”
“Regardless, Hooper investigated.”
“Bo Hooper’s a good man.”
“Didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
Ziffel pursed his lips, nodded.
Jack bypassed his office—a disorganized nightmare—and drifted toward a pot of freshly brewed coffee. Shy slinked along. “So what did Hooper find?”
Focused on a manila file, Ziffel grunted. “A tree branch scraping against her upstairs pane.”
“I remember Sally Carmichael,” Jack said as he filled a blue ceramic mug to the brim. “Sunday school teacher.”
“Retired now.”
“Married forever.”
“Until Harry died.”
“Now she’s widowed, alone. Skittish.”
“Starved for attention,” Ziffel added.
“Lonely.”
The man nodded. “That’s our take. Especially at night.”
“Anything else?”
“This town doesn’t see much action.” Ziffel cast a subtle line. “At least not the kind you’re used to.”
Jack didn’t take the bait. He sipped coffee.
Ziffel didn’t take the hint. He fished deeper. “Folks are speculating on why a gung-ho cop like you would ditch New York City—maybe the most exciting city in the whole U.S. of A.—for hum-drum Eden.”
In other words, he was the subject of town gossip. He wasn’t surprised. He did, however, want to douse speculation. “I burned out on big crime.”
“Oh.” Ziffel looked disappointed by the straightforward answer. No drama. No scandal. No dancing around the subject. “Burnout is common in high-stress, high-risk professions,” he said. “So instead of melting down, you transferred out of a toxic environment into a wholesome community. Smart.”
Jack saluted the man with his mug. “No place like home.”
Shy whimpered.
The deputy peered over his desk. He noted the mutt leaning against Jack’s leg, frowned. “You brought your dog to work?”
“She’s a stray. I’m her caretaker. Temporary.” Jack gestured from canine to deputy. “Shy, Ziffel. Ziffel, Shy.”
“You named her?”
“Had to call her something.”
Ziffel, a rail-thin man with a face only his mother—and wife—could love, drained his mug, then joined Jack for a refill. “Should’ve stuck with ‘Dog.’ Once you give an animal a name, you’ve made it personal.”
Jack didn’t comment. Ziffel was a pain-in-the-ass know-it-all, but he didn’t care that he hadn’t been promoted, and according to the town council, he was a conscientious lawman. Jack needed a reliable deputy, a man who knew Eden and its citizens like the back of his hand. A man the squad already respected. Ziffel fit the bill.
Jack refilled their mugs.
Shy sat and leaned into Jack’s leg.
“She thinks she’s your dog,” Ziffel said, stirring two packets of sugar into his coffee.
“She’s anxious.”
“You mean attached.”
Jack sipped. “Hazelnut?”
Ziffel nodded, then shifted. “Chief Curtis liked Maxwell House Dark Roast. Day in, day out. Don’t seem right, drinking his brew without him. Thought I’d try something different.”
“It’s good.”
“Dorothy won’t like it.”
Jack’s gaze flicked to the assistant’s vacant desk. “Speaking of Ms. Vine…”
“This ain’t typical,” Ziffel said in her defense. “Dorothy’s one of the most punctual people I know.”
“Should I be worried?”
“She’s seeing to Chief Curtis’s…worldly possessions. He was a widower,” Ziffel explained. “No children.”
“I get it, Deputy.” No wife. No kids. No one to see to his affairs after he’d keeled over unexpectedly from a heart attack. Jack was in a similar position. No wife. No kids. Just a sister who resented him and a niece who didn’t know him. “Ms. Vine gets here when she gets here.”
“Right-o, Chief Reynolds.”
“Jack’ll do.
Ziffel smiled and Jack got the feeling he’d just risen a notch in the man’s eyes. “Know what you need with that coffee, Jack? Kerri’s apple strudel. I bought a half dozen. Help yourself.”
According to Ziffel, Kerri’s Confections was famous countywide. The proprietor, Kerri Waldo, a fairly recent addition to Eden, had a gift for creating heavenly desserts. Her recipes were spiked with secret ingredients and the daily special was usually a one-time affair. The freshly baked scents wafting from the box on Ziffel’s desk promised a decadent delight.
Jack wasn’t hungry, but this was a chance to bond with his new right-hand man. If it meant sampling strudel, so be it. He moved to Ziffel’s desk and dipped into the box. Two seconds later, nirvana. “Wow.”
“I’ve asked her to marry me three times,” said Ziffel.
“Aren’t you already married?”
“In this case my wife would consider bigamy a blessing. She’s addicted to Kerri’s sweets.”
Jack cracked a smile, sampled more strudel. Shy licked his fingers. He couldn’t blame the dog. Hard to resist heaven.
“Just so you know,” Ziffel said, narrowing his eyes on Shy. “Dorothy is a neat freak.”
“Really.” Jack’s gaze flicked to his office.
“Chief Curtis’s office was off limits. Said he had his own system. Knew where everything was. If Dorothy shifted so much as a pencil, he had a conniption fit.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know Curtis’s system. Ms. Vine can shift all the pencils she wants, and while she’s at it, I could use help organizing files.”
“That she’ll like. That,” he said, pointing to Shy, “she won’t.”
Jack had only met Dorothy Vine briefly, but long enough to know she’d view Shy as a hairy, four-legged disruption. He looked down and met the mutt’s baleful brown eyes. Could she be any more needy? “Ms. Vine will have to deal. Shy’s destructive when I leave her home alone.” He refreshed his coffee and moved into the disaster zone.
Ziffel followed. “Separation anxiety. Saw a special about it on Animal Planet. Stems from fear of abandonment. Especially prevalent in rescued strays.”
Jack sat at his desk and opened that day’s edition of the Eden Tribune—the rural voice of Miami County. Although the paper included state news, it typically focused on feel-good articles, local sports and community events. Far and away from the bleak and stark reports of the New York Times, Daily News and the New York Post. There was something to be said for Americana newspapers, especially by someone suffering big-city burnout. This week the paper brimmed with stories and advertisements for Eden’s upcoming Apple Festival.
Jack skimmed the classifieds while Ziffel spouted the advantages of hiring a dog trainer. “I don’t need a trainer. I’m not keeping her.” No mention of a missing dog in the lost-and-found section. “Figured I’d walk her around town. See if anyone recognizes her.”
“Without a collar and leash?”
Jack glanced up. “We have a leash law I don’t know about?”
Ziffel sniffed. “No law. But what if she attacks someone?”
“Shy’s afraid of her own shadow.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t attack if provoked. Just because she’s meek… Where is she, anyway?” Ziffel turned, stiffened.
Jack saw what he saw—Shy with her nose in the red-and-white signature box marked Kerri’s Confections. Shit. “Don’t—”
“Hey, you thieving mutt!”
“—yell.” Jack was on his deputy’s heels. The sight of Shy crouched and trembling with apple goo and flaky crumbs on her snout made him smile.
Ziffel was not amused. “You…scrounge. You…menace!”
He gripped the man’s bony shoulder. “You can’t blame the dog for wanting to sample something that smells so good.”
“She not only ate all the strudel,” he complained, “she peed on the floor.”
“That’s because you yelled. Relax. I’ll clean it up.” Jack patted Shy’s bowed head, then swiped several tissues from Dorothy’s desk.
“The strudel—”
“I’ll buy more.”
“Probably sold out already.” He swiped up the damaged box. “Dang nabbit!”
Dang nabbit? What the hell? Cops cursed. Most of them crudely and often. At least in Jack’s experience. Then again, this was Eden—paradise in the heartland. An old-fashioned town with old-fashioned values.
While Ziffel cleaned up the pastry disaster, Jack made a mental note to clean up his language—when in Rome—although he refused to substitute dang for damn or fudge for fuck. Although, damn, fuck should probably go. This should be interesting. Amused, he flushed the soiled tissue, then washed his hands.
The roar of an engine drew them both to the station’s front window.
Jack noted the rider with a raised brow. Was that…Holy shit. It was. On the heels of surprise came a jolt of lust. Typically he wasn’t attracted to biker chicks, but this one was sexy as hell in her short skirt, denim jacket and…Christ…were those combat boots?
“Spenser would have a fit if he saw Kylie on that motorcycle,” Ziffel said.
Jack wrestled with his own misgivings. “Because it’s not a Harley? Or because it’s dangerous?”
“Both.”
He was right. Spenser wouldn’t approve. Mostly because of the safety issue. Motorcyclists were twenty times as likely to die in a crash than someone riding in a car.
Great.
Now Jack felt compelled to lecture Kylie on the perils of the road as well as home security.
At least she was wearing a helmet.
He watched as she parked the sleek silver motorcycle in front of Hank’s Hardware. Given her obsession with Asia, he wasn’t surprised she’d chosen Kawasaki. “That her regular mode of transportation?”
“Her car’s in the shop. Usually she drives a Honda Civic.”
“She has a sudden aversion to the usual.”
“A sudden aversion to modesty, too,” Ziffel noted. “Who rides a bike in a skirt? What was she thinking?”
About shaking things up.
Jack noted her tousled ponytail when she whipped off her helmet, the way the flared skirt kissed the back of her toned, creamy thighs. He wondered about the color of her panties—bright green like her socks?
Touch her and I’ll kick your ass.
“Are those army boots?” Ziffel asked.
“Something like.” He couldn’t make out details, but he made out splashes of color. Yellow, pink and blue on black. Definitely different. Hardly sexy, yet he had the mother of boners.
What the hell, Reynolds? Jerk off. Nail a loose woman. Do not approach the temptress.
Ziffel looked at his watch. “Nine-fifteen. McGraw’s Shoe Store always opens at nine prompt.”
“So?”
“Kylie always opens the store. Always. What do you think she’s up to?”
“Trouble.”
“Kylie McGraw?” Ziffel snorted. “That girl’s a pussycat.”
Jack believed otherwise. What’s your game, Tiger? “Keep an eye on Shy.”
“Where are you going?” Ziffel asked as he pushed through the door.
“Making a strudel run.”
“Good Lord,” he heard behind him. “What’s that smell?”
CHAPTER SIX
KYLIE WAS THREE STEPS from Hank’s Hardware when she caught a fragrant whiff of baked goods and java. She wasn’t a coffee drinker, but she’d read that caffeine tames headaches. Just her luck, her hangover had magnified on the bumpy ride into town. In lieu of more aspirin, she’d settle for a big honking cup of dark roast. She swiveled toward Kerri’s Confections…and saw Jack.
Just. Her. Luck.
She almost did a one-eighty—hang the coffee—but she couldn’t avoid the man forever. Best to get this over with. About last night…
Standing her ground, she smiled at the approaching lawman and cursed her skipping heart. She told herself she was reacting to his official appearance, not his hunky bad self. Just because she was over him, that didn’t mean she was blind to the pulse-tripping package. He looked more like a SWAT guy than Eden’s chief of police. The ball cap, the cargo pants and tactical running boots. The badge clipped to his taut waist.
S-e-x-y.
She thought about the previous night. Her botched seduction. Her second botched seduction. Her cheeks flamed. Not that he’d bring it up.
A gentleman even when you ached to be ravished.
Dang.
He stepped from the street onto the sidewalk. “Kylie.”
“Jack.”
His eyes were hidden behind a pair of cool cop sunglasses, but she sensed his amusement when he noted her funky but incredibly un-sexy boots. No doubt he preferred his women in strappy four-inch heels. Jack went for glamour girls. Stunning beauties with hourglass figures. Kylie wasn’t voluptuous or blond, but—thanks to yoga—she did have nice legs. Not that she wanted Jack to go for her. She was, after all, over him, and he’d be over Eden in a month, if not sooner. Pursuing an intimate relationship would only end in heartache. She mentally recited that affirmation three times as her traitorous heart raced.
He focused back on her face. “About that kiss…”
Oh, God. If he was compelled to address her drunken advance, then he felt he had to set her straight. You’re a sweet girl, but…
Kylie scrambled to preserve her dignity. “I’m so not attracted to you.”
He regarded her over the rims of his tinted glasses.
Her knees weakened at the sight of those river-blue eyes. Her stomach constricted as she thought she’d maybe, possibly insulted him. Normally she went out of her way not to hurt someone’s feelings. “Not that you’re not attractive. I mean you’re gorgeous. In a, you know, beefcake sort of way.”
He raised a brow.
“But I’m not the beefcake type,” she rambled on. “I mean, you’re not the type for me. That kiss was just…well, I was drunk and you were there.”
“So if Ashe…”
“Exactly,” she lied. “What can I say? I was pretty blitzed.”
“No argument there.”
Embarrassed and oddly provoked, she hitched the purse she’d just picked up at Boone’s higher on her shoulder and hiked her chin a notch. “I’m just saying you don’t have to worry about me stalking you or coming on to you, because I’m over you. Completely. That schoolgirl crush? History. So…there. We’re okay. Right?” She stuck out her hand, offering a truce, retaining her dignity. “Friends?”
He clasped her palm, stroked his thumb over her skin.
Heat shot up her arm and burned a path from her heart to her…Uh-oh.
He smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make her insides gooey. “Join me for a cup of coffee?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You were heading toward Kerri’s.”
“Yes, but…”
“Friends confide in each other.”
“Sure, but…”
“The beef you have with Spenser. Maybe I can help.”
Kylie stared, his words not registering as much as his touch. He was still holding her hand, still stroking her skin. She tingled everywhere. Eh-ver-ree-where. Even her hair tingled. How was that possible? How could she get zip from a kiss and zing from holding hands?
Then again, this morning she was sober.
This was bad. Not the sober part. The zing part.
Really, really bad.
Kylie jerked free. “Thanks, but…I’m late.” She spun back toward the hardware store.
“Thought you were heading for the café,” Jack said with a smile in his voice.
Was he teasing her? The thought occurred that he’d done that thumb-stroking thing on purpose, just to see if she really was cured of her schoolgirl crush. Curiosity? Arrogance? Although, it wasn’t like Jack to lead a girl on.
“I was,” she said over her shoulder, feigning an easy smile. “But now, thanks to our chat, I’m late. Meeting someone. Gotta run.” She intentionally left the identity of that someone to his imagination. Hopefully, he’d imagine a guy. Maybe even—eew—Ashe. She sure as heck didn’t want him thinking she was hopelessly single, which she was, but that wasn’t the point.
Flustered, Kylie rushed over the threshold of Hank’s Hardware and slammed into Faye.
“You’re twenty minutes late.”
“Sorry.” Kylie wanted to spew about the unnerving encounter with Jack, but she felt stupid. Just this morning, she’d sworn she was over him. Actually, she’d declared her undying love dead the day she’d learned he was getting married—much to Faye’s relief. Faye, who’d endured years of Kylie’s unrequited pining. Faye, who apparently had problems of her own. As soon as they had a private moment, she’d have to ask why she and Stan were on the outs.
“I left this at the bar last night,” Kylie said, flashing her purse and hoping it excused her delay. “Had to stop and pick it up.”
“You drove without a license? Are you nuts?” Faye snapped her fingers. “Ah, yes. The new you. The rebel rouser. What next? Picketing the Bixley? Expand or else?”
Again with the sarcasm. Kylie refused to take offense. If she stayed upbeat, maybe she could lighten her friend’s dark mood. “I could zoom my bike down Main Street topless,” she teased while glancing at the signs hanging above the aisles. “That would cause a stir.”
“Speeding. Indecent exposure.” Faye sighed and shook her head. “You’re determined to land in jail, aren’t you?”
Kylie snorted and moved toward aisle seven. “Jack wouldn’t arrest me. It would piss off Spenser.”
“Spenser’s half a world away.”
“Don’t remind me.” Kylie gestured to her flower-covered Doc Martens. “What do you think?”
“So that’s how you’re going to shake up Eden. Impractical footwear.”
“For a start.”
“Nice ensemble,” Faye said, gesturing to the rest of Kylie’s attire. “Sort of retro Madonna. Except…you rode your bike in a skirt?”
“Yep.”
“No tights or leggings?”
“I’m a little backed up on laundry.”
“Tell me you’re wearing shorts.”
“I’m wearing shorts.” Kylie stopped in the aisle stocked with paint supplies. “So about renovating McGraw’s…”
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this.”
“Believe it.” Kylie surveyed the shelves. Brushes, pads and rollers. Drop cloths. Sandpaper. Solvents and thinners. “I have no idea what to buy.”
“Don’t look at me,” Faye said. “The only thing I know how to paint is fingernails.”
“Ha.”
“I’m serious. I haven’t the slightest clue as to what you’ll need to paint the store. That’s what you have in mind, right? You’re going to make good on your threat? Pink walls, yellow trim? Spenser’s going to kill you.”
Kylie waggled her brows. “Spenser’s half a world away.”
“Can I help?”
“Hi, Travis.”
“Kylie.”
Travis Martin was a long-time employee of Hank’s Hardware. Tall. Fit. His huge puppy-dog eyes and fleshy lips softened his hard-angled face. His red hair clashed with his olive skin. His nose had a weird bump and dent. She’d asked him about that once. An old baseball injury, he’d told her. He also had a scar dissecting his left eyebrow. He wasn’t handsome, but he was attractive, even with the unflattering hair color. She didn’t know his ancestry. Irish-Italian? Spanish-German? She didn’t even know where he’d lived specifically before moving to Eden, although she’d heard through the grapevine Montana. Or was it Wyoming? She never could place the accent.
She did, however, know his shoe size.
Mostly he purchased his footwear at a nearby department store—shudder—but he occasionally shopped at McGraw’s. She wasn’t sure she’d call him a satisfied customer. Although she always sold him what he asked for, he always seemed apathetic. Then again, he was a man, and men didn’t generally fuss over shoes. Especially the practical, silent type.
She indicated his latest purchase. Insulated work boots—waterproof and rugged. Suitable for manual labor. “How are those holding up?”
“Good.”
“Because if you don’t like them—”
“Like ’em fine.”
“I have a new shipment of boots coming in.”
He noted her Doc Martens. “With flowers?” He quirked an excuse for a smile. “No, thanks.”
“We want to buy some paint,” Faye interrupted. “Maybe. If it’s not too expensive. Or too pink.”
Kylie rolled her eyes. “I’m going to redecorate McGraw’s Shoe Store. Inside and out.”
“Out?” Faye echoed.
“A total makeover. In addition to changing the color scheme, I want new shelves and lighting. I have pictures.” She dug in the pocket of her denim jacket and produced photos she’d printed from the Internet, plus pages she’d ripped from a shoe supply catalog. “I ordered some of this stuff online last night.”
Faye groaned. “In a drunken stupor? That’s not good.”
Kylie ignored her. “These shoe displays, these mirrors. And check out these prints I found on Art.com.”
“Interesting mix of abstract and art deco,” he said. “Nice.”
“Sure. If McGraw’s was in a cosmopolitan hotspot,” said Faye. “But it’s in Eden.”
“Please don’t mention cosmopolitans,” Kylie said, massaging the dull pulse at her temples. “Anyway,” she pressed on, “I was thinking about painting the walls this color with these accents. Maybe something similar for the exterior? And wall-to-wall carpet. I like this color. Or maybe this.”
Travis nodded. “Bold.”
Faye looked around his shoulder. “Disastrous.”
“I get what you’re going for,” he said.
“Yeah,” Faye said. “Spenser’s boot up her butt.”
Kylie smirked. “Ha.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Faye asked. “Spenser will have a cow. And what about your mom and grandma? What about tradition?”
“The only tradition I care about is Kabuki Theater and zongzi.”
“I’ll bite,” said Faye. “What’s zongzi?”
“A glutinous rice dumpling wrapped in bamboo leaves.”
“I take it back. I won’t bite. Sounds disgusting.”
“It’s the food of honor at the Dragon Boat Festival.”
“Still disgusting.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe it’s orgasmic. Not that I’ll ever know,” Kylie muttered. The way things were going, she’d never make it to Japan or China, let alone both. She’d be lucky if she ever made it across state lines. She glanced at Travis, who was still studying her photos. “Since you get what I’m going for, would you please box up everything I need?”
Travis raised a brow. “Everything?”
Kylie nodded.
Faye nudged her. “Don’t you think you should get an estimate?”
“If you’re talking an extensive renovation,” Travis said as he moved to his work station, “it could get expensive. Especially when you factor in labor.”
Kylie scrunched her nose. “Hadn’t thought about hiring help.”
“Don’t tell me you planned on handling everything yourself,” Faye asked.
“Not all by myself.”
Faye’s eyebrows rose to her bleached hairline. “Me? You expect me to help? I’m not good with simple home repairs, let alone an entire renovation.”
“You renovated the Orchard House.”
“I picked out colors and furniture. Stan renovated the building.” Faye blinked, smirked. “Oh. You expect me to rope Stan into helping.”
Kylie smiled. “Free shoes for the family for a year?”
“As tempting as that sounds…”
“In addition to some sort of cash fee, of course,” Kylie added. Maybe that’s why Stan and Faye were fighting. Money troubles. “I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of anyone, especially your husband. You guys are like family.”
“Stan won’t take money from you. Same reasoning. Family.”
“What about the shoes?”
“What about the B and B? We have a business to run and I can’t do it alone. Not with two kids in the mix. Besides, we’re knee-deep in our own spiffing-up. The Apple Festival is next week. Starting midweek we’re booked solid and…” Faye broke off and looked away.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“But—”
“Just when did you plan to start your renovations?” Faye asked, swinging the subject back around.
Kylie’s head spun. “Today.”
“Naturally.”
“I know it’ll be hard work,” Kylie babbled, flustered by Faye’s ongoing sarcasm, “but, I want to reopen McGraw’s on opening day of the festival. I ordered a special line of stock. Shoes that’ll appeal to the tourists and…” She flushed when she noted her friend gaping at her like a widemouthed bass. “You’re right. What was I thinking? I can’t expect you and Stan to…never mind.”
“We would if we could, Kylie.”
“I know. It’s okay. I didn’t think things through. Drunken stupor and all that. Obviously, I’m going to have to hire a crew or at least one very productive man.”
“I have an estimate,” Travis said.
Kylie and Faye moved to the counter. They looked at the figure Travis had scratched on a yellow pad. Kylie swallowed. “That much, huh?”
He slid her Internet printouts under her nose and picked up a pencil. “If you cut this and this—”
“Nope. Gotta have those.”
“What about these?” Faye said.
“I’ve had my eye on those for months. Spied them in InStep Magazine.”
“You could cut cost by renovating the interior only,” Travis said.
“Yeah,” Faye said. “It would save time, too. Also, Spenser would only be half as mad.”
It was the exact wrong thing to say. Kylie shook her head. “I want the whole sushi roll.” She nabbed the pencil from Travis and scribbled her own figure. “This is how much I have to spend on supplies and labor. Obviously, I need someone who’ll work cheap. And fast. Oh, and I’ll throw in free shoes.”
Travis looked at the figure.
Faye looked at the figure. She whistled. “You’re taking that out of the business account? Without Spenser’s approval?”
“No. I’m dipping into my personal account.”
“Dipping? It’ll wipe you out! What about your dream trip?”
“It’s just that, Faye. A dream. Sometimes you have to make lemonade out of lemons.” She shrugged. “Or in this case, cider out of apples.”
“I can’t believe you’re giving up,” Faye said. “You’ve worked so hard. Skimped and saved. Again. I can’t—” Her cell phone blared—ringtone of the month, Evanescence’s “Bring Me to Life.” “I have to take this,” she said after checking the screen. “Hi, Miss Miller.” Sting’s kindergarten teacher. “He did what? He…I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Hold on.” Faye gestured to Travis and Kylie she needed to move outside.
Kylie wondered what planet she’d been on when she’d thought about enlisting Faye and Stan’s help. They had full lives. A business. A family. A marriage. They didn’t have time to indulge her life crisis. Especially when they were, possibly, immersed in their own crisis. Except, if that were the case, why hadn’t Faye confided in her? Which brought Kylie back to her initial worry that Faye’s anger was actually directed at her, not Stan. But why?
Dang.
“What about me?”
Kylie blinked out of her musings and focused on Travis. Her temples throbbed as she processed. “You’re offering to help me renovate?”
“I am.”
“But you work full-time and I’m on a tight schedule.”
“I have vacation time coming.”
“Wouldn’t you rather spend that time somewhere else? Somewhere out of Eden?”
“I would, but I can’t.”
Hmm. Maybe he was strapped for funds. “You could relax—”
“I prefer to keep as busy as possible these days.”
Or maybe he didn’t want to travel alone. She suspected keeping busy kept his thoughts off of his deceased wife. Three months back, Mona Martin had succumbed to cancer. Travis had been devastated. He was still damned somber. How long did it take to get over a spouse’s death? She hoped to never know.
Kylie crossed her arms over her middle, trying to decide what to make of the man’s offer. She asked straight out. “Why would you want to do this?”
“To shake up my life?”
Had he been in the bar last night? Had he heard her rant?
“Maybe you miscalculated that figure I jotted. To be clear, I can’t pay you close to what you’d deserve for your time and effort.”
He almost, sort of, smiled. “Happy belated birthday.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AT 10:00 A.M., TRAVIS entered his boss’s office and put in for vacation time. If Hank had refused, he’d been ready to quit. But it didn’t come to that. The man felt sorry for him. Assumed he was still mourning Mona—which he was. Only this wasn’t about Mona. This was about two people stuck in a rut.
By 10:45 a.m., Travis had loaded several cans of paint and various other supplies into the bed of his truck. Hank didn’t carry the kind of lighting fixtures Kylie wanted. Not wanting to wait weeks for an order to come in, she’d been ready to settle for something more conservative. Travis didn’t want her to settle. He told her not to worry. He’d track down those contemporary fixtures or something damn close.
At 11:15 a.m., Travis pulled into his driveway. A burst of adrenaline made his hands shake. He’d broken his routine. He’d tempted fate. Again. He wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure how he felt about that. But this time he wouldn’t turn back.
He raided his work shed for a ladder and toolbox. He pulled a roll of canvas and a bin of paint brushes out of his attic. The whole time he’d been at work boxing up everything Kylie needed, he’d been mentally ticking off items he could bring from home. He’d try to save her what money he could. It bothered him that she’d given up on a dream. He knew all about giving up something important. It ate at your soul. It was too late to save his, but maybe he could save Kylie’s.
Mona wouldn’t approve. She wouldn’t understand why he’d stick his neck out for a person he barely knew. He couldn’t explain it. All he knew was that Kylie McGraw had unleashed the part of him that he’d kept locked away for seven long years. Time to shake up the life forced upon him.
Eleven-forty-five. He stashed his name badge and work hat in a drawer. Changed into a fresh T-shirt and a clean but paint-splattered long-sleeved button-down. He tugged on an Indiana Colts ball cap. In his heart, he rooted for the Eagles.
Lunch consisted of a ham sandwich—white bread, yellow mustard and American cheese, Lays potato chips and a Coke. Of the times they’d shopped together, three times Travis had reached for a package of provolone. Mona had nudged him away.
“They don’t eat provolone,” she’d reminded him after they’d reached the sanctity of home.
Not typically. Typically they ate American, Swiss or Cheddar. Travis had grinned. “I feel daring.”
“No, you don’t,” she said as she put away the groceries. “You feel like everyone else in this county. You dress like them, talk like them, eat like them….” She bobbled a can of Campbell’s soup. It should have been Progresso. “Anything out of the norm—”
“—is dangerous. I know.” He’d hated the fear in her voice. He’d pulled her into his arms and hugged her. He’d assured her that American cheese was just fine.
Only it wasn’t. And Mona was no longer here to reassure.
By 12:40 p.m., Travis was on the road and on his way to McGraw’s Shoe Store. Renovating Kylie’s business called to his artistic side. He’d liked the pictures she’d shown him, although he’d suggested slight variations in the color scheme so as not to deter the male clientele. He’d also recommended scattered throw rugs—a mix of abstract and art deco—as opposed to the wall-to-wall carpet. Less expensive. More impact. Splashes of vibrant color against the dark hardwood floors. Kylie had applauded his vision, naming him a kindred spirit. He didn’t know about that. But he sure liked the way she made him feel.
Alive.
He popped open another can of Coke and floored the Chevy. He knew he’d work hard and work late tonight. Maybe he’d reward himself later…with a bottle of Chianti and a wedge of provolone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACK SAT BEHIND HIS DESK sorting through old newspapers, budget reports, trade magazines and assorted mail. A daunting task, complicated by the fact that he couldn’t concentrate. He’d played with fire this morning. First to soothe his ego. Then to satisfy his desire. He’d wanted to hold Kylie’s hand, to stroke that ivory skin. Watching her blush and ramble had been a turn-on. The more she denied an attraction, the keener his arousal. Growing up, given their four-year age difference, he’d never paid much attention to Kylie-the-kid. But Kylie-the-woman…she was a fascinating enigma.
Mesmerized, he’d imagined her in his arms, in his bed. He’d imagined her flexibility and fiery spirit. He wanted to lose himself in all that spunk and sweetness. He wanted to protect her from men like Ashe Davis and Bobby Jones. In that split second, he’d felt possessive of Kylie Ann McGraw. A sign that he was in deep shit. He wasn’t sure if he could shovel himself out. Worse. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Spenser was always bragging about his sister’s grounded, caring spirit. Connecting intimately with all that goodness could do wonders for Jack’s cynical soul.
Tempting.
The desk phone rang, jerking him out of his destructive musings. “Chief Reynolds,” he answered.
“Personal assistant to Chief Reynolds,” Dorothy Vine replied.
Jack frowned at the woman’s caustic tone. “What is it, Ms. Vine?”
“As requested, I phoned your sister on your behalf and invited her and her daughter to your house—or anyplace of their choice—for dinner.”
It had been a desperate act on his part, asking the squad’s administrative assistant to act as a liaison of sorts. But dammit, he’d been in town for almost a week and Jessie had avoided him at every turn. He knew she had to be heartbroken. She’d finally learned the truth about the Cheating Bastard. Frank Cortez was ruled by his dick, not his heart. That’s if he had a heart. Jack wanted to help Jessie through this. He wanted to help his young niece.
“Jessica Lynn asked me to give you a message,” said Ms. Vine.
“Okay.”
“She said…”
“Go on.”
“Fuck off.”
Disappointing, but not unexpected. Almost amusing coming from straight-laced Ms. Vine. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jack hung up and focused back on his paper-ridden desktop. Better than obsessing on his fractured relationship with his sister and nonexistent relationship with his niece. Better than obsessing on Kylie. According to Ziffel, Chief Curtis had had a filing system. Damned if Jack could figure it out, and he wasn’t about to ask Ms. Vine. Not today. The squad’s administrative assistant, a fifty-something woman with choppy silver hair, green cat-eye glasses and a fondness for polyester suits, had rolled in an hour late—eyes swollen from crying over the former chief, manner brusque. Ziffel was right. She didn’t like the coffee and she didn’t like Shy. She’d spent the next hour sweeping, dusting and dousing the air with pine-scented Glade.
Shy cowered under his desk. He didn’t blame the dog. She probably felt like Toto hiding out from the Wicked Witch of the West. He had to admit, Dorothy Vine was a little scary. Then again, grief caused people to act in strange ways.
Take the parents of the victim who’d instigated Jack’s breakdown. Instead of wanting revenge or, at the very least, demanding justice, they’d swallowed their misery and moved on. Their emotional lockdown had made Jack hyperaware of his own numb state.
“Chief.”
Jack looked up. His expression must’ve been fierce because Ziffel stepped back. “What is it, Deputy?”
“Got a call from dispatch. Disturbance at 1450 Main.”
McGraw’s Shoe Store. Given his previous dark thoughts, Jack tensed. “Define disturbance,” he said as he rose.
“Kylie’s making a scene.”
Shaking things up. He almost smiled. He definitely welcomed the distraction. Jack braced himself for another encounter with the woman—Just don’t touch her for Christ’s sake—and nabbed his jacket. “Let’s roll.”
Shy scrambled out from under the desk and followed them into the administrative office.
Jack tugged on his EPD cap, glanced at Dorothy who was tapping away at the computer. “Do you think—”
“Not a dog-sitter.”
Right.
Head down, Shy zipped ahead of the two men.
Dorothy spritzed the air.
“You,” Ziffel said to Shy as they left the building, “stay downwind.”
“YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS of me, J.J.”
“Maybe not, but you don’t call the shots either, missy.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m ten years old!”
“Then start acting like a responsible adult,” said Ray Keystone.
Arguing with her elders wasn’t Kylie’s style. Nor was airing her dirty laundry, especially in broad daylight directly in front of McGraw’s. But she’d already been knocked dizzy by Faye’s prickly mood and Jack’s unsettling touch. She’d be danged if she’d be bullied into ditching her home-spun adventure just because these fuddy-duddies were opposed to change! Insulted, Kylie smacked a hand to her racing heart. “I am responsible. My family owns this store and we’re renovating.”
“Anyone in your family know about that aside from you?” asked Max.
Kylie felt a small pang of guilt for not running the idea by her mom and grandma. Although they’d never taken an active interest in the business end of things, they did consider McGraw’s a family venture. As for Spenser, well, someone had to take a progressive role. Moving McGraw’s into the twenty-first century would shake things up in a good way. She hoped. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could easily contact her brother or her mom and grandma due to their current exotic locales. That thought only fueled her determination.
“Just as I thought,” Max said. “She’s acting solo.”
J.J. and Keystone chimed in, citing last night’s inebriated rant and a pre-midlife crisis.
Kylie fumed at being ganged up on. First the owner of the pharmacy, then the owner of the barbershop. The two businesses flanking hers. She’d never known these two men could be such curmudgeons. To make matters worse, Max, who still had shaving cream on his chin, had followed Mr. Keystone out of the barbershop to add fuel to the inferno.
“Since when do you fan flames instead of putting them out?” she blasted.
“Just doing my civic duty,” said Max. “Wouldn’t be right if I let you deface property.”
“Damn right,” said J.J.
“I’m not…I’m just…” Spitting mad. She was so dang mad she couldn’t think straight. She lost her train of thought as a crowd gathered.
“Is that pink?” someone asked.
“Prissy pink,” said Max.
J.J. tsked. “If Spenser was here—”
“Well, he’s not,” Kylie snapped.
Keystone shook his finger at Travis, who was perched on the top rung of the ladder, painting the trim of McGraw’s storefront. “I’m warning you, Travis. One more swipe and—”
“You’re not the boss of me, Keystone.” He didn’t look down. He didn’t stop painting.
Kylie refrained from sticking her tongue out at the barber, but couldn’t hold back the “Ha.”
“That’s mature,” said J.J.
“Listen, you…” She trailed off as the crowd parted and Jack showed up on the scene. Darn. She met his bluer-than-blue gaze and ignored the flutter in her heart. Just friends, she told herself, then focused back on her dilemma.
All business, Jack looked to the crotchety trio. “What’s the problem, gentlemen?”
“No problem,” Kylie said.
“Big problem,” said J.J.
“Huge problem,” said Max. “She’s ruining the integrity of the landscape.”
“Sissifying our block,” Keystone groused.
“Since when is jazzing up and adding color sissifying?” Kylie shouted. “If you’d get your heads out of your—”
“Play nice,” Jack warned.
J.J. tsked. “She used to be polite.”
“You mean passive.” Not that she didn’t appreciate the benefits of meditation, but she was sick of squashing her restlessness.
“She’s bored,” said Max.
“Aren’t you?” Kylie asked, blood burning. Of course he was. A career fireman forcibly retired due to his age. She knew he’d rather be at the firehouse, but he’d made a pest of himself and they’d restricted his visits. Now he hung out at Boone’s, Kerri’s and Keystone’s.
“If you’re bored,” said J.J., “get a hobby. Don’t mess with history.”
“She tried to get me to drop my trousers,” Max told the ten or so bystanders.
They snickered and whistled.
Kylie flushed head to toe. “No, I didn’t! I just…I…”
“Deputy,” said Jack.
“Sir?”
“Move the spectators along.”
“Will do,” he said, and he did.
That’s when she noticed the dog. A midsize pooch with big sad eyes—sort of like Travis’s. Instead of leaving with the gawkers, the dog leaned into Jack. “Who’s that?” she asked.
“Shy,” he said.
“Yours?”
“No.” He gestured to Travis. “Who’s that?”
“Travis Martin.” She knew he didn’t know Travis. The Martins had moved to Eden long after Jack had moved to New York. But she didn’t offer further information. Actually, aside from the fact that Travis worked at Hank’s Hardware, was a widower and wore a ten-and-a-half shoe, she didn’t have much information to offer.
“Mr. Martin,” he called. “Stop what you’re doing and join us.”
Travis abandoned his post, set aside his brush and wiped his hands on a rag.
“I’m Jack Reynolds.”
“The new chief of police.” Travis nodded. “Welcome to Eden.”
“Jack’s a native,” Ray said.
“I used to make him chocolate Cokes when he was a kid,” J.J. said.
Travis just nodded.
Kylie shifted as the two men studied each other. She sensed some tension, which was weird. They’d never met before today. “I’m doing some renovations,” Kylie said, wanting Jack to vamoose. “I’m allowed.”
“No, she isn’t,” J.J. said.
“My family owns this business.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Keystone. “It’s part of a historical block.”
“You’re allowed to maintain the look of your storefront,” J.J said. “But you can’t alter it. Not drastically. You have to get a permit for that.”
“You’re kidding.” She’d never heard of that. Then again, her family had never tried painting the storefront anything other than what it had been before. Tradition.
Jack folded his arms over his chest, studied the storefronts. “Deputy?”
“Anything to do with the building’s exterior is governed by the Historic Preservation Society,” Ziffel said. “She needs approval from them and the town zoning board.”
“Told you,” said J.J.
Kylie narrowed her eyes. “That’s mature.”
“Kylie,” Jack said.
“Yes?”
“Get a permit.”
J.J. and Keystone chuckled.
Max, the contrary cuss, said, “Ha.”
Kylie wanted to smack them all. She envisioned knocking Jack off his black utility boots with a side kick. But if she’d learned anything from her two years of jujitsu, it was self-discipline. She clenched her fists at her side and took a cleansing breath. It didn’t help.
Deputy Ziffel cautioned the men about disturbing the peace and herded them back to their respective stores. The mutt stayed put.
Jack glanced at the paint cans lined alongside the building, then focused on Travis. “Got any white paint?”
“I could get some.”
“Cover up your handy work until Kylie gets a permit.”
Travis didn’t say anything. He just left. To get some white paint, she presumed.
Dang.
“How do you know that guy?” Jack asked.
How do you know that dog? “He works at the hardware store.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Working for me.”
Jack squinted at the trim. “Pink?”
“Moroccan spice.”
“Looks pink.”
Kylie just smiled. Actually, it was a muted tone compared to what she’d first had in mind.
Jack met her gaze. He didn’t smile back. “You want to piss off your brother? Get a permit.”
“You said that already.” Kylie couldn’t say what set her off, specifically. She was miffed about a lot of things. Not knowing about the permit, for one. Travis, for two. She’d felt some sort of bond with the man. He’d taken vacation time for her, committed to her cause. Then, at the first sign of trouble, he’d thrown in the brush. Okay, so Jack was the law and Travis was a law-abiding citizen. Still, she felt deserted and disappointed. Much as she had with Faye.
“I will act out of the ordinary in order to attract and promote change. Change is exciting. Change is good.”
She turned on her rubber heels and commandeered Travis’s brush. She eyeballed the stern-faced chief and, ignoring the skip in her pulse, dipped her weapon in Moroccan Spice.
“Don’t do it,” Jack warned.
“Don’t worry,” Ziffel said as he returned to the scene of the almost crime. “Kylie’s a sensible girl.”
It was the exact wrong thing to say. She climbed the ladder, gripping the rungs with one hand, holding the paint-slathered brush with the other.
“Used to be modest, too,” she heard Ziffel say. “Although her undies ain’t what I’d call sexy.”
Kylie froze two rungs from the top. “Are you looking up my skirt, Ed Ziffel?” She glared down. “You are!” And so was Jack.
He grinned. “Boxers?”
“They were the only clean shorts I had!” Any further explanation was silenced when she misstepped. She grabbed the ladder with both hands, bobbled the brush. Her heart pounded in her ears, muffling Ziffel’s curse.
She glanced down and saw the slash and dribbles of pink—er, Moroccan Spice—on the deputy’s dark blue uniform. The brush had bounced off his shoulder and landed on the sidewalk. “Sorry,” she squeaked as the paint-splattered cement zoomed up to her face in some weird 3-D movie illusion, then slammed back down to earth.
“You shook things up,” said Jack, sounding half amused, half pissed. “Happy now?”
“Not really.”
“Climb down.”
She would if she could, but her legs wouldn’t move.
“Now.”
She broke out in a sweat, her vision blurred. She cursed the cosmos—the liquor kind—and her hangover. Hugging the ladder tight, she focused straight ahead. Which put her at eye-level to the sign with her family’s motto: Practical shoes for practical people.
“Not for long,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
“I won’t ask twice,” Jack said.
“New crowd gathering,” Ziffel muttered, then switched to an authoritative tone. “Move along, people. Nothing to see.”
She tensed when the ladder creaked under more weight. She felt a couple of soft bounces, then a hard body climbing up behind her. Every nerve in her body pulsed. She told herself it was because she’d had a fright. Not because Jack’s front was plastered to her back.
Pursuing an intimate relationship would only end in heartache.
“When did you get so damned stubborn?” Jack said close to her ear.
No way was she going to admit to a hangover-induced dizzy spell. Aside from all the nerve pulsing, she felt slightly better. Probably because she was focused on the feel and smell of Jack and not the long drop down. She relaxed against him, and next thing she knew she’d been plucked from the ladder. Her knees buckled when her boots hit the sidewalk, but she didn’t crumple due to Jack’s hold on her waist.
“You can go, Ziffel,” he said. “Drop your shirt at the cleaners and be sure to send Miss McGraw the bill.”
“Hey,” she complained. But Ziffel was already stalking off and Jack was hauling her inside McGraw’s. She pried at his hands. “Stop manhandling me.”
He let her go, but backed her up against the wall in between the gumball machine and the cashier counter.
She didn’t like being bullied. She especially didn’t like the erotic thrill she got when he braced his hands on the wall and fenced her in. Or the heat between her thighs when he leaned close. Or the fluttery feeling in her stomach when his gaze slid over her mouth.
“Find a new hiding place for your spare key, Tiger.”
What?
Then she flashed on the night before. Jack driving her home. Lost purse. Locked door.
Oops.
He made eye contact and her stomach flipped. Ice-blue eyes on fire.
Yikes.
“Under the doormat? Why don’t you leave the door open and a plate of cookies on the table for the burglars and rapists?”
His sarcasm grated. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic, Chief Reynolds?”
“Another thing. Hire someone to install motion-detector lighting and think about an alarm system. You live in the fu—” he glanced away and back “—frickin’ middle of nowhere.”
Kylie scrunched her brow. “Is this a lecture on home security? Is my trailer even in your jurisdiction? I’m pretty sure I’m suppose to call the county police if I need help, which I won’t, since nothing ever happens in the frickin’ middle of nowhere.”
“You left your purse at Boone’s last night.”
Did he just skate over her rant? “So?”
“I assume you keep your drivers license in your wallet.”
Uh-oh.
“It’s unlawful to operate a motor vehicle without proof of license.”
Well, duh. “So lock me up.”
He quirked a humorless smile. “No.”
“Then let me go.”
He didn’t budge. “What’s with the motorcycle?”
“This conversation is giving me whiplash.”
“What’s the projected repair time on your car?”
“A week or so, depending on when the part comes in. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Are you aware of the statistics on motorcycle accidents?”
“What are you? Standing in for my brother?”
“Someone has to look out for you. You’ve gone a little loopy, hon.”
“Loopy?”
Breathe, Kylie, breathe.
No. Don’t breathe. Blow!
“Just because I want to redecorate the store? Just because I own a motorcycle? Or is it my flower-power boots? You lived in New York City. Surely you’ve seen more outrageous shoes than these. Stop trying to squash my spirit, Jack Reynolds!”
Her skin burned with fury…or something…when his gaze dropped to her boots and slowly skimmed up her bare legs, over her funky attire, settling at long last on her mouth. Oh, God. Was he going to kiss her?
Her brain and body sizzled with dread and hope. What if she felt something this time? What if he reignited her crush, full flame? Then she’d be doomed to be alone forever, because no other man would ever measure up!
“I wouldn’t dream of squashing your spirit, Tiger. Long as you don’t break the law.” He pushed off the wall, severing the anticipation, the tension.
Relief and disappointment warred, making Kylie snap. “You’re not the boss of me!”
Doh! Was it any wonder he still thought of her as Spenser’s kid sister?
This time his smile was downright cocky. He tugged at the brim of his EPD cap. “Where the law is concerned, yeah, I sort of am.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the pointy-ear dog that wasn’t Jack’s peek out from under a chair and follow him outside. Had she been in here the entire time?
Travis walked in, carrying gallons of paint and a roll of tarp. Had he been out there the entire time? Listening?
Kylie flushed and smoothed her disheveled hair.
He flashed a sympathetic look. “I’ll start on the interior. You get the permit.”
And just like that, she didn’t feel so alone in her quest for adventure.
CHAPTER NINE
TRAVIS PULLED INTO HIS driveway and cut the engine. He glanced at his luminous watch—12:05 a.m. He rubbed his hands over his weary face. He was exhausted.
Mentally.
Emotionally and physically.
He sat in the dark, not wanting to go inside. Not wanting to go to sleep. When he slept, he dreamed of another life. His old life. It made him melancholy. It made him angry.
At least when Mona had been alive he’d had someone to confide in. She had similar dreams. Sometimes they’d lie in the dark and talk about the past. Friends. Family.
Enemies.
Enemies were the reason they couldn’t be with friends and family.
It was why they ate jarred sauce and American cheese. Why he drank beer instead of Chianti. Why he spoke with a nasally twang instead of his native Philly accent. Why he dressed in jeans and flannel shirts instead of Armani suits. He hated that he’d attended Mona’s funeral wearing cheap oxfords. She deserved better. But if he’d worn the Ferragamo slip-ons he kept hidden away, she would’ve rolled over in her cheap-ass coffin. God rest her soul.
Travis gripped the steering wheel and endured a fresh wave of grief. Mona’s suffering had started long before the cancer. He’d never forgiven himself. He’d tried to make it right, though. He’d sacrificed everything to make it right.
Today, he’d taken another step in that direction. While painting the walls of Kylie’s store and listening to her lovingly brag and gripe about her family, he couldn’t help thinking about the way Mona would reminisce about her family. Did the Vespas reminisce about her? Had they mourned her death? Had her brother gotten the letter he’d sent? Circumstances prohibited him from contacting them directly. But he’d followed procedure. He’d done the right thing. He realized in the midst of Kylie’s ramblings that he’d been hoping to hear back from someone, anyone from their past. The silence made him wonder. Had his letter gone missing?
Don’t do anything stupid.
He should’ve called WITSEC, but he was still pissed by his new contact’s lack of response to Mona’s death. The U.S. marshal/inspector originally assigned to them had been transferred, which made Travis feel even more isolated. At least he and Burton had a history. He’d never even met his replacement face-to-face. Obviously, Travis Martin was no longer a priority.
Feeding off Kylie McGraw’s determination to buck the system, he’d taken a break and made a quick trip to the library. He’d borrowed a computer terminal, created a bogus account and sent an e-mail. He’d taken more risks in this one day than every day of the last several years combined. He felt anxious. He felt empowered.
He squinted through the windshield, expecting the new chief of police to appear out of the shadows. He’d been anticipating a visit from the man all night. No dice. Either Reynolds was letting him stew or he hadn’t yet read the file. One thing was certain, he’d riled the cop’s interest. He’d seen it in his eyes.
“This is bad,” he could hear Mona say. But Travis barely cared.
Don’t do anything stupid.
Too late.
If not for today, he probably could’ve avoided contact with the new chief of police for a good long while. Maybe forever. He didn’t know Jack Reynolds, but he knew he wasn’t a rube like Ben Curtis. A former NYPD detective, Reynolds had experience with men like Travis. Or at least the man he used to be. The question was, would he allow Travis to exist as he had for the past seven years? Or would he make waves?
If only he hadn’t offered his services to Kylie. But when she’d shown him those pictures and when he’d expanded on her vision, he’d gotten that old rush. He was born to create, not to corrupt. Certainly not to kill. He was the defective son, the troublesome brother. A disappointment to the family. He’d tried to conform. He had conformed. As had been expected of him, he’d married a nice Italian girl. Instead of going into interior design, he’d become a lawyer, the mouthpiece for the family business. Able to finesse his way around the stickiest legal issues, those in his circle had dubbed him the Artful Dodger. He’d been respected, revered even. But then he’d broken with convention. That one indiscretion had instigated a bloodbath.
The memory of those final days still sickened him. Their reaction. His retaliation. Vengeance went both ways. He had a lot of regrets, but there was no way to mend that bridge. He couldn’t go back. But, dammit, he was sick of Travis Martin.
He reached across the seat and snatched the brown paper bag filled with his late-night booty. Red wine, provolone cheese and pepperoni. Three of the Artful Dodger’s culinary favorites.
CHAPTER TEN
JACK AWOKE AT 3:15 A.M. with a hard-on. He’d been dreaming about Kylie. Kissing Kylie. Stroking Kylie. Rolling in the sheets with Kylie. He’d never had a woman get under his skin so fast. She wasn’t even his type. Not that he hadn’t sampled a variety of women, but he had a definite weakness for fair-haired women in distress. Something he’d discovered when he’d gone to a marriage counselor with Amanda. A fascination rooted in childhood. When he was twelve, he saw Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo and fell in love with Kim Novak, or rather the character she portrayed in the film. He not only lusted after her, he wanted to rescue her. Since then, he’d always gravitated toward curvy, classic beauties. Most of them blond. All of them needy.
Kylie had a petite, athletic build. She had dark, quirky features and a modest sense of style—usually. She ran a business and looked after her mom and grandma. She didn’t need a man, although he was surprised no man had snatched her up. Unless the men of Eden were scared off by her competence and stubborn streak. She’d proved herself a handful today. He couldn’t say what fired him up most—her contrary spirit, her shapely legs, the striped boxer shorts or that sassy mouth. Horny and pissed, he’d backed her against the wall.
He’d wanted to shake her.
He’d wanted to kiss her.
Neither action seemed prudent.
So he’d lectured. Home security. Motorcycle safety. He’d pissed her off. He didn’t feel bad about that. She’d pissed him off when she’d climbed that ladder. Something told him they’d knock heads again. Fine. If they kept pissing each other off, maybe the attraction would fizzle. The “kid” barrier was history. The face that intrigued him, the body that tempted him, belonged to a thirty-two-year-old woman.
Except she’s still Spenser’s sister. She’s a nice girl and you’re a cynical bastard.
Getting physical with Kylie would be disastrous. He could list a dozen reasons.
Maybe he should list the reasons. Right now. Mentally. Like counting sheep.
It was that or a cold shower.
Christ.
He rolled over and got a face full of fur. Thanks to the vet, at least Shy didn’t smell bad. “What are you doing up here?”
The dog groaned and curled into a tighter ball. At least someone was getting a good night’s sleep.
Jack thought about nudging Shy off his bed, but he didn’t have the heart. She’d probably spent the last month sleeping in the woods or in a random barn or shed. He’d walked her around town today. No one recognized her. He dropped her at the vet for an examination. Aside from being malnourished and flea-bitten, she was healthy. For her gas, Dr. Price had suggested a high-quality pet food. No dairy products or table scraps. Jack had purchased a small bag of the recommended dry food. Enough to last until he found her a home. To Shy’s dismay, she’d been shampooed, deloused and groomed. A flyer featuring her picture now hung on the animal hospital’s bulletin board: Free to a good home.
Jack thought about his niece. He wondered if she liked dogs. Yeah, that would go over well with his prissy, snobby sister.
Shy barked a split second before he heard the sharp knock on the front door. He glanced at his clock as he swung out of bed—3:25 a.m.
He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. He braced for something bad. People don’t drop by in the middle of the night with good news. He should know. He’d paid many a nocturnal visit while working Homicide.
After motioning Shy to stay, he tucked his Glock in the back of his waistband and navigated the stairs in the dark. He peeked through the living room curtains. What the hell? His sister—the woman who’d been avoiding him for days—stood on the front stoop, balancing a little girl, his niece, on one hip and a bulging backpack on her shoulder.
Alarmed, he switched on a light and opened the door.
“Sorry to wake you,” Jessie snapped before he could ask what’s wrong?
“No problem.” He quickly surmised she hadn’t been in a car accident or house fire. No blood, no bruises, no burns. Maddie looked okay, too. Oddly wide awake for the middle of the night, but fine. He focused back on his sister. She looked frazzled. Pale and fidgety. No makeup. Lopsided ponytail and ill-fitting clothes. This woman didn’t look anything like his confident, pageant queen, fashion-conscious sister. This woman had fled home in the middle of the night in a panic. Had the Cheating Bastard shown up? Called? Harassed her? Scared her? He didn’t want to ask in front of the kid.
“We couldn’t sleep,” Jessie said.
“Our house is sad,” Maddie said in a small voice.
Chest tight, Jack relieved his sister of the weighty backpack. “Come in.”
“Are you my uncle Jack?” Maddie asked as they moved into the sparsely furnished living room.
“Sure am, sweet pea.” He hated that she had to ask. Hated that he’d allowed work and pride to interfere with family.
“Where’s your badge?”
“Upstairs.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Can I see it?”
“Not now, Madeline.” Jessie set her daughter on the couch.
Jack set the backpack on his recliner. He noted the little girl’s pink pajamas, her bunny slippers and the colorful bear clutched to her chest. He recognized that bear. He’d sent her that stuffed animal as a Christmas gift two years earlier. Jessie and Frank had made it clear he was unwelcome in their home, their lives. Naturally, he thought they’d deprived Maddie of the gifts he’d sent over the years. Jessie had intimated as such. It warmed him to learn otherwise.
Throat thick, he smiled even though he knew something was wrong. “Can I get you ladies, anything? Milk and cookies?”
Maddie glanced at her mom, at Jack. “We don’t eat cookies.”
“Why not?”
“Too fattening.”
That was his sister talking. A woman—thanks to years on the pageant circuit—obsessed with body image. No five-year-old should be worrying about her weight unless she was obese, which Maddie wasn’t. She was a skinny little thing with long black hair and big brown eyes.
“Well, I eat cookies,” Jack said, cursing himself for not being a better uncle, or for that matter, a better brother. “And I could use a late-night snack.”
He wondered if Jessie ever snacked. Hell, he wondered if she ate, period. He’d have to refrain from force-feeding her an entire bag of Fig Newtons. She looked rail thin in her baggy jeans and shapeless shirt. She’d always been thin, but this was troubling.
He smoothed a hand over Maddie’s silky hair. “I need your mom’s help in the kitchen. We won’t be long. Do you want to lie down?”
“Can’t sleep.” Maddie hugged the bear tighter—a chubby teddy he’d stuffed himself at one of those Build-A-Bear stores. Patches looked worn and loved, and suddenly he didn’t feel like the worst uncle in the world, just a lame one.
“Do you have a DVD player?” Jessie asked.
He nodded.
She unzipped the front pocket of the cartoon backpack they’d brought. “Here.” She passed him a DVD. A Disney flick.
Jack put the disk in his player and fired up the movie without comment. He wanted Jessie in the kitchen. He wanted answers.
“Who’s that?” asked Maddie.
Jack turned and saw the pointy-eared mutt sitting at the bottom of the stairs. So much for following orders. “That’s Shy.”
Mother and daughter spoke at the same time.
“Does she bite?”
“Is she yours?”
“No and no. We’ll be right back,” he said to Maddie, while motioning Jessie to follow.
Once inside the kitchen, he spoke frankly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing I can’t fix. But I can’t do it tonight.” She tucked her hands under her armpits and paced. “I feel like I’m coming out of my skin. I hate this.”
So did Jack. Until he knew what was wrong, he couldn’t fix it. If he pressed too hard, too fast, she might bolt. Considering they’d been estranged for years, Jessie being here like this was a breakthrough. He didn’t want to screw it up. “How about some hot tea?”
“How about something stronger?”
Given his recent battle with booze, he hadn’t stocked the house with hard liquor. “All I’ve got is beer.”
“I’ll take it.”
As far as he knew, she never drank anything other than wine spritzers. Damn, he itched to press. What’s wrong? Instead he got her a beer and poured a glass of milk for his niece.
Jessie paced and chugged. “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other choice.”
“That’s flattering,” he said while loading a plate with cookies.
“Look. I know we’ve never been on great terms. As kids or adults,” she said in a tight, brittle voice. “But I…we…Madeline and me…need a place to spend the night.”
He should have said okay. Plain and simple. But there was nothing simple about their relationship. And he’d be damned if he’d let her freeze him out in his own house. “Why? Did Frank show up? Does he want to move back in?”
“No.”
“Did he call? Threaten you?”
“I haven’t talked to Frank in two weeks.”
“He calls to speak with his daughter, right?”
She didn’t answer.
Jack looked over his shoulder. “You’re kidding.”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Frank never wanted…Madeline was…”
An accident? Unexpected? So what? Just when he thought his opinion of his brother-in-law couldn’t sink any lower. “You can stay here as long as you like, Jessie.”
“I don’t like it at all,” she said, still pacing, still drinking. “But I can’t impose on friends and I can’t afford the Orchard House.”
Jack blew over the personal jab and focused on the financial. “Are you telling me that fu—” He glanced toward the sound of cartoon voices and cheery music. “That Frank’s not supporting you?”
“I don’t want his money. I don’t want anything to do with him or anything that belonged to him—including the house. We’ll be fine. Madeline and me. I just want…I need to make my own way. And I will. Starting tomorrow. I mean, later today.”
Jack worked his jaw. She’d shut him out of her life for years. Avoided him like the plague since he’d returned home. He couldn’t help himself. He had to push. “What happened between fuck-off and showing up on my doorstep, Jessie? It had to be damned bad for you to come to me, in the middle of the night, no less.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I…I can’t.”
He noted the crack in her voice, the trembling of her hands. “Okay.”
“Please don’t grill me.”
“Fine.”
“Or think you have to save me.”
“You want to make it on your own.”
She stopped in her tracks. “You don’t think I can?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Just because I didn’t finish college or devote my life to some noble cause…” She trailed off and looked for a place to ditch the beer. She looked embarrassed, upset and exhausted.
“Why don’t we revisit this discussion after some shuteye?” Jack relieved her of the empty bottle, then grabbed the milk and cookies. “You keep Maddie company while I change my sheets.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call her that. Nicknames are…I don’t know.”
“Humanizing?”
“Undignified.”
“Jessie is undignified?”
“My name is Jessica. Jessica Lynn.”
“Sounds stuffy,” said Jack.
“To you, maybe. But it’s my given name and I’m proud of it.”
“Okay.”
“So you’ll call me Jessica? And Madeline, Madeline?”
“Probably not.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “Why do you have to be so headstrong?”
He looked at her and smiled. “Runs in the family.”
She opened her mouth, closed it. After a thoughtful pause, she changed the subject. “Why do you have to change your sheets?”
“No furniture in the other two bedrooms yet,” he explained. “You and Maddie take my bed. I’ll take the couch.” Before she could argue, he slipped into the living room. His niece was fast asleep. So was Shy. They were curled up side by side—one hand, one paw on the stuffed bear.
Jessie groaned. “I hope she doesn’t get attached to that dog.”
Jack hoped the exact opposite.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KYLIE WOKE UP EXHAUSTED. Three hours of sleep will do that to you. It wasn’t even three restful hours. Bleary-eyed, she schlepped to the shower. Her mind still churned on the things that had plagued her the night before.
She fretted over her upcoming appointment with Eden’s Historic Preservation Society, otherwise known as the HPS. She hated that she hadn’t been able to get that over with yesterday. Nope. They’d insisted she wait until their scheduled weekly meeting. Thank goodness that was today. The suspense, the delay, was killing her. Although, it wasn’t like her renovation was on hold. Travis had made tremendous, no, amazing progress on the interior. He’d worked tirelessly. And, although he hadn’t been keen on her helping to paint the walls, he did coach her in redecorating the chairs she already owned instead of purchasing new ones. She appreciated the cost-saving suggestion and his creative tips. Who knew a hardware guy could be so artsy? She also admired his energy. She’d pooped out around 6:00 p.m., plus she wanted to get home before dark. Travis had stayed on. He’d said he was in a groove. She suspected he was avoiding his lonely house.
Kylie scratched shampoo through her hair, feeling a little lonely herself. She blamed the chief of police. Celibacy was a lot easier when you weren’t battling desire. Once she’d finally drifted off last night, she’d dreamed about Jack pinning her against a wall. Jack undressing her with his eyes, his hands. Jack touching her, kissing her.
In McGraw’s Shoe Store.
Her family’s place of business.
She’d been squirming with thigh-quaking lust, begging the hunky lawman to boink her senseless when suddenly she’d spotted her dad. Not for real. But in the dream. Unfortunately it had been a lucid dream. So in addition to experiencing erotic thrills compliments of Jack, she also sensed Dewy McGraw’s shock and dismay. Kylie had spent her entire life trying to win her dad’s approval. Now he was gone and she was still proving a disappointment.
She rinsed the herbal-scented suds from her hair, pondering the relevance of that weird dream. It had to run deeper than her dad frowning on public displays of sex.
At least he hadn’t materialized in her second dream. Her mortification would’ve been off the charts. She’d gotten down and dirty with Jack in a jail cell. Handcuffs were involved. Just thinking about the things he’d done to her made Kylie ache.
“Crushing on Jack is stupid,” she told herself as she cranked the cold water. “He’s not attracted to you. If he was, he would have kissed you in the store. He didn’t even flirt.”
She continued to talk herself out of the attraction as she soaped her body. Only, her mind kept flashing on the handcuffs, iron bars and lots of naked flesh. Suddenly she was touching herself everywhere Jack had touched her. Or at least everywhere her subconscious wanted him to touch her. The cold water pelting her body did little to cool the heat between her legs. Frustrated, she nabbed the handheld shower massage, turned the dial and directed the fast and hard pulsating stream to where she ached most. She exploded with a quaking orgasm in two seconds flat.
Breathless, she wilted against the wall of the cramped stall. Seconds later, her heart settled in her chest, and instead of satisfied, she felt a twinge of guilt and regret.
“Why can’t I make you come like that?” Bobby had once asked after he’d urged her to pleasure herself.
She didn’t know, and it frustrated her that it bothered him so much. It’s not like she didn’t enjoy sex with him. In fact, she went out of her way to please him. It made her feel good when she drove him over the edge. Why couldn’t that be enough?
She’d assured him that it wasn’t his fault. “I’ve only been with two other men and I didn’t have orgasms then, either.” That didn’t make him feel better. In fact, two weeks later he left on a travel assignment and never came back. She didn’t want to believe it was because she was wired wrong, so she convinced herself, and everyone else, he’d simply gotten cold feet.
In a way, she wished she was promiscuous. Maybe she’d benefit from more experience.
Unfortunately, Kylie had never been able to wrap her mind around sex without an emotional attachment. If she could, she would’ve indulged in casual affairs in search of a skilled lover with the magic touch. A lover who’d show her the orgasmic stars.
In her dreams, Jack was that man. She hated that she couldn’t wipe those erotic sensations and images from her mind. She hated that she was contemplating risking her heart in order to fulfill a primitive yearning. Maybe she wasn’t wired wrong. Maybe she just hadn’t been with the right man. Maybe she could handle a fling with Jack because she was emotionally attached to him. Maybe if she knew going in that it wouldn’t be forever.
“Wow,” she said as she toweled off. “Given the proper motivation, a girl can talk herself into anything.”
Thoughtful, Kylie swiped her hand over the steamy mirror and frowned at her reflection. “When Jack looks at you, he sees Spenser’s kid sister.” She hated that, too. “Maybe it’s because you haven’t updated your look in, well, ever. Maybe it’s because he’s used to slick city chicks and you look like a frumpy bumpkin.”
Inspiration struck. Or rather, an intense urge to shake things up.
She stared into the mirror, tried to envision a new haircut and color. She couldn’t.
“But Faye could.”
They’d never gotten that private moment yesterday. Faye had blown back into the hardware store, saying she had things to do at Orchard House, then she’d blown back out. The tension had been worse than before. At a loss, Kylie had decided to give her friend space and time.
That meant trusting her makeover to Petunia, the owner and primary stylist at the local beauty shop. Most of the woman’s clients walked out with a perm or last year’s hot celebrity cut. Seeing as Kylie wasn’t big on poodles or Posh, visiting a big-city stylist might be a safer bet. Except, she couldn’t afford the long drive. Couldn’t afford missing her meeting with the HPS. Plus, she probably couldn’t get an appointment for today, anyway, and she wanted a makeover now. She’d just have to be firm about what she didn’t want and hope for the best.
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Beth Ciotta
Sometimes paradise isn't all it's cracked up to beThat's what I, Kylie McGraw, have discovered since sacrificing my dreams of traveling the world to run the family shoe store. But if I have my way, peaceful Eden, Indiana, is in for a major shake-up….It all began on my birthday, when I got drunk and disorderly all over Eden's hunky new police chief (and my former high school crush), Jack Reynolds. Then I may have, in my Cosmo haze, witnessed a murder in progress. Now I'm almost certain I'm being stalked by the mob, while he-of-the-distracting-abs Jack continues to think I'm nuts. However, there comes a time when a girl has to kick off her sensible shoes (size 7, cushion insoles) and go after what she wants. So if I can just survive long enough to put on my sexy new red heels, that's exactly what I intend to do….
Dear Reader,
Even though I’ve lived the life of an east-coast city girl for almost half of my life, I was born and raised in a small Midwestern town. You know the saying: you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. Or something like that. Personally, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I cherish my small-town roots.
Some of my fondest memories are connected to a town much like Eden—the fictional setting of this book. Although as a teenager I recall I couldn’t wait to get out. I had big dreams! It’s been a wild ride to be sure, but sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if circumstances had kept me tied to that small, old-fashioned town. What of my adventurous spirit? What of my romantic nature?
Join me as I step into Kylie McGraw’s funky shoes and shake things up in a bid to have it all!
Cheers!
Beth
Praise for
Beth Ciotta’s
Chameleon Chronicles series
EVIE EVER AFTER
“Ciotta pulls out all the stops as she follows All About Evie and Everybody Loves Evie with another winner.”
—Booklist
“Ciotta deserves major kudos for creating such an array of memorable characters and such a fun-filled series.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars)
EVERYBODY LOVES EVIE
“Ciotta’s wry humor; sexy, multifaceted characters; and layered plotlines make this a fun spy romp.”
—Booklist
“Everybody loves a skillfully characterized, humorously narrated and undeniably well-plotted novel.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars, Top Pick)
ALL ABOUT EVIE
“All About Evie is an amazing charmer…I look forward to more works, sure to dazzle and entertain, by this wonderfully talented author.”
—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham
“Everything about Ciotta’s latest novel is fabulous: the lovable heroine, the sexy hero, the consistently humorous internal monologue, the smooth narration and the delightfully original plot.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 ½ stars, Top Pick)
Out of Eden
Beth Ciotta
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to my brother, Bob Miller—a courageous and inspiring spirit. Ride that bull!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is where I get to thank the awesome people who helped give this story life.
Two very special ladies brainstormed and critiqued this tale from beginning to end. Barb Hisle and Cynthia Valero—if I baked, I’d whip you up a lifetime of mouthwatering brownies!
Two other very special ladies provided me with never-ending cyber hugs and support. Mary Stella and Julia Templeton—clinking my cyber champagne glass to yours!
One very special husband put up with my cranky moods and crappy housekeeping when in the throes of deadline hell. Steve Ciotta—are you feeling the love?
One special agent who “gets me” and “champions me.” Amy Moore-Benson—I’m saving a dance, any dance, for you.
One special editor who handled this story and the creator with tender loving care. Keyren Gerlach—you’re one of a kind.
One special soul who bid on a mention in this tale via a donation to an extremely worthy cause. Kerri Waldo—your generous spirit gave a character life. Enjoy!
Countless special individuals at HQN who worked together to create a fantastic package (love my cover!) and to market this story far and wide—my heartfelt gratitude.
Last, but most importantly, a mega-huge, very enthusiastic nod to booksellers, librarians and YOU, the reader. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to share the stories of my heart.
Thank you all!
Out of Eden
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
“YOU ARE A HEEL. A chunky heel. A chunky, boring heel. Please don’t take this personally, but I’m over you.”
“I knew it was a mistake to let you drink cosmopolitans.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re talking to your shoe.”
“I was talking to my shoe. Now I’m talking to you.” Sensible slip-on in one hand, toxic cocktail in the other, Kylie McGraw leaned back against the red vinyl seat of one of the four booths in Boone’s Bar and Grill and frowned across the table at Faye Tyler, two of her—strike that—one of her splendiferous best friends. They’d grown up together in Eden, Indiana—Paradise in the Heartland according to the slogan emblazoned on the green water tower planted on the outskirts of town. Someone had even painted red apples on the elevated tank so that the tower resembled a, you got it, apple tree. This was, after all, Eden, a place where most residents lived out their years because who would want to leave paradise? Except for the occasional thrill-seeker and random oddball. Although sometimes fate intervened and even they stuck around. Kylie and Faye were prime examples.
Kylie sipped her drink and studied her friend, reflecting on how they’d come to this moment.
Faye, who’d wanted to be a rock star, was married with two kids and owned the local bed-and-breakfast.
Kylie, who’d wanted a husband and kids, was single and running a business she should have inherited. Nothing was going according to plan. Even her dream of touring Asia, a dream she’d nurtured since the age of thirteen, seemed doomed. It’s not that her life was horrible—just horribly boring.
This morning she’d woken up another year older, thinking about another year of the same. Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days of ordinary. She’d barely made it through the long, uneventful, dull-as-the-mayor’s-speeches day. Then Faye had picked her up for her birthday celebration and it was official. Kylie had reached the end of her extraordinarily vast and famous patience.
Faye and her slightly blurry twin snapped their fingers two inches from Kylie’s face. “Earth to McGraw. Are you zoning or comatose?”
Kylie adjusted her black oval glasses and blinked away the double image, conceding cosmopolitans packed a mighty punch. Either that or Boone had screwed up the ingredients. Possible, since he’d referred to a mix recipe and his reading glasses were forever perched on top of his balding head. “Okay. Maybe I am a teensy bit tipsy, but I am not, absolutely not drunk. And even if I was—” she grappled for a righteous excuse “—it is my birthday.”
“I’m not saying you aren’t entitled to cut loose,” Faye said, nursing a frosty mug of Budweiser. “It’s just that you always drink beer.”
“Exactly!” Kylie jabbed her shoe in the air to emphasize her point. “I always drink beer.”
Faye sighed. “I have no idea what that means.”
“It means I can’t take it anymore.”
“Define it?”
“The predictability. The routine. The mundane. The run-of-the-mill, unremarkable, habitual sameness—”
“I get the picture.”
“Today is my birthday.”
“September 15. Same day every year.”
“And every year we spend my birthday together.”
“Since you turned twelve, yes. We’ve yet to miss a celebration, which goes to show how much I love you. I could be home watching MTV.”
“You see my point.”
“Not really.”
“Same ol’, same ol’.”
Faye shrugged, smiled. “Not following.”
“Every year we celebrate my birthday the same way. Pizza King. Movie. And since we turned twenty-one, Boone’s Bar and Grill.”
“Except we skipped the movie this time and came straight to Boone’s,” she said with a frown. “It’s 7:00 p.m. We’re the only ones here aside from a few guys throwing back happy hour brewskies and you’re already half tanked.”
Kylie scrunched her nose. “I heard that mobster flick’s more violent than The Godfather and The Departed combined. Did you really want to see it?”
“Not really. But since the Bixley only runs one feature, it’s not like we had a choice. We could have closed our eyes during the gory parts.”
“We would’ve missed three-quarters of the movie!”
“That’s not the point! We always celebrate your birthday the same way. Pizza. Movie. Boone’s. It’s tradition.”
“It’s boring.” Maybe it was the alcohol, but Kylie could swear the curls of Faye’s bleached hair drooped along with her smile. “Not you,” she clarified, “tradition.”
She glanced at her friend’s manicured fingernails. Tonight they were metallic blue. Tomorrow they could be vivid orange or neon pink. Sometimes she even adorned them with decals and rhinestones. She was nearly as creative with her hairstyles, although she changed the shade every other month rather than every other day. Her thrift shop wardrobe ranged from 1960s Annette Funicello to 1990s Madonna. “You,” Kylie said with sincere admiration, “are the Gwen Stefani of Eden.”
Faye tucked her shoulder-length platinum curls behind her ears and quirked a thinly tweezed, meticulously penciled brow. “I take back the scathing remark I mentally slung your way.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Kylie was not so adventurous with her appearance. Her wardrobe was casual. Loose-fitting clothes in muted, earthy tones. Minimal makeup and accessories. She came from the less-is-more camp. She wasn’t sexy or funky or feminine. She was…sensible.
She was also miserable.
She set aside her right shoe—the left was still on her foot—and wrangled her natural blah-boring brown, overly thick, overly long hair into a loosely knotted ponytail. “It’s hot in here.”
“Blame it on the cosmos or your heated rant,” Faye said. “It’s the same as always—comfortable. Boone keeps the thermostat set at sixty-eight year round. You know that.”
Kylie wanted to scream at yet another example of predictability. Instead, she propped her elbow on the table, footwear in hand. “My life is like this shoe. Sensible. This town is like this shoe. Practical.”
“Hello? Your family’s motto? Practical shoes for practical people. It’s written on the plaque hanging behind the cashier counter.”
Kylie narrowed her eyes. “That plaque is so gone. In fact, I’m going to redecorate the entire store,” she said on a whim. “Bright colors. Maybe even pink. Pepto-Bismol pink with banana-yellow trim. Acrylic racks. Leopard seat cushions. Art posters splashed with funky period high heels. I saw this Andy Warhol print on the Internet. Diamond Dust Shoes. Weird, but fun.”
“You know me,” Faye said. “I’m all for kitschy. But that’s radical. If your mom and grandma were here—”
“One would applaud my vision. The other would nix it.” She didn’t know which woman would take what stance. She just knew they’d take opposing views. They bickered constantly and Kylie was forever playing mediator. She’d been given a short reprieve since they were currently enjoying (or not) the Alaskan cruise Grandma McGraw had won at the church’s silent auction, but they’d be back. “I’m bypassing the debate and making an executive decision as the store’s manager.”
“Without consulting Spenser?”
Kylie bristled. When her treasure hunting brother had been presented with an opportunity to host a cable series on the Explorer Channel, she hadn’t thought twice about taking full responsibility and running McGraw’s Shoe Store.
A: Because she loved Spenser to pieces.
B: Unlike her brother, she had an actual interest in shoes and the business as a whole.
It’s just that she hadn’t expected to be in charge for so long without an extended break.
Closing the store for a month was not an option, and she was too territorial to trust the business to a nonfamily member. Leaving the store in the hands of her mom and grandma was unthinkable. They’d kill each other. Or the business. Or both.
Last month when she’d talked to Spenser, he’d said he’d be coming home after he finished a shoot in Egypt, which meant any day now. She’d intended to discuss her dream trip then. In person. Except this morning, when he’d called to wish her happy birthday, he’d explained that he and his cameraman had finally obtained permission to visit Pitcairn—the secluded island inhabited by the ancestors of Fletcher Christian and the other mutineers of the Bounty.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Kitten,” he’d said.
They were all once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.
“Just a few more weeks,” he’d said.
Which in Spenser-speak meant a few more months, maybe years.
Okay. That was overdramatic. But as sure as Kylie opened the store every day, Tuesday through Saturday at 9:00 a.m., he’d be broadening his horizons while hers flat-lined. “I know the store’s in Spenser’s name,” she grumbled, “but he saddled me with the responsibility.”
“Temporarily,” Faye said. “Although I admit his idea of ‘temporary’ differs from most folks. Still, if I recall, you’re supposed to run things status quo. Knowing your brother, I don’t think he’d be keen on pink walls and weird posters.”
“Spenser can kiss my—”
“Ashe sent this over.” Wanda, Boone’s wife, who usually manned the kitchen whipping up her locally famous kick-butt chicken wings, seasoned mozzarella sticks and other assorted yummies, was currently working the floor due to a server shortage. She set another cosmo on the table. “Be warned, the silver-tongued dog paid Boone for a double shot of vodka.”
“Happy birthday, Kylie,” Ashe called from his bar stool.
He probably thought that winking thing was sexy. Smarmy was more like it. “Thanks.” She saluted the cocky car dealer with a dismissive smile. Ashe Davis had been trying to score with her since her almost-fiancé, make that ex-almost-fiancé, fled paradise last year. At no point in time had she suggested he had a snowball’s chance in hell, but the man was persistent. Handsome and successful, thirty-six and never married, he was considered by some the perfect catch. Only thus far he’d proved too slippery for any of the eligible women in Eden and even a few of the not-so-eligible. With Ashe it was all about the hunt. Once he bagged his prey, he lost interest. If Kylie wanted a brief, hot fling, he’d be the perfect choice. That is, if she could stomach sleeping with a self-absorbed womanizer.
“He’s thinking tonight’s his lucky night,” Faye said with a roll of her blue-shadowed eyes.
“I’d have to be blitzed out of my gourd to sleep with Ashe.”
“Drink that third cosmo and consider yourself boinked,” said Faye.
Kylie pushed her glasses up her nose and focused, sort of, on Wanda. “Do I appear inebriated to you?”
“I did see you talking to your shoe, dear.”
“That’s because this shoe represents the crux of my discontent.”
“Don’t ask,” Faye said, then sipped her beer.
“Giving you blisters?”
Faye slapped a palm to her forehead, metallic-blue nails glittering.
Ironically, or maybe not, someone punched A12 on the jukebox—Kylie knew that jukebox by heart—flooding the bar with the retro hit: “These Boots Are Made for Walking.” Probably someone was making fun of her current shoe fixation, but she was more inspired than insulted. The music provided the perfect background for her on-the-spot promo.
“These,” she said, displaying the slip-on for Wanda’s keener inspection, “are Aerosoles. Padded insoles. Lightweight and flexible. They do not cause blisters. A smart buy for someone who spends a lot of time on their feet. Someone like you.”
“You introduced me to that brand the last time I was in your shop,” Wanda said while snapping her gum. “Felt like I was walking on clouds, but Boone would have a cow if I paid that kind of money for one pair of shoes.”
“Yes, but they’d last longer than the bargain canvas sneakers you’re wearing, plus they’d offer proper arch support. Given your occupation, don’t your feet deserve better?”
“Stop trying to sell my wife fancy shoes!” Boone shouted over the music while sliding a beer down to Ashe.
“They’re not fancy!” Kylie shouted back. “They’re practical!”
“I’m thinking it’s a birthday crisis,” Faye said to Wanda. “Did you wig out when you turned thirty-two?”
“No.” Gaze fixed on the far wall, she shifted and tapped the empty tray against her thigh in time with the music. She blew a pink bubble and when the bubble burst, spoke her mind. “Although I did go through a funk when I turned thirty-nine. All I could think was, I’m one year from forty. Then of course, I panicked when I turned the big five-oh. Who doesn’t?”
“You’re a size seven, right?” Kylie asked, bulldozing over their talk of a birthday crisis. This wasn’t about age, although it was about another passing year.
“Yes, but—”
“Take them.” Desperate to take action, any action to shake up her life, she shoved her right shoe in Wanda’s free hand, toed off the left and handed that over, as well. “They’re yours.”
“They look brand-new.” The redheaded, gum-cracking woman flipped them over, inspected the soles and heels. “No scuffs, no wear.”
“I’ve worn them three times max.”
“Are you sure you want to give them up?”
“Trust me. I’ve got loads of sensible shoes.”
“Shoes, schmooze!” someone complained. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some chicken wings around here?”
They turned their attention to the grumpy complainant, Max Grogan, the town’s retired fire chief, seventy-two and prickly as a porcupine. Armed with two bottles of beer each, he and his cronies—Jay Jarvis (of J.J.’s Pharmacy and Sundry), Ray Keystone (Keystone Barbershop) and Dick Wilson (the town mayor)—were engrossed in their biweekly game of cards.
“Keep your pants on, Max!” Wanda shouted.
“An image I can do without.” Faye shuddered. “Max’s dingy.”
“You can tell you’ve got a five-year-old at home,” Wanda said with a grin. “Dingy. That’s cute, hon. Thanks for the shoes, Kylie, and Happy Birthday,” she added before leaving.
“I wish.” Kylie downed Ashe’s alcoholic gift in two swallows, then slid aside the empty glass with a snort. “Didn’t taste stronger than the first two.”
“Probably because your taste buds are numb.” Faye pursed her cherry-red lips. “Good thing I’m driving.”
“Wash those hands before you handle my wings!” Max yelled when Wanda disappeared into the kitchen.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing dingy’s Max,” Kylie said, tripping over her words. She pinched the end of her tongue. Also numb. Dang. “I mean Max’s dingy.”
Her friend groaned, then leaned forward. “You have got to be kidding. I know you’ve been sexually deprived since the asshole split town, but you cannot be that desperate for a thrill.”
“Actually, I am.” Although, it was spurred by lack of zest, not sex. She’d felt melancholy and hollow since Spenser’s phone call this morning. She wasn’t a stranger to disappointment, and usually she sucked it up and moved on, doing what she had to do, doing what was best for all involved even if it didn’t feel best for her. But today she hadn’t been able to wrangle the disappointment, and as the day crawled by, depression had given way to desperation and uncharacteristic behavior. She mentally kissed her nurturing, passive self goodbye. Time to take action. Time to shake up the life she was stuck with.
“At least it would cause a sensation,” Kylie said, shocked at the vehemence in her tone. “Can you imagine the headlines?” She mimicked a newspaper barker, shouting her concocted news just as the song ended and the noise level dipped. “Max Grogan drops his pants in protest of tardy service!”
“I ain’t flashing my willy just because you’re bored, Kylie McGraw.” Max grunted as he dealt a new hand. “Kids.”
“Kids who don’t know when they’ve had enough,” said the mayor. “Even worse.”
“Maybe you should switch to soda,” called Mr. Keystone.
“Maybe you should mind your own beeswax,” said Kylie.
J.J. tsked. “She’s usually so nice.”
“Yeah, but tonight she’s fun.” Ashe approached Kylie with another cosmo and a smarmy grin. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”
Kylie dropped her head in her hands with a groan.
“Go away,” Faye said. “And take that evil drink with you.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to please the birthday girl. She said she wants a sensation.”
Kylie banged her fists to the table and frowned up at the man. “I’m talking about something extraordinary, you thick-skulled bozo. People expect you to seduce me and they expect me to fall under your spell. Boone knows Max and gang will show up twice a week to play pinochle and they know they’ll get two-fer beers, kick-butt chicken wings and a comfortable room temperature of sixty-eight. Faye expects me to drink beer because I always drink beer. I expect Faye to whine about her summer guests because she always whines about her summer guests. The majority of Eden will watch Into the Wild Saturday night and gossip about Spenser’s adventures most of Sunday. The Bixley will never expand to a multiplex theater and storefronts on Main Street will always look as they did in 1955, because progress moves at a snail’s pace in Eden! Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens!” Kylie vented, voice slurred and shrill. “You can set your watch by this town. We are boring people!”
“Ooo-kay.” Ashe backed away with the drink, his free hand raised in surrender.
But Kylie wasn’t done. “I bet I know what you’ve been talking about,” she said to Max and friends. “Omertà. That’s all you ever talk about because you’re obsessed. Never mind the mob series is off the air and you’re just now catching up compliments of DVD. That’s typical. Out of step with fashion and the arts. Yup. That’s us! Behind the times. Boring and passé.”
“I came in here for cards and beer,” shouted Max. “Not to be insulted!”
“That does it,” Boone called from behind the bar. “You’re cut off, Kylie.”
She jabbed a finger in his direction. “I knew you’d say that.”
“Predictable,” Faye grumbled.
“Exactly.”
“But wise.” Looking harried, the normally unflappable woman rooted in her oversize purse and pulled out her Orchard House souvenir key chain, available at the front desk for the bargain price of $3.99. “I’m taking you home,” Faye snapped. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
Fueled by years of frustration and three cosmopolitans, Kylie pushed out of the booth, her compact body trembling with Godzilla-like rage. “Well, get used to it. All of you! Because starting tomorrow there’s a new Kylie McGraw in town. I’m going to shake up paradise. Just you wait and see!” She made it halfway across the hardwood floor before her nylon footies slid out from under her and Kylie tumbled butt over heels.
J.J. whistled low. “Wasn’t much of a wait.”
Dazed, she squinted at the sea of faces spinning above her. “Stand still, you guys.”
“We aren’t moving.” Faye stooped and inspected Kylie’s noggin. “How hard did you hit your head? Are you seeing double?”
“Of course she’s seeing double,” Boone said. “She’s shit-faced.”
Swearing, Faye tried to pull her friend to her feet, but Kylie’s arms and legs went all noodly. “I could use some help getting her in my van,” she said to the men.
Ashe, the smug, blurry dog, rubbed his paws together and smiled. “I’ll do it.”
“Touch her, Davis, and I’ll kick your ass.”
It was a voice she hadn’t heard in a long time, but one she’d know anywhere and in any state of mind.
Ashe knew it, too. “Just trying to help.”
Knowing the dog’s true intention, the circle of faces that had been staring at Kylie snorted, then turned their attention to the don’t-challenge-me stranger. Only he wasn’t a stranger. He was one of Eden’s own. Or at least he used to be.
Jack Reynolds. Kylie’s first major crush. Although crush was putting it mildly. Best high school bud of her infuriating brother, this man had made tofu of her teen hormones and ruined her for other men well into her twenties. He’d also broken her heart. Three times, to be exact. Not that he knew it, but that wasn’t the point.
She adjusted her crooked glasses and blinked up at the obsession of her youth. Dark cropped hair. River-blue eyes. A buff body and a warrior’s heart. Hands on denim-clad hips, the most handsome man in the universe ever towered above her. Then again, she was flat out on the floor. She hadn’t seen him in years, and usually her stomach fluttered when she did. Either she was completely over him or the mass quantities of vodka had paralyzed her vital organs along with her limbs. “Heard you were back in town.”
“No secrets in Eden.”
No kidding. That’s why Kylie generally guarded her words. Jack’s sister, on the other hand, vented to anyone who would listen. Jessica Lynn shared Jack’s good looks, but none of his good sense. A self-centered former beauty queen, it was always: Enough about you, let’s talk about me. Hence, most everyone knew about the feud between the estranged siblings, plus some of the particulars. Kylie noted the particular of most interest to her. “So, did you accept the job as Eden’s chief of police?”
“I did.”
She quirked a hopeful grin. “You been in here long, Chief Reynolds?”
“Long enough.”
“Going to arrest me for drunk and disorderly behavior?”
“No.”
“Shoot,” she complained as he hauled her off the floor. That would have brought Spenser running.
Dizzy, she rested her head against Jack’s shoulder, her face nuzzled against his neck.
God, he smelled good.
He tightened his hold and suddenly she was hyperaware of where she was.
In Jack Reynolds’s arms!
That’s when she felt it. Her traitorous stomach fluttered. Or maybe she’d overindulged in pepperoni pizza and cosmopolitans. Yeah, that was it. Crushing on Jack was hazardous to her heart. Better to battle an upset stomach than a doomed attraction. At least she could cure the former with Alka-Seltzer.
CHAPTER TWO
JACK REYNOLDS HAD BEEN in town for four days. Settling into his new home. Meeting with the mayor. Being courted by the town council and snubbed by his sister. Mostly he’d been reacclimating. Even though he’d grown up in Eden, he’d spent a lifetime in New York City, working for the NYPD. Big difference between the Big Apple and Eden. His friend’s little sister didn’t know how good she had it. Unless that was the alcohol talking. Either way, she’d just provided Eden with a week’s worth of gossip.
Jack had never seen the squeaky-clean McGraw sauced. Then again, he’d been avoiding Eden for years. Ever since he’d clocked his sister’s husband on their wedding day. He’d refused to tell Jessie why—effectively severing their dysfunctional relationship. Instead of going to hell, as she’d demanded, he’d returned to NYC. Over the next ten years, he made homicide detective, got married, got divorced, and tempted the devil as he took accelerated risks on the streets.
His wake-up call had come last month in the form of a young woman. A victim of a mob hit. He’d seen a lot of death. He knew how to manage his emotions. How to temper the revulsion and outrage. But how the fuck did you manage numb? Maybe he’d gone to hell after all. Jack Reynolds. Zombie cop. He’d sworn long ago that if he ever stopped feeling, he’d get out.
Easier said than done.
He’d resorted to drowning his misery and indecision in whiskey.
His sister’s crisis had kicked his drunken ass into action. When he’d learned through the grapevine that Jessie’s bastard husband had deserted her and her daughter, he’d sworn off the hard stuff and given his notice. Time to look after his own. The job opening for chief of police had been coincidental. Or maybe it was fate. In the end it had been too convenient to pass up.
Jack made eye contact with every man and woman in Boone’s as he carried Kylie out of the bar. These people, this town, would be his salvation. At least that was the plan. Reconnect with your roots, reconnect with your soul.
As for Kylie…he couldn’t get over how much she’d changed. He’d seen her briefly at her dad’s funeral eleven years ago, but they’d both been preoccupied. Mostly, he remembered her as the gawky, skinny kid who’d shadowed her big brother. Spenser used to run her off with a smile and teasing words. Spense loved his sister, but he was a daredevil and she was an angel. Spunky, but sweet. Kitten, he called her.
Jack tempered a smile, flashing on the episode that made it impossible for him to think of her as Kitten. An episode he’d sworn to a then fourteen-year-old Kylie he would never reveal to her brother. A promise he’d kept.
He glanced down at the woman in his arms, recognizing the big chocolate eyes and thick wild hair and little else. He was keenly aware of her compact curves and her quirky, pretty features. No wonder Ashe was sniffing. Kylie was an interesting package.
She pushed at his shoulder. “I can walk.”
“Whatever you say, Tiger.” He set her on her stocking feet but kept his arm around her waist in case she faltered. She did.
“I don’t get it,” she lamented as he escorted her outside and onto the sidewalk. “I can usually hold my liquor.”
“You usually drink beer,” Faye said.
“I wouldn’t reference the usual just now,” Jack told Kylie’s eccentric friend, though the harm was already done. He shook his head as the youngest McGraw launched into another gripe about routine.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Faye told Jack. “Except the obvious, of course.” The bleached-blonde unlocked the passenger side of a cherry-red minivan.
He’d never imagined the girl who dressed like a retro pop star would drive a minivan. He’d never imagined her as a mother, either, but the toys and books scattered in the backseat along with the Spider-Man sun shield confirmed what he’d heard. Faye Tyler, formally Powell, was married with children. Children she’d named after nineties musical icons.
Jack helped Kylie, who continued to vent, into the van while Faye answered her ringing cell. “What do you mean Sting threw up? Does he have a fever? He what? Where were you when… Yes, I know you can’t stomach vomit, Stan. For crying out loud. Okay. Yes. Yes. Be right there.” She tossed her phone in her purse, looked at her friend, then Jack. “There’s a bit of a crisis at home.”
“Is Sting okay?” Kylie asked, struggling to fasten her seat belt.
“He got into the freezer—don’t ask how—and ate an entire tub of double-fudge ice cream. He’ll be fine, which is more than I can say for my husband when I get hold of him.”
Jack remembered Stan Tyler. A short but solid man, former captain of the high school wrestling team. He didn’t figure Faye could take him, but it would be fun to watch her try, especially since he knew Stan would cut off his hand before raising it to a lady. “You live in the converted carriage house next to the B and B, right?”
“Right,” she said. “And Kylie lives in the opposite direction in the boonies. Do you think—”
“Sure.” He unbuckled the seat belt Kylie had just managed to fasten. “Come on, Tiger.”
“Stop calling me that.” She batted away his hands and glared at him through her oval, plastic-rimmed glasses. No-nonsense glasses, black, like her no-nonsense clothes—cropped, wide-legged pants and a loose-fitting blouse. He thought about the no-nonsense shoes she’d given away and decided she must’ve gone out on the town straight from work. “And I don’t need a ride home. From you, I mean. Max lives out my way.”
“Max plays cards from six until eight,” Faye said as she scurried to the driver’s side. “He’s got another forty-five minutes to go. He’s not going to break away early for anything other than a four-alarm fire.”
“I’ll wait.” Shoeless, Kylie strode unsteadily toward Boone’s Bar and Grill.
“Stop where you are. Hello? Splinters! Broken glass!” Faye snapped, clearly in mother mode. “Jack?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stepped in and hauled Kylie over his shoulder. “Drive safe, Faye. Best to Stan.”
She saluted and pulled away from the curb.
Kylie kicked like a swimmer on speed. “Put me down, darn you!”
He pressed the lock release on his key fob as he reached his Chrysler Aspen. The new SUV would serve as his personal and professional wheels. Though he didn’t have a weak stomach like Stan, he hoped Kylie didn’t hurl on his new leather seats.
“I’m serious, Jack. Don’t make me hurt you.”
He quirked an amused brow. “You wouldn’t assault an officer of the law, would you, Miss McGraw?”
“Would you throw me in jail?”
“No.”
“Dang. What’s a girl gotta do to get tossed in the clink?” she asked as he poured her into the passenger seat.
“Why are you determined to spend the night in jail?”
“Because it would set this birthday apart from all the others.”
“I can think of more pleasurable distinctions,” he said while buckling her in.
She nabbed his shirt collar and got in his face. Her hair tumbled free of the ponytail, overwhelming her delicate face and ramping her sexuality ten points. “You offering up a distinctive pleasure, Jack?”
Kylie, flirting? The kid who got tongue-tied when Spense teased her about boys?
Only she isn’t a kid anymore.
Jack held her sultry gaze, breathed in her flowery scent and cursed an unexpected boner.
“Touch her,” he could hear Spenser saying, “and I’ll kick your ass.”
He wouldn’t blame his friend for trying. He’d threatened to do the same to Ashe Davis, a serial womanizer. This was Kylie, for Christ’s sake. Sweet. Naive. Drunk.
She licked her lush lower lip. “Well?”
“Let’s not go there, Tiger.”
“Too bad for you. I’m a yoga geek.” She raised one brow. “You know what that means.”
“Flexible?”
“Like Gumby.”
The retro green guy that could bend every which way and back.
Christ.
He shut her door, rounded the Aspen and claimed the driver’s seat. “Where am I headed?”
“Route 50, a half a mile past Max’s place. Do you remember where Max lives?”
Flicking on his headlights, he eased onto Adams Street and headed north. “The boonies.” A twenty-minute drive from town, midway between Eden and Kokomo. Corn and soybean fields. Patches of woods. Pig farms. Pastures of grazing cows and horses. Sporadic century-old farmhouses and the occasional contemporary modular home. A wide-open area where the nearest neighbor lived a mile or a half mile away. He shot her a look. “You live alone out there?”
She smirked. “I’m single, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking if you live alone. No roommate?”
“I like my privacy.”
“You could live alone here in town.”
“I like the solitude.”
He couldn’t argue with that. He’d rented a home on the outskirts of town, an old two-story brick house on two acres of land. He, too, liked the idea of solitude. Peace and quiet. The exact opposite of what he’d had when he’d lived in the high-rise in Brooklyn. Difference was he was a trained cop, capable of handling a crisis in any form. She was…Kylie. Kylie all grown up, he thought, raking his gaze over her body.
“I didn’t used to live alone. I used to be almost engaged. Are you shocked?”
“That you were almost engaged? Or that you were living in sin?” he teased.
“Either, or.”
“Neither.”
“His name was Bobby Jones. You wouldn’t know him. He was a free spirit.”
You mean a freeloader. “Spenser mentioned him.” Jack kept in touch with his friend via e-mail. Mostly they talked sports and global affairs, but they always touched on family.
“Spenser never liked Bobby.”
That was putting it mildly, but Jack held his tongue.
“I’m not fond of my brother right now.”
“Because he didn’t approve of Bobby?”
“Because he’s an insensitive boob.”
Jack swallowed a laugh. “Did he forget your birthday?”
“No. He forgot I’m human.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I have dreams, too.”
He started to ask specifics, but she’d slumped against the window, eyes closed. She’d either passed out or clammed up. One thing he’d learned on the force, sometimes the easiest way to learn something was not to ask. He’d let it go for now and she’d talk when she was ready.
He tapped the radio media key, scanned his presets and chose a local classic rock station. The same music he’d listened to in his teens while cruising these back country roads. He grinned at the irony when the speakers rattled with the Cars’ “Shake It Up.” What did Kylie plan on doing, anyway? TP-ing every tree in town? Spraying Eden’s sacred water tower with graffiti? Streaking down the center of Main Street?
A vivid image of the woman sitting next to him exploded in his mind. Ivory flesh and toned curves. It was the second time in less than twenty minutes he’d imagined Kylie McGraw naked. Damn. He shifted in his seat, frowning when “Shake It Up” segued into “Keep Your Hands to Yourself.” Seemed the DJ had coordinated a playlist specifically fitted to Jack’s evening. He lowered the volume and concentrated on the road, not Kylie. The scenery, not Kylie.
She’d changed. He’d changed. But aside from a random new home, this rural area had remained the same. Between the music and landscape, he easily slipped back in time. He soaked in the serenity as if it were a restorative drug.
Ten minutes later he zipped by Max Grogan’s place. The antique fire engine parked in the drive had been in the old man’s possession for more than twenty years. He wondered if Red Rover still ran. He relived a few choice memories regarding that red hook-and-ladder truck while keeping an eye out for Kylie’s house. A half mile past Max’s place, she’d said.
He was about to wake her when he spied a lone mailbox and rolled to a stop. Brightly colored shoes were painted up and down the white post and McGraw was scripted on the box alongside #312. He turned his SUV into the crushed-stone drive that led him into the woods and soon after his headlights flashed on a mobile home. Not only did she live alone in the boonies, she lived in a disaster waiting to happen. Eden was smack in the middle of Tornado Alley. If a twister touched down, she’d be gone with the wind. What was she thinking? Why hadn’t Spenser intervened?
She stirred along with his annoyance. “You found it,” she said in a slurred, husky voice. “Great. Thanks for the lift.” Then her lids drifted back shut and Jack smiled in spite of his unease. Damn, she was cute.
Three seconds later he sidestepped potted flowers and carried the dozing woman toward her green mobile home. Moonlight bathed the tended lawn. The warm evening breeze rustled the leaves of the surrounding oak and maple trees and the bamboo wind chimes hanging from a wrought-iron pole rooted next to a bird feeder. He smelled earth and flowers and perfume. “Kylie?”
“Hmm?”
“Keys.”
“Purse.”
“Where?”
She furrowed her brow.
“Let me guess. You left it at Boone’s.”
“No problem. Mat.”
“Who’s Matt?”
“Doormat. Hey, it’s like a knock-knock joke. Funny,” she said with a loopy smile, then slipped back into la-la Land.
If he hadn’t been pissed about her obvious hiding place for the spare key, he would’ve laughed. The joke wasn’t funny, but she was. “When you’re sober, you and I are going to have a talk about home protection, Tiger.”
He fished the key from under the mat and unlocked the door, no easy feat while juggling a living rag doll. Once inside he flicked on a wall switch, bathing the compact living and dining area in muted light. “Spotless” was his first thought, quickly followed by “sparse.” Minimal furnishings with an oriental flair. He noted the framed prints on the wall. Japanese temples and landscapes. A movie poster of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Huh.
He located her bedroom, wishing she hadn’t mentioned her agility, compliments of yoga. Oriental images of an erotic nature flashed in his mind as he laid her on her black-and-red comforter.
Time to leave.
He took off her glasses and placed them on the nightstand, noted a book on Zen and travel brochures on China and Japan. Spenser had never mentioned her obsession with the Orient. He wondered if he knew. He thought about what she’d said earlier. “I have dreams, too.” After one peek at her living quarters, any idiot could deduce her dreams involved Asia. He filed away the knowledge, slipped into the bathroom and nabbed a glass of water and two aspirin. He returned and nudged her awake. “Take these and drink this. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
Bleary-eyed, she complied, then fell back on the pillow with a groan.
“Sleep tight, kid.” I’m outta here.
Warm toes skimmed up his T-shirt and across his lower back. “Jack?”
Wary, he turned back and nabbed Kylie’s adventurous foot. The wide pant leg slid toward her body, revealing a toned thigh and a glimpse of red panties. Damn.
“I’m not getting any younger,” she said.
Hit the road, Jack. “Meaning?”
“Meaning if I wait for what I want, I’ll never get it. At least that’s the way it’s worked so far.” She shoved her hair out of her eyes, then wagged a finger in his direction to emphasize another thought. “Although, I did grab the bull by the horns once, if you catch my drift, and I know you do, and I didn’t get what I wanted that time, either. I gotta tell ya, life has been one big-butt disappointment.”
She sounded pitiful and angry at the same time, and he cursed himself a pig for imagining the pleasure zone beneath those satin panties. He released her sexy foot and tugged her pant leg back past her knee. Against his better judgment, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Today in particular stunk.”
“Want to tell me what Spenser said or did to ruin your birthday?”
“It’s what he didn’t say or do.”
“You’re losing me.”
“It’s not about my birthday, but my life.”
“Definitely lost.”
“But it is what it is so I need to make the most of what I have, which isn’t much. I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
He pressed a finger to his temple, rubbed.
“Creative visualization is a beautiful thing. I will have my adventure, just you wait and see.”
“Back to shaking up things in Eden, huh?”
“I was planning to start tomorrow, but you know what they say…” She quirked a brow, waited.
“No time like the present?”
Her full lips curved into another of those loopy grins. “For the past year, I’ve spent every night in this bed alone. It would certainly break my blah, boring routine if you—”
“No.”
“—kissed me.”
Shit.
“It’s the least you could do.”
“For?”
“Refusing to be my first.”
He scratched his forehead, reflecting on the episode he’d sworn to take to his grave. “You were fourteen.”
She scrunched her brow. “So? How old were you when you first—”
“That’s different.”
“Why? Because you’re a guy? That’s a stupid argument,” she slurred, “but I’ll let it slide and point out that I am now thirty-two.”
“You’re also blitzed.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What if I was sober?”
“You’d still be Spenser’s little sister.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. Then she stretched like a languid cat, teasing him with thoughts of Gumby flexibility.
“I know,” he said, only half kidding. “My loss.”
“My stinky birthday.” She stuck out her lower lip in a contrived but alluring pout.
He knew when he was being played. His ex had been a master manipulator. Not that Kylie was in Amanda’s league. Kylie was drunk. He scrambled for a graceful exit without hurting her feelings.
She mistook his hesitation as an invitation. “A pleasurable distinction,” she whispered, then pressed those pouty lips to his.
Soft. Sweet. Hot.
Holy shit.
He froze.
She sighed. “Thanks for the birthday kiss, Jack.”
He grappled for a casual response.
“Too bad I didn’t feel anything.”
CHAPTER THREE
ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE.
Hell would have been preferable.
As was his routine for the past seven years, Travis Martin rose at 6:00 a.m. He showered—using bargain-brand soap, shampoo and shaving cream. He dressed in Lee Dungarees Carpenter Jeans, a plaid shirt and beige work boots. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal, white toast and a cup of Folgers. He scanned the local newspaper while he ate. The only upset in this routine was the absence of his wife. She’d died three months earlier. Life had been difficult before. Now it was painful.
Still, Travis stayed the course.
At 7:00 a.m. he pinned on his name tag and tugged on a cap embroidered with his employer’s logo: Hank’s Hardware.
At 7:05 he was out the door of his run-down farmhouse and behind the wheel of his 1995 Chevy pickup. The truck, like his clothes, was nondescript. He blended with the male population of Eden. He was just another hardworking, blue collar stiff who occasionally attended church on Sunday mornings—not that he got anything out of the preacher’s sermons. Now and then he dropped by Kerri’s Confections where he indulged in doughnuts and coffee. What he really wanted was a cannoli and espresso, not that he ever asked. Once in a while, like most of the men in these parts, he made an appearance at Boone’s Bar and Grill, where he tossed back a couple of beers. Last night he’d been sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a bottle of Pabst and craving a glass of Chianti, when Kylie McGraw, who was typically as unassuming as himself, went a little oobatz. Unlike anyone else in Boone’s, Travis had empathized.
Like Kylie, he despised the tedium of this Midwestern mom-and-pop town.
Unlike Kylie, he had no intention of shaking things up. He’d flirted with danger a month earlier, a moment of weakness. A mistake he’d quickly rectified. Drawing attention to himself was not an option.
Or was it?
At 7:40, Travis parked his pickup in the alley behind the hardware store. He entered through the back door, traded greetings with his boss and two coworkers. He tidied his work station and skimmed new orders. He did everything exactly as he always did, only this morning, like that one unfortunate night, he couldn’t calm his inner self. His true self.
At 8:00 a.m., his boss opened for business and Travis struggled to maintain his composure, his wife’s last request ringing in his ears. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Unfortunately, as his loneliness and frustration escalated, the warning packed less punch.
CHAPTER FOUR
KYLIE WOKE UP WITH a blinding headache and a gross taste in her mouth. Her memory was splotchy, too, but it could have been worse. She could have woken up next to Ashe. Or she could have puked up her guts. Although, if she had slept with Ashe, she would have felt wretched and not because of a hangover. She didn’t care how good-looking he was, the man was a bed-hopping sleaze with a checkered past, and she had scruples.
She also had a stabbing pain behind her dust-dry eyeballs.
Who would have thought a trendy drink could be so lethal? Except she’d had three, four if you counted the third as a double, over a short period of time. She regretted taking a spill at Boone’s—not exactly a shining moment—and she sort of felt bad for lashing out at Max and gang. But she didn’t regret her vow to shake things up. She’d meant every word, well, the ones she remembered. At the very least, she could attack her own dull-as-dirt existence. She could be bold. She could take risks.
A moment blipped in her mind.
Her. Jack.
She smacked her forehead, winced.
“Stupid cosmos.”
She had a big-butt hangover and one mortifying memory. Her lame attempt at seducing Jack Reynolds. He’d resisted her flirting. He’d tolerated her kiss. She didn’t know what else to call it. He didn’t jerk back, but he didn’t reciprocate. But that wasn’t the shocker.
There’d been no spark!
Considering the Mount Fuji-size crush she’d had on the man for most of her freaking life, she’d expected to go up in flames the moment she’d sampled that sexy mouth. Instead, she’d felt nothing, nada, numb. Either the alcohol had obliterated her senses or she really was over him. Completely. She chose to believe the latter. Otherwise, living in the same town with him, again, would be torture.
She still couldn’t believe he’d moved back to Eden in the first place. He’d devoted his life to fighting the bad guy. Even as a kid, Jack had been the first to stand up to schoolyard bullies, usually in defense of others, because you’d have to be nuttier than a squirrel’s hoard to tangle with Jack Reynolds. He and Spenser were both motivated by macho protector instincts. Only Jack gravitated toward fighting crime in the big city, and Spenser had joined the fight against evil on foreign soil. Kylie had never been to New York City, but she knew it brimmed with art, music and literature, diverse cultures and interesting people. So much to do and see…unlike in Eden. Plenty of criminal butts to kick…unlike in Eden.
“The man will be bored to tears within a month,” she mumbled into the murky predawn. Good thing she was no longer crushing on him, because he wouldn’t be here for long. Unlike Kylie. The way things were going she’d be here until she was six feet under. Not that she wanted to leave Eden forever. Just for a while. Just long enough to experience the beauty and wonder of Asia. Although at this point, an adventure on any level would do.
“You can hide under the blankets feeling sorry for yourself or you can attack the day with gusto, McGraw.” Despite the nauseating pulse behind her dry, bleary eyeballs, she swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed. “Gusto it is.” She grimaced at the aftertaste of the nacho chips she’d wolfed down, compliments of the midnight munchies. “But first I’m brushing my teeth.”
“HOW THE HELL DID YOU get my toothbrush? Oh, shit. Wait. Shit.”
Note to self, Jack thought as the stray mutt peed on his bathroom floor, don’t yell at the dog. Any time he exhibited frustration, Shy—he had to call her something—peed. Not a lot, just a nervous sprinkle. Still. “Damn.”
He grabbed a wad of tissue and soaked up the mess.
Shy cowered on the bath mat.
Two nights earlier, he’d found the midsize stray cowering under the old rocker on his back porch. She was scared of thunderstorms. She was scared, from what he’d witnessed so far, of everything. Starved, wet and frightened, the pitiful thing had allowed him to coax her inside. Next, he’d called animal control, but no one had reported a missing dog that looked like a miniature German shepherd. He’d told himself, and Shy, that he’d only keep her until he found her owner or a suitable home. The way things were going, that day couldn’t come too soon.
He adopted the casual manner he used to soothe victimized humans. “Easy, girl.” He flushed the soiled tissue, then washed his hands. Noting the dog’s stricken look, he ruffled her bowed head. Five seconds later, she trotted after him and into the kitchen, tail wagging.
He opened the fridge and nabbed the makings of a mushroom omelet.
Shy circled twice, then curled on the braided rug in front of the sink.
“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re coming with me today.” Yesterday, she’d destroyed one of his shoes, two books and a magazine. Either she’d been pissed because he’d left her alone, or bored. He wasn’t a doggy shrink, but this pup had issues. She was a complication he didn’t want or need. His goal was to simplify.
Jack beat three eggs, then poured them into a heated skillet, his mind veering to another complicated doe-eyed female. Kylie McGraw. Her goofy smile and fiery spirit. Her red panties and lush lips.
That freaking birthday kiss.
Too bad I didn’t feel anything.
It’s not like he’d put any effort into it. Still. He’d felt something and she hadn’t. Then again, she’d passed out seconds later. Maybe she’d been too trashed to feel anything. His ego demanded a second shot. Logic said, let it go. The only thing worse than a mutual attraction would be acting on it. This was Kylie. Sweet and responsible. Except when she’s trashed. She was the marrying kind and he was the kind who wrecked marriages.
Shy barked.
“A recipe for disaster, huh?”
Another bark.
“Right.”
Jack fed the mutt a half a can of beef kibble, then loaded up his own plate with an omelet and toast. He ate standing up at the counter. Sipped coffee. Flipped through Law and Order magazine and contemplated his first official day as chief of police.
He wondered if Kylie would go through with her threat to shake things up or if she’d lose her nerve when she gained her sobriety. He had better things to do than reading her the riot act for disturbing the peace. Like organizing his new office and finding a home for Shy. There were also security issues pertaining to the upcoming Apple Festival.
One thing he wouldn’t be doing was investigating a gang shooting or a mafia hit. Those two factions didn’t exist in Eden. Hell, there hadn’t been a murder of any kind in this town for several decades. No atrocities. No risk that he’d experience that damned numbness that made him wonder what he’d become. No self-disgust binge drinking.
Who needed a shrink, he thought as he topped off his coffee. He had Eden.
A SLICE OF DRY TOAST, one banana, two cups of strong black tea and a hot shower later, Kylie felt rejuvenated enough to attempt gusto. Wanting to shake up her routine straight away, she raided her closet in search of anything bold. She passed over conservative ensembles and settled on a flared black skirt and a fitted black T-shirt featuring a sequined green-and-red dragon breathing sparkly gold fire. Bypassing a dozen pairs of sensible shoes, she snagged the flower-power combat boots she’d ordered and never worn. Whimsical and daring. “The new me.”
Feeding off nervous energy, she skipped morning meditation, although she did chant affirmations as she applied mascara and lip balm and tamed her thick hair into her signature ponytail. “I will act out of the ordinary in order to attract and promote change. Change is exciting. Change is good.”
She repeated that three times while staring at her reflection in the mirror, although her mind trailed off to the un-extraordinary. She considered her pale freckled cheeks, her juvenile ponytail, her poor vision. Maybe she should experiment with cosmetics and a stylish haircut. Investing in laser surgery seemed extreme, but she could definitely afford new glasses. Her body benefited from years of yoga, but typically she hid her toned form beneath loose clothing, choosing timeless classics over here-today-gone-tomorrow trends. She’d never fussed over style, choosing instead to focus on inner beauty. Thing was, men were visual creatures, stimulated by what they could see and touch.
She knew Jack’s type and she wasn’t it. That explained his lack of enthusiasm when she’d leaned in for a kiss. Plus, she’d been drunk and vulnerable, and wouldn’t that be so Jack—a gentlemen even when you ached to be ravished.
Been there. Lived through the embarrassment. Twice now.
She sighed and turned away from the mirror. There were other ways to shake up her life aside from burning up the sheets with Jack Reynolds. Not that she was tempted to do so. She was, thank goodness, over him. No, she was going to concentrate on her daring decision to renovate McGraw’s Shoe Store.
Sporting a devilish grin, she called Faye while tugging on a pair of thick green socks.
Her friend picked up after the second ring. Despising telemarketers, Faye always screened her calls. “You’re alive.”
“Rough around the edges, but a lesson learned. What about Sting?”
“Rough around the edges, but a lesson learned.”
Kylie frowned at Faye’s gruff tone. “What about Spice? Did she survive her first slumber party without getting her undies frozen?” Spice was Faye’s thirteen-year-old daughter. As quirky as her mom, but not as outgoing. Her first slumber party—the kid wasn’t exactly Miss Popular—had been a very big deal. Maybe it had been a disaster.
“She had a blast.”
Kylie waited for details. None came. She squirmed as the silence stretched. What the heck? “Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?”
Kylie pursed her lips and racked her fuzzy brain. “Because I made a spectacle of myself?”
Faye grunted. “Do you even remember last night?”
“Most of it. Okay. Parts of it.”
Another long stretch of silence.
Kylie bristled. So, she’d had too much to drink. So, she’d gotten a little loud, given away her shoes and taken a spill in Boone’s. It wasn’t like Faye to be so easily embarrassed. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Jack?” Kylie blurted, because normally that’s exactly what her friend would do. Faye knew all about Kylie’s longtime infatuation, although she didn’t know about the never-to-be-mentioned-ever episode. “He gave me a birthday kiss. Actually, I stole a kiss. He just sort of sat there. Disappointing.”
“You expected Jack to take advantage of you?”
“I expected fireworks.”
“You always expect fireworks,” Faye said. “And you’re always disappointed.”
“Yes, but this was Jack. It’s supposed to be different with him.”
“It’s supposed to be different with someone who sets your soul on fire. I thought you were over Jack.”
“I am.”
“Are you sure about that? For someone who’s having a hard time remembering parts of last night, you have a damn clear recollection of that kiss.”
“You are mad at me.” Kylie padded to her medicine cabinet and nabbed a bottle of aspirin. Between the hangover and Faye’s snippy mood, she felt queasy. To make matters worse, Stan shouted something in the background and Faye shouted back. Okay. So maybe she’d just caught her friend at a bad time. “Are you guys fighting about Sting and the ice cream fiasco?”
“Not exactly.” Faye blew out a breath and lowered her voice. “Just do me a favor, Kylie. Don’t drink any more cosmopolitans.”
“Trust me, it’s not on the agenda.” Stomach rolling, Kylie popped an antacid along with the aspirin.
“So what instigated that birthday meltdown, anyway?”
A change of subject and a softer tone. Sort of. She’d take it. “Spenser.”
“Let me guess,” Faye said. “He extended his shooting tour. Which means you have to postpone your trip. Again.”
So far Kylie had missed out on two opportunities to travel the Orient. Both times due to a family crisis. The latter had wiped out her bank account. Now, after years of living frugally and saving (again), she finally (almost) had enough money to fund her dream trip. Problem was, Spenser’s change of plans put a glitch in her plans. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”
Faye snorted. “Maybe you should tell Spenser why you need him to come home and to take responsibility for the business he inherited.”
“I don’t want to step on his dream. Into the Wild is a huge hit. He’s in his fifth season and the ratings are consistently high.”
“What about your dream?”
Kylie faltered. Her gut said she needed to attack the here and now. The real world. Her world. “If I went to Asia now,” she said sensibly, “I’d still have to deal with my dull existence when I got back.”
“Meaning?”
Kylie shoved on her glasses, glanced at the shoe-order confirmation and the paint samples she’d printed off the Internet. She smiled. “Meet me at the hardware store in two hours.”
CHAPTER FIVE
JACK STEERED HIS SUV into the chief of police’s designated parking space. He glanced at the black-and-white parked to his left—one of two department cruisers. Chief Curtis had used his own wheels. Jack opted to do the same. Small towns have small budgets. Police vehicles were costly. Better to allocate funds to staffing, programming and equipment. Besides, driving an unmarked vehicle suited his purpose as did his semicasual uniform.
He cut the engine, looked at Shy over the metal rims of his polarized Oakleys. Instead of the backseat where he’d put her, she now sat on the passenger seat. Slobber streaked the partially open window. Short blond hairs coated his black dashboard. His new car didn’t look so new anymore. Didn’t smell new, either. Was there such a thing as dog Beano?
“So is this because of the canned kibble?” Jack asked, waving off the noxious odor. “Or because you’re nervous?”
Shy barked.
“Uh-huh.”
Maybe a trip to the vet was in order. Not that he planned on keeping her. But as long as Shy was in his care, he didn’t want her stinking up his air.
“Okay. Listen up. The squad’s still mourning Curtis. They’re not sold on me. I have no idea how they feel about dogs.”
Shy angled her head, whimpered.
“Relax. I’m not locking you in the car for eight hours. Just…behave. No chewing. No peeing. No farting.”
Her tail wagged.
“You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”
She barked again.
“Right.” He climbed out and jerked a thumb. “Let’s roll.”
Shy leaped to the sidewalk. He half expected, half hoped she’d run. Run home. Run off. Anything to relieve him of this newfound responsibility.
She sat by his side.
Great.
New job. New life. New, and unwanted, complication.
In an effort to root himself, he scanned Main Street and assessed the area. No skyscrapers. No public transportation. No street vendors or homeless beggers. Just a scenic grid of two-story buildings, antique street lamps, and meter-free curbside parking.
Eden, Indiana.
Smalltown, U.S.A.
Four eateries: Pizza King, The Box Car, Boone’s Bar and Grill and Kerri’s Confections.
One grocery store. One hardware store. One barbershop, beauty salon, car dealership, car wash, Realtor, dollar store, library, shoe store and pharmacy/sundry. One convenience store—Circle K. One department store—Kmart. Two churches—both Protestant. Two gas stations and one bank. Two dentists. Two doctors. Two lawyers—one of those being his brother-in-law, Frank Cortez, or as Jack called him: the Cheating Bastard.
Jack shook off the thought of the man who made him see red. His numbness did not extend to TCB. He breathed in the crisp autumn air and a heady dose of Americana.
Considering where he’d spent the past several years, he felt as if he’d traveled back in time. Kylie was right. Eden hadn’t changed in decades. The storefronts looked exactly as they had when he’d been a kid. J.J.’s place still had a soda fountain. A red-and-white-striped barber pole spun outside Keystone’s and the Bixley still showed feature films at bargain prices.
Unlike Kylie, he found comfort in the familiar. Especially when the familiar included old-fashioned values. His CSI cynicism could use a dose of Leave It to Beaver innocence. Dog at his side, he strode toward the station house, soaking in the sunshine and breathing smog-free air.
To think he’d blown out of paradise the day after he’d graduated high school. He’d been hungry for purpose and action. Jessie had accused him of having superhero syndrome. She’d said it like it was a bad thing.
Turned out, she was right.
As soon as she stopped giving him the cold shoulder, he’d concede and give her a chance to say I told you so. At least it would mean they were talking.
He shoved aside thoughts of his sister. She wasn’t the only one’s favor he needed to gain. He needed to earn the respect of his new unit. A skeletal crew divided among three shifts for twenty-four-hour coverage. His second in command, Deputy Ed Ziffel, worked 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. Officer Andy Anderson covered the 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. The night shift belonged to Officer Bo Hooper. Dorothy Vine, their administrative assistant, pulled nine to five. Jack would float, working longer hours and where needed. He’d get to know the unit, but it would take time.
Prepared for the morning shift, Jack entered the station house along with the perky-eared, stink-ass dog.
Ed Ziffel sat at a dinged metal desk immersed in a book while devouring a powdery pastry. Ziffel had graduated high school two years behind Jack. They’d never been friends, but they weren’t enemies, either. After an hour in the man’s company yesterday, Jack knew why the town council hadn’t promoted from within. Some men are born to lead. Some…aren’t.
Jack cleared his throat.
Ziffel jerked his nose out of the book and brushed crumbs from his dark blue tie. He noted Jack’s attire. “Chief Curtis dressed in the official EPD uniform,” he said by way of a greeting.
“I know.” Part of the reason Jack had deviated. Dark blue Dutymax cargo pants and black LITESpeed running boots. He wore a white T-shirt under his tan polo shirt and a lightweight nylon blue jacket with Police embroidered on the right. His gold badge was clipped to his belt. His .40 caliber semiautomatic Glock was holstered at his hip. His headgear of choice—a blue ball cap—was embroidered with stark white letters: EPD.
His goal was to appear official yet approachable. According to the mayor, the former police chief had fallen out of touch with the populace. Burned out? Maybe. Probably. Christ. The man had been on the job thirty-five years. Shit happens.
Jack knew shit. He also knew people. He was an expert at reading personalities. An expert at blending. He could converse and connect with butchers, bakers and cold-blooded killers. His goal to bond with the citizens of Eden was both professional and personal.
“Guess you’re more comfortable in plainclothes seeing as you were a detective.”
Jack didn’t argue. He didn’t want to speak ill of Ben Curtis. He didn’t feel obliged to explain his clothes, though not official EPD attire, were in fact regulation. He took off his Oakleys, slid them into his inner jacket pocket. “Any activity I should know about?”
“Hooper got a call from dispatch at 2:31 a.m. Mrs. Carmichael reporting a possible break-in. Or vandalism. She swore someone was skulking around her house.”
The E911 Dispatch Center also dispatched calls to the Eden fire department, ambulance service, and to the animal control officer. Jack wondered how they kept up. Then again, this was Eden. They probably got four calls a day, total. “And?”
“Hooper drove out even though he knew he wouldn’t find any threat.”
Jack raised a brow.
“We get calls from the old woman at least once a week.”
“Regardless, Hooper investigated.”
“Bo Hooper’s a good man.”
“Didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
Ziffel pursed his lips, nodded.
Jack bypassed his office—a disorganized nightmare—and drifted toward a pot of freshly brewed coffee. Shy slinked along. “So what did Hooper find?”
Focused on a manila file, Ziffel grunted. “A tree branch scraping against her upstairs pane.”
“I remember Sally Carmichael,” Jack said as he filled a blue ceramic mug to the brim. “Sunday school teacher.”
“Retired now.”
“Married forever.”
“Until Harry died.”
“Now she’s widowed, alone. Skittish.”
“Starved for attention,” Ziffel added.
“Lonely.”
The man nodded. “That’s our take. Especially at night.”
“Anything else?”
“This town doesn’t see much action.” Ziffel cast a subtle line. “At least not the kind you’re used to.”
Jack didn’t take the bait. He sipped coffee.
Ziffel didn’t take the hint. He fished deeper. “Folks are speculating on why a gung-ho cop like you would ditch New York City—maybe the most exciting city in the whole U.S. of A.—for hum-drum Eden.”
In other words, he was the subject of town gossip. He wasn’t surprised. He did, however, want to douse speculation. “I burned out on big crime.”
“Oh.” Ziffel looked disappointed by the straightforward answer. No drama. No scandal. No dancing around the subject. “Burnout is common in high-stress, high-risk professions,” he said. “So instead of melting down, you transferred out of a toxic environment into a wholesome community. Smart.”
Jack saluted the man with his mug. “No place like home.”
Shy whimpered.
The deputy peered over his desk. He noted the mutt leaning against Jack’s leg, frowned. “You brought your dog to work?”
“She’s a stray. I’m her caretaker. Temporary.” Jack gestured from canine to deputy. “Shy, Ziffel. Ziffel, Shy.”
“You named her?”
“Had to call her something.”
Ziffel, a rail-thin man with a face only his mother—and wife—could love, drained his mug, then joined Jack for a refill. “Should’ve stuck with ‘Dog.’ Once you give an animal a name, you’ve made it personal.”
Jack didn’t comment. Ziffel was a pain-in-the-ass know-it-all, but he didn’t care that he hadn’t been promoted, and according to the town council, he was a conscientious lawman. Jack needed a reliable deputy, a man who knew Eden and its citizens like the back of his hand. A man the squad already respected. Ziffel fit the bill.
Jack refilled their mugs.
Shy sat and leaned into Jack’s leg.
“She thinks she’s your dog,” Ziffel said, stirring two packets of sugar into his coffee.
“She’s anxious.”
“You mean attached.”
Jack sipped. “Hazelnut?”
Ziffel nodded, then shifted. “Chief Curtis liked Maxwell House Dark Roast. Day in, day out. Don’t seem right, drinking his brew without him. Thought I’d try something different.”
“It’s good.”
“Dorothy won’t like it.”
Jack’s gaze flicked to the assistant’s vacant desk. “Speaking of Ms. Vine…”
“This ain’t typical,” Ziffel said in her defense. “Dorothy’s one of the most punctual people I know.”
“Should I be worried?”
“She’s seeing to Chief Curtis’s…worldly possessions. He was a widower,” Ziffel explained. “No children.”
“I get it, Deputy.” No wife. No kids. No one to see to his affairs after he’d keeled over unexpectedly from a heart attack. Jack was in a similar position. No wife. No kids. Just a sister who resented him and a niece who didn’t know him. “Ms. Vine gets here when she gets here.”
“Right-o, Chief Reynolds.”
“Jack’ll do.
Ziffel smiled and Jack got the feeling he’d just risen a notch in the man’s eyes. “Know what you need with that coffee, Jack? Kerri’s apple strudel. I bought a half dozen. Help yourself.”
According to Ziffel, Kerri’s Confections was famous countywide. The proprietor, Kerri Waldo, a fairly recent addition to Eden, had a gift for creating heavenly desserts. Her recipes were spiked with secret ingredients and the daily special was usually a one-time affair. The freshly baked scents wafting from the box on Ziffel’s desk promised a decadent delight.
Jack wasn’t hungry, but this was a chance to bond with his new right-hand man. If it meant sampling strudel, so be it. He moved to Ziffel’s desk and dipped into the box. Two seconds later, nirvana. “Wow.”
“I’ve asked her to marry me three times,” said Ziffel.
“Aren’t you already married?”
“In this case my wife would consider bigamy a blessing. She’s addicted to Kerri’s sweets.”
Jack cracked a smile, sampled more strudel. Shy licked his fingers. He couldn’t blame the dog. Hard to resist heaven.
“Just so you know,” Ziffel said, narrowing his eyes on Shy. “Dorothy is a neat freak.”
“Really.” Jack’s gaze flicked to his office.
“Chief Curtis’s office was off limits. Said he had his own system. Knew where everything was. If Dorothy shifted so much as a pencil, he had a conniption fit.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know Curtis’s system. Ms. Vine can shift all the pencils she wants, and while she’s at it, I could use help organizing files.”
“That she’ll like. That,” he said, pointing to Shy, “she won’t.”
Jack had only met Dorothy Vine briefly, but long enough to know she’d view Shy as a hairy, four-legged disruption. He looked down and met the mutt’s baleful brown eyes. Could she be any more needy? “Ms. Vine will have to deal. Shy’s destructive when I leave her home alone.” He refreshed his coffee and moved into the disaster zone.
Ziffel followed. “Separation anxiety. Saw a special about it on Animal Planet. Stems from fear of abandonment. Especially prevalent in rescued strays.”
Jack sat at his desk and opened that day’s edition of the Eden Tribune—the rural voice of Miami County. Although the paper included state news, it typically focused on feel-good articles, local sports and community events. Far and away from the bleak and stark reports of the New York Times, Daily News and the New York Post. There was something to be said for Americana newspapers, especially by someone suffering big-city burnout. This week the paper brimmed with stories and advertisements for Eden’s upcoming Apple Festival.
Jack skimmed the classifieds while Ziffel spouted the advantages of hiring a dog trainer. “I don’t need a trainer. I’m not keeping her.” No mention of a missing dog in the lost-and-found section. “Figured I’d walk her around town. See if anyone recognizes her.”
“Without a collar and leash?”
Jack glanced up. “We have a leash law I don’t know about?”
Ziffel sniffed. “No law. But what if she attacks someone?”
“Shy’s afraid of her own shadow.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t attack if provoked. Just because she’s meek… Where is she, anyway?” Ziffel turned, stiffened.
Jack saw what he saw—Shy with her nose in the red-and-white signature box marked Kerri’s Confections. Shit. “Don’t—”
“Hey, you thieving mutt!”
“—yell.” Jack was on his deputy’s heels. The sight of Shy crouched and trembling with apple goo and flaky crumbs on her snout made him smile.
Ziffel was not amused. “You…scrounge. You…menace!”
He gripped the man’s bony shoulder. “You can’t blame the dog for wanting to sample something that smells so good.”
“She not only ate all the strudel,” he complained, “she peed on the floor.”
“That’s because you yelled. Relax. I’ll clean it up.” Jack patted Shy’s bowed head, then swiped several tissues from Dorothy’s desk.
“The strudel—”
“I’ll buy more.”
“Probably sold out already.” He swiped up the damaged box. “Dang nabbit!”
Dang nabbit? What the hell? Cops cursed. Most of them crudely and often. At least in Jack’s experience. Then again, this was Eden—paradise in the heartland. An old-fashioned town with old-fashioned values.
While Ziffel cleaned up the pastry disaster, Jack made a mental note to clean up his language—when in Rome—although he refused to substitute dang for damn or fudge for fuck. Although, damn, fuck should probably go. This should be interesting. Amused, he flushed the soiled tissue, then washed his hands.
The roar of an engine drew them both to the station’s front window.
Jack noted the rider with a raised brow. Was that…Holy shit. It was. On the heels of surprise came a jolt of lust. Typically he wasn’t attracted to biker chicks, but this one was sexy as hell in her short skirt, denim jacket and…Christ…were those combat boots?
“Spenser would have a fit if he saw Kylie on that motorcycle,” Ziffel said.
Jack wrestled with his own misgivings. “Because it’s not a Harley? Or because it’s dangerous?”
“Both.”
He was right. Spenser wouldn’t approve. Mostly because of the safety issue. Motorcyclists were twenty times as likely to die in a crash than someone riding in a car.
Great.
Now Jack felt compelled to lecture Kylie on the perils of the road as well as home security.
At least she was wearing a helmet.
He watched as she parked the sleek silver motorcycle in front of Hank’s Hardware. Given her obsession with Asia, he wasn’t surprised she’d chosen Kawasaki. “That her regular mode of transportation?”
“Her car’s in the shop. Usually she drives a Honda Civic.”
“She has a sudden aversion to the usual.”
“A sudden aversion to modesty, too,” Ziffel noted. “Who rides a bike in a skirt? What was she thinking?”
About shaking things up.
Jack noted her tousled ponytail when she whipped off her helmet, the way the flared skirt kissed the back of her toned, creamy thighs. He wondered about the color of her panties—bright green like her socks?
Touch her and I’ll kick your ass.
“Are those army boots?” Ziffel asked.
“Something like.” He couldn’t make out details, but he made out splashes of color. Yellow, pink and blue on black. Definitely different. Hardly sexy, yet he had the mother of boners.
What the hell, Reynolds? Jerk off. Nail a loose woman. Do not approach the temptress.
Ziffel looked at his watch. “Nine-fifteen. McGraw’s Shoe Store always opens at nine prompt.”
“So?”
“Kylie always opens the store. Always. What do you think she’s up to?”
“Trouble.”
“Kylie McGraw?” Ziffel snorted. “That girl’s a pussycat.”
Jack believed otherwise. What’s your game, Tiger? “Keep an eye on Shy.”
“Where are you going?” Ziffel asked as he pushed through the door.
“Making a strudel run.”
“Good Lord,” he heard behind him. “What’s that smell?”
CHAPTER SIX
KYLIE WAS THREE STEPS from Hank’s Hardware when she caught a fragrant whiff of baked goods and java. She wasn’t a coffee drinker, but she’d read that caffeine tames headaches. Just her luck, her hangover had magnified on the bumpy ride into town. In lieu of more aspirin, she’d settle for a big honking cup of dark roast. She swiveled toward Kerri’s Confections…and saw Jack.
Just. Her. Luck.
She almost did a one-eighty—hang the coffee—but she couldn’t avoid the man forever. Best to get this over with. About last night…
Standing her ground, she smiled at the approaching lawman and cursed her skipping heart. She told herself she was reacting to his official appearance, not his hunky bad self. Just because she was over him, that didn’t mean she was blind to the pulse-tripping package. He looked more like a SWAT guy than Eden’s chief of police. The ball cap, the cargo pants and tactical running boots. The badge clipped to his taut waist.
S-e-x-y.
She thought about the previous night. Her botched seduction. Her second botched seduction. Her cheeks flamed. Not that he’d bring it up.
A gentleman even when you ached to be ravished.
Dang.
He stepped from the street onto the sidewalk. “Kylie.”
“Jack.”
His eyes were hidden behind a pair of cool cop sunglasses, but she sensed his amusement when he noted her funky but incredibly un-sexy boots. No doubt he preferred his women in strappy four-inch heels. Jack went for glamour girls. Stunning beauties with hourglass figures. Kylie wasn’t voluptuous or blond, but—thanks to yoga—she did have nice legs. Not that she wanted Jack to go for her. She was, after all, over him, and he’d be over Eden in a month, if not sooner. Pursuing an intimate relationship would only end in heartache. She mentally recited that affirmation three times as her traitorous heart raced.
He focused back on her face. “About that kiss…”
Oh, God. If he was compelled to address her drunken advance, then he felt he had to set her straight. You’re a sweet girl, but…
Kylie scrambled to preserve her dignity. “I’m so not attracted to you.”
He regarded her over the rims of his tinted glasses.
Her knees weakened at the sight of those river-blue eyes. Her stomach constricted as she thought she’d maybe, possibly insulted him. Normally she went out of her way not to hurt someone’s feelings. “Not that you’re not attractive. I mean you’re gorgeous. In a, you know, beefcake sort of way.”
He raised a brow.
“But I’m not the beefcake type,” she rambled on. “I mean, you’re not the type for me. That kiss was just…well, I was drunk and you were there.”
“So if Ashe…”
“Exactly,” she lied. “What can I say? I was pretty blitzed.”
“No argument there.”
Embarrassed and oddly provoked, she hitched the purse she’d just picked up at Boone’s higher on her shoulder and hiked her chin a notch. “I’m just saying you don’t have to worry about me stalking you or coming on to you, because I’m over you. Completely. That schoolgirl crush? History. So…there. We’re okay. Right?” She stuck out her hand, offering a truce, retaining her dignity. “Friends?”
He clasped her palm, stroked his thumb over her skin.
Heat shot up her arm and burned a path from her heart to her…Uh-oh.
He smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make her insides gooey. “Join me for a cup of coffee?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You were heading toward Kerri’s.”
“Yes, but…”
“Friends confide in each other.”
“Sure, but…”
“The beef you have with Spenser. Maybe I can help.”
Kylie stared, his words not registering as much as his touch. He was still holding her hand, still stroking her skin. She tingled everywhere. Eh-ver-ree-where. Even her hair tingled. How was that possible? How could she get zip from a kiss and zing from holding hands?
Then again, this morning she was sober.
This was bad. Not the sober part. The zing part.
Really, really bad.
Kylie jerked free. “Thanks, but…I’m late.” She spun back toward the hardware store.
“Thought you were heading for the café,” Jack said with a smile in his voice.
Was he teasing her? The thought occurred that he’d done that thumb-stroking thing on purpose, just to see if she really was cured of her schoolgirl crush. Curiosity? Arrogance? Although, it wasn’t like Jack to lead a girl on.
“I was,” she said over her shoulder, feigning an easy smile. “But now, thanks to our chat, I’m late. Meeting someone. Gotta run.” She intentionally left the identity of that someone to his imagination. Hopefully, he’d imagine a guy. Maybe even—eew—Ashe. She sure as heck didn’t want him thinking she was hopelessly single, which she was, but that wasn’t the point.
Flustered, Kylie rushed over the threshold of Hank’s Hardware and slammed into Faye.
“You’re twenty minutes late.”
“Sorry.” Kylie wanted to spew about the unnerving encounter with Jack, but she felt stupid. Just this morning, she’d sworn she was over him. Actually, she’d declared her undying love dead the day she’d learned he was getting married—much to Faye’s relief. Faye, who’d endured years of Kylie’s unrequited pining. Faye, who apparently had problems of her own. As soon as they had a private moment, she’d have to ask why she and Stan were on the outs.
“I left this at the bar last night,” Kylie said, flashing her purse and hoping it excused her delay. “Had to stop and pick it up.”
“You drove without a license? Are you nuts?” Faye snapped her fingers. “Ah, yes. The new you. The rebel rouser. What next? Picketing the Bixley? Expand or else?”
Again with the sarcasm. Kylie refused to take offense. If she stayed upbeat, maybe she could lighten her friend’s dark mood. “I could zoom my bike down Main Street topless,” she teased while glancing at the signs hanging above the aisles. “That would cause a stir.”
“Speeding. Indecent exposure.” Faye sighed and shook her head. “You’re determined to land in jail, aren’t you?”
Kylie snorted and moved toward aisle seven. “Jack wouldn’t arrest me. It would piss off Spenser.”
“Spenser’s half a world away.”
“Don’t remind me.” Kylie gestured to her flower-covered Doc Martens. “What do you think?”
“So that’s how you’re going to shake up Eden. Impractical footwear.”
“For a start.”
“Nice ensemble,” Faye said, gesturing to the rest of Kylie’s attire. “Sort of retro Madonna. Except…you rode your bike in a skirt?”
“Yep.”
“No tights or leggings?”
“I’m a little backed up on laundry.”
“Tell me you’re wearing shorts.”
“I’m wearing shorts.” Kylie stopped in the aisle stocked with paint supplies. “So about renovating McGraw’s…”
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this.”
“Believe it.” Kylie surveyed the shelves. Brushes, pads and rollers. Drop cloths. Sandpaper. Solvents and thinners. “I have no idea what to buy.”
“Don’t look at me,” Faye said. “The only thing I know how to paint is fingernails.”
“Ha.”
“I’m serious. I haven’t the slightest clue as to what you’ll need to paint the store. That’s what you have in mind, right? You’re going to make good on your threat? Pink walls, yellow trim? Spenser’s going to kill you.”
Kylie waggled her brows. “Spenser’s half a world away.”
“Can I help?”
“Hi, Travis.”
“Kylie.”
Travis Martin was a long-time employee of Hank’s Hardware. Tall. Fit. His huge puppy-dog eyes and fleshy lips softened his hard-angled face. His red hair clashed with his olive skin. His nose had a weird bump and dent. She’d asked him about that once. An old baseball injury, he’d told her. He also had a scar dissecting his left eyebrow. He wasn’t handsome, but he was attractive, even with the unflattering hair color. She didn’t know his ancestry. Irish-Italian? Spanish-German? She didn’t even know where he’d lived specifically before moving to Eden, although she’d heard through the grapevine Montana. Or was it Wyoming? She never could place the accent.
She did, however, know his shoe size.
Mostly he purchased his footwear at a nearby department store—shudder—but he occasionally shopped at McGraw’s. She wasn’t sure she’d call him a satisfied customer. Although she always sold him what he asked for, he always seemed apathetic. Then again, he was a man, and men didn’t generally fuss over shoes. Especially the practical, silent type.
She indicated his latest purchase. Insulated work boots—waterproof and rugged. Suitable for manual labor. “How are those holding up?”
“Good.”
“Because if you don’t like them—”
“Like ’em fine.”
“I have a new shipment of boots coming in.”
He noted her Doc Martens. “With flowers?” He quirked an excuse for a smile. “No, thanks.”
“We want to buy some paint,” Faye interrupted. “Maybe. If it’s not too expensive. Or too pink.”
Kylie rolled her eyes. “I’m going to redecorate McGraw’s Shoe Store. Inside and out.”
“Out?” Faye echoed.
“A total makeover. In addition to changing the color scheme, I want new shelves and lighting. I have pictures.” She dug in the pocket of her denim jacket and produced photos she’d printed from the Internet, plus pages she’d ripped from a shoe supply catalog. “I ordered some of this stuff online last night.”
Faye groaned. “In a drunken stupor? That’s not good.”
Kylie ignored her. “These shoe displays, these mirrors. And check out these prints I found on Art.com.”
“Interesting mix of abstract and art deco,” he said. “Nice.”
“Sure. If McGraw’s was in a cosmopolitan hotspot,” said Faye. “But it’s in Eden.”
“Please don’t mention cosmopolitans,” Kylie said, massaging the dull pulse at her temples. “Anyway,” she pressed on, “I was thinking about painting the walls this color with these accents. Maybe something similar for the exterior? And wall-to-wall carpet. I like this color. Or maybe this.”
Travis nodded. “Bold.”
Faye looked around his shoulder. “Disastrous.”
“I get what you’re going for,” he said.
“Yeah,” Faye said. “Spenser’s boot up her butt.”
Kylie smirked. “Ha.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Faye asked. “Spenser will have a cow. And what about your mom and grandma? What about tradition?”
“The only tradition I care about is Kabuki Theater and zongzi.”
“I’ll bite,” said Faye. “What’s zongzi?”
“A glutinous rice dumpling wrapped in bamboo leaves.”
“I take it back. I won’t bite. Sounds disgusting.”
“It’s the food of honor at the Dragon Boat Festival.”
“Still disgusting.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe it’s orgasmic. Not that I’ll ever know,” Kylie muttered. The way things were going, she’d never make it to Japan or China, let alone both. She’d be lucky if she ever made it across state lines. She glanced at Travis, who was still studying her photos. “Since you get what I’m going for, would you please box up everything I need?”
Travis raised a brow. “Everything?”
Kylie nodded.
Faye nudged her. “Don’t you think you should get an estimate?”
“If you’re talking an extensive renovation,” Travis said as he moved to his work station, “it could get expensive. Especially when you factor in labor.”
Kylie scrunched her nose. “Hadn’t thought about hiring help.”
“Don’t tell me you planned on handling everything yourself,” Faye asked.
“Not all by myself.”
Faye’s eyebrows rose to her bleached hairline. “Me? You expect me to help? I’m not good with simple home repairs, let alone an entire renovation.”
“You renovated the Orchard House.”
“I picked out colors and furniture. Stan renovated the building.” Faye blinked, smirked. “Oh. You expect me to rope Stan into helping.”
Kylie smiled. “Free shoes for the family for a year?”
“As tempting as that sounds…”
“In addition to some sort of cash fee, of course,” Kylie added. Maybe that’s why Stan and Faye were fighting. Money troubles. “I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of anyone, especially your husband. You guys are like family.”
“Stan won’t take money from you. Same reasoning. Family.”
“What about the shoes?”
“What about the B and B? We have a business to run and I can’t do it alone. Not with two kids in the mix. Besides, we’re knee-deep in our own spiffing-up. The Apple Festival is next week. Starting midweek we’re booked solid and…” Faye broke off and looked away.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“But—”
“Just when did you plan to start your renovations?” Faye asked, swinging the subject back around.
Kylie’s head spun. “Today.”
“Naturally.”
“I know it’ll be hard work,” Kylie babbled, flustered by Faye’s ongoing sarcasm, “but, I want to reopen McGraw’s on opening day of the festival. I ordered a special line of stock. Shoes that’ll appeal to the tourists and…” She flushed when she noted her friend gaping at her like a widemouthed bass. “You’re right. What was I thinking? I can’t expect you and Stan to…never mind.”
“We would if we could, Kylie.”
“I know. It’s okay. I didn’t think things through. Drunken stupor and all that. Obviously, I’m going to have to hire a crew or at least one very productive man.”
“I have an estimate,” Travis said.
Kylie and Faye moved to the counter. They looked at the figure Travis had scratched on a yellow pad. Kylie swallowed. “That much, huh?”
He slid her Internet printouts under her nose and picked up a pencil. “If you cut this and this—”
“Nope. Gotta have those.”
“What about these?” Faye said.
“I’ve had my eye on those for months. Spied them in InStep Magazine.”
“You could cut cost by renovating the interior only,” Travis said.
“Yeah,” Faye said. “It would save time, too. Also, Spenser would only be half as mad.”
It was the exact wrong thing to say. Kylie shook her head. “I want the whole sushi roll.” She nabbed the pencil from Travis and scribbled her own figure. “This is how much I have to spend on supplies and labor. Obviously, I need someone who’ll work cheap. And fast. Oh, and I’ll throw in free shoes.”
Travis looked at the figure.
Faye looked at the figure. She whistled. “You’re taking that out of the business account? Without Spenser’s approval?”
“No. I’m dipping into my personal account.”
“Dipping? It’ll wipe you out! What about your dream trip?”
“It’s just that, Faye. A dream. Sometimes you have to make lemonade out of lemons.” She shrugged. “Or in this case, cider out of apples.”
“I can’t believe you’re giving up,” Faye said. “You’ve worked so hard. Skimped and saved. Again. I can’t—” Her cell phone blared—ringtone of the month, Evanescence’s “Bring Me to Life.” “I have to take this,” she said after checking the screen. “Hi, Miss Miller.” Sting’s kindergarten teacher. “He did what? He…I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Hold on.” Faye gestured to Travis and Kylie she needed to move outside.
Kylie wondered what planet she’d been on when she’d thought about enlisting Faye and Stan’s help. They had full lives. A business. A family. A marriage. They didn’t have time to indulge her life crisis. Especially when they were, possibly, immersed in their own crisis. Except, if that were the case, why hadn’t Faye confided in her? Which brought Kylie back to her initial worry that Faye’s anger was actually directed at her, not Stan. But why?
Dang.
“What about me?”
Kylie blinked out of her musings and focused on Travis. Her temples throbbed as she processed. “You’re offering to help me renovate?”
“I am.”
“But you work full-time and I’m on a tight schedule.”
“I have vacation time coming.”
“Wouldn’t you rather spend that time somewhere else? Somewhere out of Eden?”
“I would, but I can’t.”
Hmm. Maybe he was strapped for funds. “You could relax—”
“I prefer to keep as busy as possible these days.”
Or maybe he didn’t want to travel alone. She suspected keeping busy kept his thoughts off of his deceased wife. Three months back, Mona Martin had succumbed to cancer. Travis had been devastated. He was still damned somber. How long did it take to get over a spouse’s death? She hoped to never know.
Kylie crossed her arms over her middle, trying to decide what to make of the man’s offer. She asked straight out. “Why would you want to do this?”
“To shake up my life?”
Had he been in the bar last night? Had he heard her rant?
“Maybe you miscalculated that figure I jotted. To be clear, I can’t pay you close to what you’d deserve for your time and effort.”
He almost, sort of, smiled. “Happy belated birthday.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AT 10:00 A.M., TRAVIS entered his boss’s office and put in for vacation time. If Hank had refused, he’d been ready to quit. But it didn’t come to that. The man felt sorry for him. Assumed he was still mourning Mona—which he was. Only this wasn’t about Mona. This was about two people stuck in a rut.
By 10:45 a.m., Travis had loaded several cans of paint and various other supplies into the bed of his truck. Hank didn’t carry the kind of lighting fixtures Kylie wanted. Not wanting to wait weeks for an order to come in, she’d been ready to settle for something more conservative. Travis didn’t want her to settle. He told her not to worry. He’d track down those contemporary fixtures or something damn close.
At 11:15 a.m., Travis pulled into his driveway. A burst of adrenaline made his hands shake. He’d broken his routine. He’d tempted fate. Again. He wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure how he felt about that. But this time he wouldn’t turn back.
He raided his work shed for a ladder and toolbox. He pulled a roll of canvas and a bin of paint brushes out of his attic. The whole time he’d been at work boxing up everything Kylie needed, he’d been mentally ticking off items he could bring from home. He’d try to save her what money he could. It bothered him that she’d given up on a dream. He knew all about giving up something important. It ate at your soul. It was too late to save his, but maybe he could save Kylie’s.
Mona wouldn’t approve. She wouldn’t understand why he’d stick his neck out for a person he barely knew. He couldn’t explain it. All he knew was that Kylie McGraw had unleashed the part of him that he’d kept locked away for seven long years. Time to shake up the life forced upon him.
Eleven-forty-five. He stashed his name badge and work hat in a drawer. Changed into a fresh T-shirt and a clean but paint-splattered long-sleeved button-down. He tugged on an Indiana Colts ball cap. In his heart, he rooted for the Eagles.
Lunch consisted of a ham sandwich—white bread, yellow mustard and American cheese, Lays potato chips and a Coke. Of the times they’d shopped together, three times Travis had reached for a package of provolone. Mona had nudged him away.
“They don’t eat provolone,” she’d reminded him after they’d reached the sanctity of home.
Not typically. Typically they ate American, Swiss or Cheddar. Travis had grinned. “I feel daring.”
“No, you don’t,” she said as she put away the groceries. “You feel like everyone else in this county. You dress like them, talk like them, eat like them….” She bobbled a can of Campbell’s soup. It should have been Progresso. “Anything out of the norm—”
“—is dangerous. I know.” He’d hated the fear in her voice. He’d pulled her into his arms and hugged her. He’d assured her that American cheese was just fine.
Only it wasn’t. And Mona was no longer here to reassure.
By 12:40 p.m., Travis was on the road and on his way to McGraw’s Shoe Store. Renovating Kylie’s business called to his artistic side. He’d liked the pictures she’d shown him, although he’d suggested slight variations in the color scheme so as not to deter the male clientele. He’d also recommended scattered throw rugs—a mix of abstract and art deco—as opposed to the wall-to-wall carpet. Less expensive. More impact. Splashes of vibrant color against the dark hardwood floors. Kylie had applauded his vision, naming him a kindred spirit. He didn’t know about that. But he sure liked the way she made him feel.
Alive.
He popped open another can of Coke and floored the Chevy. He knew he’d work hard and work late tonight. Maybe he’d reward himself later…with a bottle of Chianti and a wedge of provolone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACK SAT BEHIND HIS DESK sorting through old newspapers, budget reports, trade magazines and assorted mail. A daunting task, complicated by the fact that he couldn’t concentrate. He’d played with fire this morning. First to soothe his ego. Then to satisfy his desire. He’d wanted to hold Kylie’s hand, to stroke that ivory skin. Watching her blush and ramble had been a turn-on. The more she denied an attraction, the keener his arousal. Growing up, given their four-year age difference, he’d never paid much attention to Kylie-the-kid. But Kylie-the-woman…she was a fascinating enigma.
Mesmerized, he’d imagined her in his arms, in his bed. He’d imagined her flexibility and fiery spirit. He wanted to lose himself in all that spunk and sweetness. He wanted to protect her from men like Ashe Davis and Bobby Jones. In that split second, he’d felt possessive of Kylie Ann McGraw. A sign that he was in deep shit. He wasn’t sure if he could shovel himself out. Worse. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Spenser was always bragging about his sister’s grounded, caring spirit. Connecting intimately with all that goodness could do wonders for Jack’s cynical soul.
Tempting.
The desk phone rang, jerking him out of his destructive musings. “Chief Reynolds,” he answered.
“Personal assistant to Chief Reynolds,” Dorothy Vine replied.
Jack frowned at the woman’s caustic tone. “What is it, Ms. Vine?”
“As requested, I phoned your sister on your behalf and invited her and her daughter to your house—or anyplace of their choice—for dinner.”
It had been a desperate act on his part, asking the squad’s administrative assistant to act as a liaison of sorts. But dammit, he’d been in town for almost a week and Jessie had avoided him at every turn. He knew she had to be heartbroken. She’d finally learned the truth about the Cheating Bastard. Frank Cortez was ruled by his dick, not his heart. That’s if he had a heart. Jack wanted to help Jessie through this. He wanted to help his young niece.
“Jessica Lynn asked me to give you a message,” said Ms. Vine.
“Okay.”
“She said…”
“Go on.”
“Fuck off.”
Disappointing, but not unexpected. Almost amusing coming from straight-laced Ms. Vine. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jack hung up and focused back on his paper-ridden desktop. Better than obsessing on his fractured relationship with his sister and nonexistent relationship with his niece. Better than obsessing on Kylie. According to Ziffel, Chief Curtis had had a filing system. Damned if Jack could figure it out, and he wasn’t about to ask Ms. Vine. Not today. The squad’s administrative assistant, a fifty-something woman with choppy silver hair, green cat-eye glasses and a fondness for polyester suits, had rolled in an hour late—eyes swollen from crying over the former chief, manner brusque. Ziffel was right. She didn’t like the coffee and she didn’t like Shy. She’d spent the next hour sweeping, dusting and dousing the air with pine-scented Glade.
Shy cowered under his desk. He didn’t blame the dog. She probably felt like Toto hiding out from the Wicked Witch of the West. He had to admit, Dorothy Vine was a little scary. Then again, grief caused people to act in strange ways.
Take the parents of the victim who’d instigated Jack’s breakdown. Instead of wanting revenge or, at the very least, demanding justice, they’d swallowed their misery and moved on. Their emotional lockdown had made Jack hyperaware of his own numb state.
“Chief.”
Jack looked up. His expression must’ve been fierce because Ziffel stepped back. “What is it, Deputy?”
“Got a call from dispatch. Disturbance at 1450 Main.”
McGraw’s Shoe Store. Given his previous dark thoughts, Jack tensed. “Define disturbance,” he said as he rose.
“Kylie’s making a scene.”
Shaking things up. He almost smiled. He definitely welcomed the distraction. Jack braced himself for another encounter with the woman—Just don’t touch her for Christ’s sake—and nabbed his jacket. “Let’s roll.”
Shy scrambled out from under the desk and followed them into the administrative office.
Jack tugged on his EPD cap, glanced at Dorothy who was tapping away at the computer. “Do you think—”
“Not a dog-sitter.”
Right.
Head down, Shy zipped ahead of the two men.
Dorothy spritzed the air.
“You,” Ziffel said to Shy as they left the building, “stay downwind.”
“YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS of me, J.J.”
“Maybe not, but you don’t call the shots either, missy.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m ten years old!”
“Then start acting like a responsible adult,” said Ray Keystone.
Arguing with her elders wasn’t Kylie’s style. Nor was airing her dirty laundry, especially in broad daylight directly in front of McGraw’s. But she’d already been knocked dizzy by Faye’s prickly mood and Jack’s unsettling touch. She’d be danged if she’d be bullied into ditching her home-spun adventure just because these fuddy-duddies were opposed to change! Insulted, Kylie smacked a hand to her racing heart. “I am responsible. My family owns this store and we’re renovating.”
“Anyone in your family know about that aside from you?” asked Max.
Kylie felt a small pang of guilt for not running the idea by her mom and grandma. Although they’d never taken an active interest in the business end of things, they did consider McGraw’s a family venture. As for Spenser, well, someone had to take a progressive role. Moving McGraw’s into the twenty-first century would shake things up in a good way. She hoped. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could easily contact her brother or her mom and grandma due to their current exotic locales. That thought only fueled her determination.
“Just as I thought,” Max said. “She’s acting solo.”
J.J. and Keystone chimed in, citing last night’s inebriated rant and a pre-midlife crisis.
Kylie fumed at being ganged up on. First the owner of the pharmacy, then the owner of the barbershop. The two businesses flanking hers. She’d never known these two men could be such curmudgeons. To make matters worse, Max, who still had shaving cream on his chin, had followed Mr. Keystone out of the barbershop to add fuel to the inferno.
“Since when do you fan flames instead of putting them out?” she blasted.
“Just doing my civic duty,” said Max. “Wouldn’t be right if I let you deface property.”
“Damn right,” said J.J.
“I’m not…I’m just…” Spitting mad. She was so dang mad she couldn’t think straight. She lost her train of thought as a crowd gathered.
“Is that pink?” someone asked.
“Prissy pink,” said Max.
J.J. tsked. “If Spenser was here—”
“Well, he’s not,” Kylie snapped.
Keystone shook his finger at Travis, who was perched on the top rung of the ladder, painting the trim of McGraw’s storefront. “I’m warning you, Travis. One more swipe and—”
“You’re not the boss of me, Keystone.” He didn’t look down. He didn’t stop painting.
Kylie refrained from sticking her tongue out at the barber, but couldn’t hold back the “Ha.”
“That’s mature,” said J.J.
“Listen, you…” She trailed off as the crowd parted and Jack showed up on the scene. Darn. She met his bluer-than-blue gaze and ignored the flutter in her heart. Just friends, she told herself, then focused back on her dilemma.
All business, Jack looked to the crotchety trio. “What’s the problem, gentlemen?”
“No problem,” Kylie said.
“Big problem,” said J.J.
“Huge problem,” said Max. “She’s ruining the integrity of the landscape.”
“Sissifying our block,” Keystone groused.
“Since when is jazzing up and adding color sissifying?” Kylie shouted. “If you’d get your heads out of your—”
“Play nice,” Jack warned.
J.J. tsked. “She used to be polite.”
“You mean passive.” Not that she didn’t appreciate the benefits of meditation, but she was sick of squashing her restlessness.
“She’s bored,” said Max.
“Aren’t you?” Kylie asked, blood burning. Of course he was. A career fireman forcibly retired due to his age. She knew he’d rather be at the firehouse, but he’d made a pest of himself and they’d restricted his visits. Now he hung out at Boone’s, Kerri’s and Keystone’s.
“If you’re bored,” said J.J., “get a hobby. Don’t mess with history.”
“She tried to get me to drop my trousers,” Max told the ten or so bystanders.
They snickered and whistled.
Kylie flushed head to toe. “No, I didn’t! I just…I…”
“Deputy,” said Jack.
“Sir?”
“Move the spectators along.”
“Will do,” he said, and he did.
That’s when she noticed the dog. A midsize pooch with big sad eyes—sort of like Travis’s. Instead of leaving with the gawkers, the dog leaned into Jack. “Who’s that?” she asked.
“Shy,” he said.
“Yours?”
“No.” He gestured to Travis. “Who’s that?”
“Travis Martin.” She knew he didn’t know Travis. The Martins had moved to Eden long after Jack had moved to New York. But she didn’t offer further information. Actually, aside from the fact that Travis worked at Hank’s Hardware, was a widower and wore a ten-and-a-half shoe, she didn’t have much information to offer.
“Mr. Martin,” he called. “Stop what you’re doing and join us.”
Travis abandoned his post, set aside his brush and wiped his hands on a rag.
“I’m Jack Reynolds.”
“The new chief of police.” Travis nodded. “Welcome to Eden.”
“Jack’s a native,” Ray said.
“I used to make him chocolate Cokes when he was a kid,” J.J. said.
Travis just nodded.
Kylie shifted as the two men studied each other. She sensed some tension, which was weird. They’d never met before today. “I’m doing some renovations,” Kylie said, wanting Jack to vamoose. “I’m allowed.”
“No, she isn’t,” J.J. said.
“My family owns this business.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Keystone. “It’s part of a historical block.”
“You’re allowed to maintain the look of your storefront,” J.J said. “But you can’t alter it. Not drastically. You have to get a permit for that.”
“You’re kidding.” She’d never heard of that. Then again, her family had never tried painting the storefront anything other than what it had been before. Tradition.
Jack folded his arms over his chest, studied the storefronts. “Deputy?”
“Anything to do with the building’s exterior is governed by the Historic Preservation Society,” Ziffel said. “She needs approval from them and the town zoning board.”
“Told you,” said J.J.
Kylie narrowed her eyes. “That’s mature.”
“Kylie,” Jack said.
“Yes?”
“Get a permit.”
J.J. and Keystone chuckled.
Max, the contrary cuss, said, “Ha.”
Kylie wanted to smack them all. She envisioned knocking Jack off his black utility boots with a side kick. But if she’d learned anything from her two years of jujitsu, it was self-discipline. She clenched her fists at her side and took a cleansing breath. It didn’t help.
Deputy Ziffel cautioned the men about disturbing the peace and herded them back to their respective stores. The mutt stayed put.
Jack glanced at the paint cans lined alongside the building, then focused on Travis. “Got any white paint?”
“I could get some.”
“Cover up your handy work until Kylie gets a permit.”
Travis didn’t say anything. He just left. To get some white paint, she presumed.
Dang.
“How do you know that guy?” Jack asked.
How do you know that dog? “He works at the hardware store.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Working for me.”
Jack squinted at the trim. “Pink?”
“Moroccan spice.”
“Looks pink.”
Kylie just smiled. Actually, it was a muted tone compared to what she’d first had in mind.
Jack met her gaze. He didn’t smile back. “You want to piss off your brother? Get a permit.”
“You said that already.” Kylie couldn’t say what set her off, specifically. She was miffed about a lot of things. Not knowing about the permit, for one. Travis, for two. She’d felt some sort of bond with the man. He’d taken vacation time for her, committed to her cause. Then, at the first sign of trouble, he’d thrown in the brush. Okay, so Jack was the law and Travis was a law-abiding citizen. Still, she felt deserted and disappointed. Much as she had with Faye.
“I will act out of the ordinary in order to attract and promote change. Change is exciting. Change is good.”
She turned on her rubber heels and commandeered Travis’s brush. She eyeballed the stern-faced chief and, ignoring the skip in her pulse, dipped her weapon in Moroccan Spice.
“Don’t do it,” Jack warned.
“Don’t worry,” Ziffel said as he returned to the scene of the almost crime. “Kylie’s a sensible girl.”
It was the exact wrong thing to say. She climbed the ladder, gripping the rungs with one hand, holding the paint-slathered brush with the other.
“Used to be modest, too,” she heard Ziffel say. “Although her undies ain’t what I’d call sexy.”
Kylie froze two rungs from the top. “Are you looking up my skirt, Ed Ziffel?” She glared down. “You are!” And so was Jack.
He grinned. “Boxers?”
“They were the only clean shorts I had!” Any further explanation was silenced when she misstepped. She grabbed the ladder with both hands, bobbled the brush. Her heart pounded in her ears, muffling Ziffel’s curse.
She glanced down and saw the slash and dribbles of pink—er, Moroccan Spice—on the deputy’s dark blue uniform. The brush had bounced off his shoulder and landed on the sidewalk. “Sorry,” she squeaked as the paint-splattered cement zoomed up to her face in some weird 3-D movie illusion, then slammed back down to earth.
“You shook things up,” said Jack, sounding half amused, half pissed. “Happy now?”
“Not really.”
“Climb down.”
She would if she could, but her legs wouldn’t move.
“Now.”
She broke out in a sweat, her vision blurred. She cursed the cosmos—the liquor kind—and her hangover. Hugging the ladder tight, she focused straight ahead. Which put her at eye-level to the sign with her family’s motto: Practical shoes for practical people.
“Not for long,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
“I won’t ask twice,” Jack said.
“New crowd gathering,” Ziffel muttered, then switched to an authoritative tone. “Move along, people. Nothing to see.”
She tensed when the ladder creaked under more weight. She felt a couple of soft bounces, then a hard body climbing up behind her. Every nerve in her body pulsed. She told herself it was because she’d had a fright. Not because Jack’s front was plastered to her back.
Pursuing an intimate relationship would only end in heartache.
“When did you get so damned stubborn?” Jack said close to her ear.
No way was she going to admit to a hangover-induced dizzy spell. Aside from all the nerve pulsing, she felt slightly better. Probably because she was focused on the feel and smell of Jack and not the long drop down. She relaxed against him, and next thing she knew she’d been plucked from the ladder. Her knees buckled when her boots hit the sidewalk, but she didn’t crumple due to Jack’s hold on her waist.
“You can go, Ziffel,” he said. “Drop your shirt at the cleaners and be sure to send Miss McGraw the bill.”
“Hey,” she complained. But Ziffel was already stalking off and Jack was hauling her inside McGraw’s. She pried at his hands. “Stop manhandling me.”
He let her go, but backed her up against the wall in between the gumball machine and the cashier counter.
She didn’t like being bullied. She especially didn’t like the erotic thrill she got when he braced his hands on the wall and fenced her in. Or the heat between her thighs when he leaned close. Or the fluttery feeling in her stomach when his gaze slid over her mouth.
“Find a new hiding place for your spare key, Tiger.”
What?
Then she flashed on the night before. Jack driving her home. Lost purse. Locked door.
Oops.
He made eye contact and her stomach flipped. Ice-blue eyes on fire.
Yikes.
“Under the doormat? Why don’t you leave the door open and a plate of cookies on the table for the burglars and rapists?”
His sarcasm grated. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic, Chief Reynolds?”
“Another thing. Hire someone to install motion-detector lighting and think about an alarm system. You live in the fu—” he glanced away and back “—frickin’ middle of nowhere.”
Kylie scrunched her brow. “Is this a lecture on home security? Is my trailer even in your jurisdiction? I’m pretty sure I’m suppose to call the county police if I need help, which I won’t, since nothing ever happens in the frickin’ middle of nowhere.”
“You left your purse at Boone’s last night.”
Did he just skate over her rant? “So?”
“I assume you keep your drivers license in your wallet.”
Uh-oh.
“It’s unlawful to operate a motor vehicle without proof of license.”
Well, duh. “So lock me up.”
He quirked a humorless smile. “No.”
“Then let me go.”
He didn’t budge. “What’s with the motorcycle?”
“This conversation is giving me whiplash.”
“What’s the projected repair time on your car?”
“A week or so, depending on when the part comes in. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Are you aware of the statistics on motorcycle accidents?”
“What are you? Standing in for my brother?”
“Someone has to look out for you. You’ve gone a little loopy, hon.”
“Loopy?”
Breathe, Kylie, breathe.
No. Don’t breathe. Blow!
“Just because I want to redecorate the store? Just because I own a motorcycle? Or is it my flower-power boots? You lived in New York City. Surely you’ve seen more outrageous shoes than these. Stop trying to squash my spirit, Jack Reynolds!”
Her skin burned with fury…or something…when his gaze dropped to her boots and slowly skimmed up her bare legs, over her funky attire, settling at long last on her mouth. Oh, God. Was he going to kiss her?
Her brain and body sizzled with dread and hope. What if she felt something this time? What if he reignited her crush, full flame? Then she’d be doomed to be alone forever, because no other man would ever measure up!
“I wouldn’t dream of squashing your spirit, Tiger. Long as you don’t break the law.” He pushed off the wall, severing the anticipation, the tension.
Relief and disappointment warred, making Kylie snap. “You’re not the boss of me!”
Doh! Was it any wonder he still thought of her as Spenser’s kid sister?
This time his smile was downright cocky. He tugged at the brim of his EPD cap. “Where the law is concerned, yeah, I sort of am.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the pointy-ear dog that wasn’t Jack’s peek out from under a chair and follow him outside. Had she been in here the entire time?
Travis walked in, carrying gallons of paint and a roll of tarp. Had he been out there the entire time? Listening?
Kylie flushed and smoothed her disheveled hair.
He flashed a sympathetic look. “I’ll start on the interior. You get the permit.”
And just like that, she didn’t feel so alone in her quest for adventure.
CHAPTER NINE
TRAVIS PULLED INTO HIS driveway and cut the engine. He glanced at his luminous watch—12:05 a.m. He rubbed his hands over his weary face. He was exhausted.
Mentally.
Emotionally and physically.
He sat in the dark, not wanting to go inside. Not wanting to go to sleep. When he slept, he dreamed of another life. His old life. It made him melancholy. It made him angry.
At least when Mona had been alive he’d had someone to confide in. She had similar dreams. Sometimes they’d lie in the dark and talk about the past. Friends. Family.
Enemies.
Enemies were the reason they couldn’t be with friends and family.
It was why they ate jarred sauce and American cheese. Why he drank beer instead of Chianti. Why he spoke with a nasally twang instead of his native Philly accent. Why he dressed in jeans and flannel shirts instead of Armani suits. He hated that he’d attended Mona’s funeral wearing cheap oxfords. She deserved better. But if he’d worn the Ferragamo slip-ons he kept hidden away, she would’ve rolled over in her cheap-ass coffin. God rest her soul.
Travis gripped the steering wheel and endured a fresh wave of grief. Mona’s suffering had started long before the cancer. He’d never forgiven himself. He’d tried to make it right, though. He’d sacrificed everything to make it right.
Today, he’d taken another step in that direction. While painting the walls of Kylie’s store and listening to her lovingly brag and gripe about her family, he couldn’t help thinking about the way Mona would reminisce about her family. Did the Vespas reminisce about her? Had they mourned her death? Had her brother gotten the letter he’d sent? Circumstances prohibited him from contacting them directly. But he’d followed procedure. He’d done the right thing. He realized in the midst of Kylie’s ramblings that he’d been hoping to hear back from someone, anyone from their past. The silence made him wonder. Had his letter gone missing?
Don’t do anything stupid.
He should’ve called WITSEC, but he was still pissed by his new contact’s lack of response to Mona’s death. The U.S. marshal/inspector originally assigned to them had been transferred, which made Travis feel even more isolated. At least he and Burton had a history. He’d never even met his replacement face-to-face. Obviously, Travis Martin was no longer a priority.
Feeding off Kylie McGraw’s determination to buck the system, he’d taken a break and made a quick trip to the library. He’d borrowed a computer terminal, created a bogus account and sent an e-mail. He’d taken more risks in this one day than every day of the last several years combined. He felt anxious. He felt empowered.
He squinted through the windshield, expecting the new chief of police to appear out of the shadows. He’d been anticipating a visit from the man all night. No dice. Either Reynolds was letting him stew or he hadn’t yet read the file. One thing was certain, he’d riled the cop’s interest. He’d seen it in his eyes.
“This is bad,” he could hear Mona say. But Travis barely cared.
Don’t do anything stupid.
Too late.
If not for today, he probably could’ve avoided contact with the new chief of police for a good long while. Maybe forever. He didn’t know Jack Reynolds, but he knew he wasn’t a rube like Ben Curtis. A former NYPD detective, Reynolds had experience with men like Travis. Or at least the man he used to be. The question was, would he allow Travis to exist as he had for the past seven years? Or would he make waves?
If only he hadn’t offered his services to Kylie. But when she’d shown him those pictures and when he’d expanded on her vision, he’d gotten that old rush. He was born to create, not to corrupt. Certainly not to kill. He was the defective son, the troublesome brother. A disappointment to the family. He’d tried to conform. He had conformed. As had been expected of him, he’d married a nice Italian girl. Instead of going into interior design, he’d become a lawyer, the mouthpiece for the family business. Able to finesse his way around the stickiest legal issues, those in his circle had dubbed him the Artful Dodger. He’d been respected, revered even. But then he’d broken with convention. That one indiscretion had instigated a bloodbath.
The memory of those final days still sickened him. Their reaction. His retaliation. Vengeance went both ways. He had a lot of regrets, but there was no way to mend that bridge. He couldn’t go back. But, dammit, he was sick of Travis Martin.
He reached across the seat and snatched the brown paper bag filled with his late-night booty. Red wine, provolone cheese and pepperoni. Three of the Artful Dodger’s culinary favorites.
CHAPTER TEN
JACK AWOKE AT 3:15 A.M. with a hard-on. He’d been dreaming about Kylie. Kissing Kylie. Stroking Kylie. Rolling in the sheets with Kylie. He’d never had a woman get under his skin so fast. She wasn’t even his type. Not that he hadn’t sampled a variety of women, but he had a definite weakness for fair-haired women in distress. Something he’d discovered when he’d gone to a marriage counselor with Amanda. A fascination rooted in childhood. When he was twelve, he saw Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo and fell in love with Kim Novak, or rather the character she portrayed in the film. He not only lusted after her, he wanted to rescue her. Since then, he’d always gravitated toward curvy, classic beauties. Most of them blond. All of them needy.
Kylie had a petite, athletic build. She had dark, quirky features and a modest sense of style—usually. She ran a business and looked after her mom and grandma. She didn’t need a man, although he was surprised no man had snatched her up. Unless the men of Eden were scared off by her competence and stubborn streak. She’d proved herself a handful today. He couldn’t say what fired him up most—her contrary spirit, her shapely legs, the striped boxer shorts or that sassy mouth. Horny and pissed, he’d backed her against the wall.
He’d wanted to shake her.
He’d wanted to kiss her.
Neither action seemed prudent.
So he’d lectured. Home security. Motorcycle safety. He’d pissed her off. He didn’t feel bad about that. She’d pissed him off when she’d climbed that ladder. Something told him they’d knock heads again. Fine. If they kept pissing each other off, maybe the attraction would fizzle. The “kid” barrier was history. The face that intrigued him, the body that tempted him, belonged to a thirty-two-year-old woman.
Except she’s still Spenser’s sister. She’s a nice girl and you’re a cynical bastard.
Getting physical with Kylie would be disastrous. He could list a dozen reasons.
Maybe he should list the reasons. Right now. Mentally. Like counting sheep.
It was that or a cold shower.
Christ.
He rolled over and got a face full of fur. Thanks to the vet, at least Shy didn’t smell bad. “What are you doing up here?”
The dog groaned and curled into a tighter ball. At least someone was getting a good night’s sleep.
Jack thought about nudging Shy off his bed, but he didn’t have the heart. She’d probably spent the last month sleeping in the woods or in a random barn or shed. He’d walked her around town today. No one recognized her. He dropped her at the vet for an examination. Aside from being malnourished and flea-bitten, she was healthy. For her gas, Dr. Price had suggested a high-quality pet food. No dairy products or table scraps. Jack had purchased a small bag of the recommended dry food. Enough to last until he found her a home. To Shy’s dismay, she’d been shampooed, deloused and groomed. A flyer featuring her picture now hung on the animal hospital’s bulletin board: Free to a good home.
Jack thought about his niece. He wondered if she liked dogs. Yeah, that would go over well with his prissy, snobby sister.
Shy barked a split second before he heard the sharp knock on the front door. He glanced at his clock as he swung out of bed—3:25 a.m.
He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. He braced for something bad. People don’t drop by in the middle of the night with good news. He should know. He’d paid many a nocturnal visit while working Homicide.
After motioning Shy to stay, he tucked his Glock in the back of his waistband and navigated the stairs in the dark. He peeked through the living room curtains. What the hell? His sister—the woman who’d been avoiding him for days—stood on the front stoop, balancing a little girl, his niece, on one hip and a bulging backpack on her shoulder.
Alarmed, he switched on a light and opened the door.
“Sorry to wake you,” Jessie snapped before he could ask what’s wrong?
“No problem.” He quickly surmised she hadn’t been in a car accident or house fire. No blood, no bruises, no burns. Maddie looked okay, too. Oddly wide awake for the middle of the night, but fine. He focused back on his sister. She looked frazzled. Pale and fidgety. No makeup. Lopsided ponytail and ill-fitting clothes. This woman didn’t look anything like his confident, pageant queen, fashion-conscious sister. This woman had fled home in the middle of the night in a panic. Had the Cheating Bastard shown up? Called? Harassed her? Scared her? He didn’t want to ask in front of the kid.
“We couldn’t sleep,” Jessie said.
“Our house is sad,” Maddie said in a small voice.
Chest tight, Jack relieved his sister of the weighty backpack. “Come in.”
“Are you my uncle Jack?” Maddie asked as they moved into the sparsely furnished living room.
“Sure am, sweet pea.” He hated that she had to ask. Hated that he’d allowed work and pride to interfere with family.
“Where’s your badge?”
“Upstairs.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Can I see it?”
“Not now, Madeline.” Jessie set her daughter on the couch.
Jack set the backpack on his recliner. He noted the little girl’s pink pajamas, her bunny slippers and the colorful bear clutched to her chest. He recognized that bear. He’d sent her that stuffed animal as a Christmas gift two years earlier. Jessie and Frank had made it clear he was unwelcome in their home, their lives. Naturally, he thought they’d deprived Maddie of the gifts he’d sent over the years. Jessie had intimated as such. It warmed him to learn otherwise.
Throat thick, he smiled even though he knew something was wrong. “Can I get you ladies, anything? Milk and cookies?”
Maddie glanced at her mom, at Jack. “We don’t eat cookies.”
“Why not?”
“Too fattening.”
That was his sister talking. A woman—thanks to years on the pageant circuit—obsessed with body image. No five-year-old should be worrying about her weight unless she was obese, which Maddie wasn’t. She was a skinny little thing with long black hair and big brown eyes.
“Well, I eat cookies,” Jack said, cursing himself for not being a better uncle, or for that matter, a better brother. “And I could use a late-night snack.”
He wondered if Jessie ever snacked. Hell, he wondered if she ate, period. He’d have to refrain from force-feeding her an entire bag of Fig Newtons. She looked rail thin in her baggy jeans and shapeless shirt. She’d always been thin, but this was troubling.
He smoothed a hand over Maddie’s silky hair. “I need your mom’s help in the kitchen. We won’t be long. Do you want to lie down?”
“Can’t sleep.” Maddie hugged the bear tighter—a chubby teddy he’d stuffed himself at one of those Build-A-Bear stores. Patches looked worn and loved, and suddenly he didn’t feel like the worst uncle in the world, just a lame one.
“Do you have a DVD player?” Jessie asked.
He nodded.
She unzipped the front pocket of the cartoon backpack they’d brought. “Here.” She passed him a DVD. A Disney flick.
Jack put the disk in his player and fired up the movie without comment. He wanted Jessie in the kitchen. He wanted answers.
“Who’s that?” asked Maddie.
Jack turned and saw the pointy-eared mutt sitting at the bottom of the stairs. So much for following orders. “That’s Shy.”
Mother and daughter spoke at the same time.
“Does she bite?”
“Is she yours?”
“No and no. We’ll be right back,” he said to Maddie, while motioning Jessie to follow.
Once inside the kitchen, he spoke frankly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing I can’t fix. But I can’t do it tonight.” She tucked her hands under her armpits and paced. “I feel like I’m coming out of my skin. I hate this.”
So did Jack. Until he knew what was wrong, he couldn’t fix it. If he pressed too hard, too fast, she might bolt. Considering they’d been estranged for years, Jessie being here like this was a breakthrough. He didn’t want to screw it up. “How about some hot tea?”
“How about something stronger?”
Given his recent battle with booze, he hadn’t stocked the house with hard liquor. “All I’ve got is beer.”
“I’ll take it.”
As far as he knew, she never drank anything other than wine spritzers. Damn, he itched to press. What’s wrong? Instead he got her a beer and poured a glass of milk for his niece.
Jessie paced and chugged. “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other choice.”
“That’s flattering,” he said while loading a plate with cookies.
“Look. I know we’ve never been on great terms. As kids or adults,” she said in a tight, brittle voice. “But I…we…Madeline and me…need a place to spend the night.”
He should have said okay. Plain and simple. But there was nothing simple about their relationship. And he’d be damned if he’d let her freeze him out in his own house. “Why? Did Frank show up? Does he want to move back in?”
“No.”
“Did he call? Threaten you?”
“I haven’t talked to Frank in two weeks.”
“He calls to speak with his daughter, right?”
She didn’t answer.
Jack looked over his shoulder. “You’re kidding.”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Frank never wanted…Madeline was…”
An accident? Unexpected? So what? Just when he thought his opinion of his brother-in-law couldn’t sink any lower. “You can stay here as long as you like, Jessie.”
“I don’t like it at all,” she said, still pacing, still drinking. “But I can’t impose on friends and I can’t afford the Orchard House.”
Jack blew over the personal jab and focused on the financial. “Are you telling me that fu—” He glanced toward the sound of cartoon voices and cheery music. “That Frank’s not supporting you?”
“I don’t want his money. I don’t want anything to do with him or anything that belonged to him—including the house. We’ll be fine. Madeline and me. I just want…I need to make my own way. And I will. Starting tomorrow. I mean, later today.”
Jack worked his jaw. She’d shut him out of her life for years. Avoided him like the plague since he’d returned home. He couldn’t help himself. He had to push. “What happened between fuck-off and showing up on my doorstep, Jessie? It had to be damned bad for you to come to me, in the middle of the night, no less.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I…I can’t.”
He noted the crack in her voice, the trembling of her hands. “Okay.”
“Please don’t grill me.”
“Fine.”
“Or think you have to save me.”
“You want to make it on your own.”
She stopped in her tracks. “You don’t think I can?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Just because I didn’t finish college or devote my life to some noble cause…” She trailed off and looked for a place to ditch the beer. She looked embarrassed, upset and exhausted.
“Why don’t we revisit this discussion after some shuteye?” Jack relieved her of the empty bottle, then grabbed the milk and cookies. “You keep Maddie company while I change my sheets.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call her that. Nicknames are…I don’t know.”
“Humanizing?”
“Undignified.”
“Jessie is undignified?”
“My name is Jessica. Jessica Lynn.”
“Sounds stuffy,” said Jack.
“To you, maybe. But it’s my given name and I’m proud of it.”
“Okay.”
“So you’ll call me Jessica? And Madeline, Madeline?”
“Probably not.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “Why do you have to be so headstrong?”
He looked at her and smiled. “Runs in the family.”
She opened her mouth, closed it. After a thoughtful pause, she changed the subject. “Why do you have to change your sheets?”
“No furniture in the other two bedrooms yet,” he explained. “You and Maddie take my bed. I’ll take the couch.” Before she could argue, he slipped into the living room. His niece was fast asleep. So was Shy. They were curled up side by side—one hand, one paw on the stuffed bear.
Jessie groaned. “I hope she doesn’t get attached to that dog.”
Jack hoped the exact opposite.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KYLIE WOKE UP EXHAUSTED. Three hours of sleep will do that to you. It wasn’t even three restful hours. Bleary-eyed, she schlepped to the shower. Her mind still churned on the things that had plagued her the night before.
She fretted over her upcoming appointment with Eden’s Historic Preservation Society, otherwise known as the HPS. She hated that she hadn’t been able to get that over with yesterday. Nope. They’d insisted she wait until their scheduled weekly meeting. Thank goodness that was today. The suspense, the delay, was killing her. Although, it wasn’t like her renovation was on hold. Travis had made tremendous, no, amazing progress on the interior. He’d worked tirelessly. And, although he hadn’t been keen on her helping to paint the walls, he did coach her in redecorating the chairs she already owned instead of purchasing new ones. She appreciated the cost-saving suggestion and his creative tips. Who knew a hardware guy could be so artsy? She also admired his energy. She’d pooped out around 6:00 p.m., plus she wanted to get home before dark. Travis had stayed on. He’d said he was in a groove. She suspected he was avoiding his lonely house.
Kylie scratched shampoo through her hair, feeling a little lonely herself. She blamed the chief of police. Celibacy was a lot easier when you weren’t battling desire. Once she’d finally drifted off last night, she’d dreamed about Jack pinning her against a wall. Jack undressing her with his eyes, his hands. Jack touching her, kissing her.
In McGraw’s Shoe Store.
Her family’s place of business.
She’d been squirming with thigh-quaking lust, begging the hunky lawman to boink her senseless when suddenly she’d spotted her dad. Not for real. But in the dream. Unfortunately it had been a lucid dream. So in addition to experiencing erotic thrills compliments of Jack, she also sensed Dewy McGraw’s shock and dismay. Kylie had spent her entire life trying to win her dad’s approval. Now he was gone and she was still proving a disappointment.
She rinsed the herbal-scented suds from her hair, pondering the relevance of that weird dream. It had to run deeper than her dad frowning on public displays of sex.
At least he hadn’t materialized in her second dream. Her mortification would’ve been off the charts. She’d gotten down and dirty with Jack in a jail cell. Handcuffs were involved. Just thinking about the things he’d done to her made Kylie ache.
“Crushing on Jack is stupid,” she told herself as she cranked the cold water. “He’s not attracted to you. If he was, he would have kissed you in the store. He didn’t even flirt.”
She continued to talk herself out of the attraction as she soaped her body. Only, her mind kept flashing on the handcuffs, iron bars and lots of naked flesh. Suddenly she was touching herself everywhere Jack had touched her. Or at least everywhere her subconscious wanted him to touch her. The cold water pelting her body did little to cool the heat between her legs. Frustrated, she nabbed the handheld shower massage, turned the dial and directed the fast and hard pulsating stream to where she ached most. She exploded with a quaking orgasm in two seconds flat.
Breathless, she wilted against the wall of the cramped stall. Seconds later, her heart settled in her chest, and instead of satisfied, she felt a twinge of guilt and regret.
“Why can’t I make you come like that?” Bobby had once asked after he’d urged her to pleasure herself.
She didn’t know, and it frustrated her that it bothered him so much. It’s not like she didn’t enjoy sex with him. In fact, she went out of her way to please him. It made her feel good when she drove him over the edge. Why couldn’t that be enough?
She’d assured him that it wasn’t his fault. “I’ve only been with two other men and I didn’t have orgasms then, either.” That didn’t make him feel better. In fact, two weeks later he left on a travel assignment and never came back. She didn’t want to believe it was because she was wired wrong, so she convinced herself, and everyone else, he’d simply gotten cold feet.
In a way, she wished she was promiscuous. Maybe she’d benefit from more experience.
Unfortunately, Kylie had never been able to wrap her mind around sex without an emotional attachment. If she could, she would’ve indulged in casual affairs in search of a skilled lover with the magic touch. A lover who’d show her the orgasmic stars.
In her dreams, Jack was that man. She hated that she couldn’t wipe those erotic sensations and images from her mind. She hated that she was contemplating risking her heart in order to fulfill a primitive yearning. Maybe she wasn’t wired wrong. Maybe she just hadn’t been with the right man. Maybe she could handle a fling with Jack because she was emotionally attached to him. Maybe if she knew going in that it wouldn’t be forever.
“Wow,” she said as she toweled off. “Given the proper motivation, a girl can talk herself into anything.”
Thoughtful, Kylie swiped her hand over the steamy mirror and frowned at her reflection. “When Jack looks at you, he sees Spenser’s kid sister.” She hated that, too. “Maybe it’s because you haven’t updated your look in, well, ever. Maybe it’s because he’s used to slick city chicks and you look like a frumpy bumpkin.”
Inspiration struck. Or rather, an intense urge to shake things up.
She stared into the mirror, tried to envision a new haircut and color. She couldn’t.
“But Faye could.”
They’d never gotten that private moment yesterday. Faye had blown back into the hardware store, saying she had things to do at Orchard House, then she’d blown back out. The tension had been worse than before. At a loss, Kylie had decided to give her friend space and time.
That meant trusting her makeover to Petunia, the owner and primary stylist at the local beauty shop. Most of the woman’s clients walked out with a perm or last year’s hot celebrity cut. Seeing as Kylie wasn’t big on poodles or Posh, visiting a big-city stylist might be a safer bet. Except, she couldn’t afford the long drive. Couldn’t afford missing her meeting with the HPS. Plus, she probably couldn’t get an appointment for today, anyway, and she wanted a makeover now. She’d just have to be firm about what she didn’t want and hope for the best.
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Beth Ciotta
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Sometimes paradise isn′t all it′s cracked up to beThat′s what I, Kylie McGraw, have discovered since sacrificing my dreams of traveling the world to run the family shoe store. But if I have my way, peaceful Eden, Indiana, is in for a major shake-up….It all began on my birthday, when I got drunk and disorderly all over Eden′s hunky new police chief (and my former high school crush), Jack Reynolds. Then I may have, in my Cosmo haze, witnessed a murder in progress. Now I′m almost certain I′m being stalked by the mob, while he-of-the-distracting-abs Jack continues to think I′m nuts. However, there comes a time when a girl has to kick off her sensible shoes (size 7, cushion insoles) and go after what she wants. So if I can just survive long enough to put on my sexy new red heels, that′s exactly what I intend to do….