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Heated Moments
Phyllis Bourne


Opposites attract…and ignite!When she’s dumped as the famous face of Espresso Cosmetics, Lola Gray does what any self-respecting diva would do: she throws a hissy fit and hits the road. Leaving Tennessee—and her family empire—in the dust, the cover model takes off for New York City. When a speeding ticket gets her in trouble in a small town in Ohio, the only bright spot is the hunky local police chief.After the craziness of the big city, Dylan Cooper couldn’t wait to return to the peace and quiet of Cooper’s Place. Now the stunning tabloid beauty he is holding for questioning is charming his hometown, and seducing the former homicide cop. Dylan needs Lola gone before he gives in to temptation. But unexpectedly, Dylan’s discovering a woman of surprising talents, hidden depths…and intense passion. Is it possible their sizzling affair will become a lifetime of love?







Opposites attract...and ignite!

When she’s dumped as the famous face of Espresso Cosmetics, Lola Gray does what any self-respecting diva would do: she throws a hissy fit and hits the road. Leaving Tennessee—and her family empire—in the dust, the cover model takes off for New York City. When a speeding ticket gets her in trouble in a small town in Ohio, the only bright spot is the hunky local police chief.

After the craziness of the big city, Dylan Cooper couldn’t wait to return to the peace and quiet of Cooper’s Place. Now the stunning tabloid beauty he is holding for questioning is charming his hometown, and seducing the former homicide cop. Dylan needs Lola gone before he gives in to temptation. But unexpectedly, Dylan’s discovering a woman of surprising talents, hidden depths...and intense passion. Is it possible their sizzling affair will become a lifetime of love?


Releasing his collar, Lola planted her palms on his chest and pushed, wrenching her mouth away from his. A foot of space now separated them, but their gazes remained locked.

Lola steeled herself against the obviously practiced look of surprise on his face. It didn’t matter how great of a kisser he was or that he had a body that would play a starring role in her fantasies for nights to come. She wasn’t about to give Celebrity Pranks the satisfaction or video footage of her looking like she was falling for a stripper.

Time to take back the control she’d momentarily lost along with her damned mind. Take this, Celebrity Pranks, she thought. She rounded the police chief and with her good hand, smacked him soundly on the butt.

“Now take off your clothes and dance!”

The sound of female laughter drew Lola’s attention to the doorway of the waiting room. The nurse she’d met earlier leaned against the doorjamb with her arms folded over her chest. “Now that’s a sight I’d like to see myself.” Avis winked. “I see you’ve gotten acquainted with our chief of police.”

Lola’s jaw dropped.

“P-police chief?” she croaked, hoping she’d heard the woman wrong.

“Yes, police chief.” The deep baritone of the man she’d assumed was a stripper rumbled behind her, confirming the fact that she’d really screwed up this time.


Dear Reader (#ulink_2249d462-3687-5af8-a9bf-a9610235567a),

We’ve all seen them. Wild, wonderful, spirited women who were tamed by the love of a good man. Some call it growing up. I call it a shame.

It got me to thinking what-if?

What if the youngest of the Espresso Empire siblings, Lola Gray, didn’t change? What if her impulsiveness and over-the-top ways, which usually land her in a hot mess, became an asset? What if she met a man wise enough to realize the things everyone around Lola considers faults are actually her greatest strengths?

Small-town police chief Dylan Cooper was the hunky answer to all my questions. And as he works to help get Lola out of a jam and out of town, he realizes she’s the spark both his life and the town lacked—and nobody wants her to change or leave.

I hope you enjoy Lola’s story, which concludes the Espresso Empire series.

All my best,

Phyllis


Heated Moments

Phyllis Bourne






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


A former newspaper crime reporter, PHYLLIS BOURNE writes romantic comedy to support her lipstick addiction. A two-time Romance Writer’s of America Golden Heart finalist, she has also been nominated for an RT Reviewer’s Choice Best Book Award and won the Georgia Romance Writer’s Maggie Award of Excellence. When she’s not at her computer, Phyllis can be found at a cosmetics counter spending the grocery money.


For Mom and Elizabeth, and authors Farrah Rochon, Michelle Monkou and Patricia Sargeant.

And as always, for Byron, you are my heart, and every day with you is a real-life romance novel.


Contents

Cover (#ucb7a2d87-6b6b-5e20-8878-2f5536e1c087)

Back Cover Text (#u1cc93f9f-64e8-5e82-9ed5-4f4631945631)

Introduction (#ud3310c55-7c8d-5753-9c7c-1594c0d7e091)

Dear Reader (#ub5d89162-842c-5e9d-8884-1ddf2548076b)

Title Page (#u4c30a3ce-22e6-57dd-b7d6-e2651cc2df6f)

About the Author (#u2ecd7aef-e527-5fb7-9b85-3ec4319acbdf)

Dedication (#u08e62641-3b1a-5a14-98fa-fe4441c0da50)

Chapter 1 (#u248ca251-818f-579b-8f6e-4af61a7b058b)

Chapter 2 (#u36a0b079-ee76-53e5-b47d-350615fb5127)

Chapter 3 (#u67f89993-333b-565c-84b0-22edd0d55c18)

Chapter 4 (#u01f57721-ed70-546a-a6fd-f6a0e5b68eb7)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter 1 (#ulink_2bf52e4e-d72f-5605-ab74-f11f87339ebf)

“Son of a...!”

An uncharacteristic censuring glare from her father halted Lola Gray’s curse, but not her outrage. She glared at her family gathered in the boardroom of Espresso Cosmetics for their quarterly meeting.

“Calm down, baby girl,” her stepbrother and company CEO, Cole Sinclair, warned from the head of the conference room table. The endearment didn’t diminish the sting of his stern tone. Nor did it soften the blow of him using against her the voting rights she had entrusted him with.

“Calm down?” Lola asked, incredulous. Standing abruptly, she flung a head shot of the model they intended to replace her with across the boardroom table. “How would you feel if I gave your job to a drag queen?”

“That drag queen was nearly your new step-mother.” The gravelly voice of Espresso’s longtime secretary, Loretta Walker, chimed in.

A grunt sounded from Lola’s father’s direction. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Not as long as I’m still breathing,” Loretta retorted.

“It was an honest mistake,” Lola’s father grumbled. “The guy looked just like a woman, a really good-looking one.”

Lola’s shoulder-length hair swished against her shoulders as her head swiveled between them like a tennis ball in a championship match between Venus and Serena.

Unbelievable.

She’d walked through the doors of the Espresso building this morning expecting to hear an update on their family business, as well as more information about her upcoming photo shoot in China for the new red-lipstick collection. Instead, her family had broken the news she was out as the face of Espresso, as casually as they’d poured coffee from the carafe situated at the center of the long table.

And now they’d segued to an entirely different topic.

“Gorgeous, isn’t he?” Lola’s older sister, Tia Gray-Wright picked up the discarded glossy photo. “This was the most challenging makeover I’ve ever done, but Freddy Finch is one stunning woman...uh, I mean man...um, I mean...”

Her husband and now Espresso’s attorney, Ethan Wright, patted his wife’s hand. “We know what you mean, sweetheart, and you did a spectacular job.” He turned to his father-in-law. “Always check the neck, man.”

Cole nodded in agreement. “And if you spot a giant Adam’s apple bobbing in the throat, then she is more than likely a he.”

Raucous laughter erupted around the table. Lola stared at them openmouthed. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she was in the middle of a comedy-club act instead of a business meeting.

How could they all sit around joking after the bomb they’d just dropped?

Fed up, Lola fisted her hands on hip bones sharpened by years of torturous exercise and a diet of tasteless protein shakes. “Shut up!” she yelled. “Every one of you. Just shut up!”

Silence fell upon the room, and the startled eyes of its occupants landed on her. Satisfied she finally had their attention, Lola wanted to make it crystal clear she wasn’t going to stand by and let them take her job. Not without a fight.

“As a member of this family and a part owner of Espresso Cosmetics, I have a say in this matter,” she began.

“I hold your proxy,” Cole reminded her. Again, his chilly monotone had a firm edge, so different than the indulging one he’d always used with her. “So you’ve already had your say.”

“That was fine when I was out of the country for months at a time, but I’m back now. I’ll vote my own shares, thank you very much. We’ll just do a recount.”

Lola turned imploring eyes to Cole’s new wife, Sage, who had recently merged her own cosmetics company with Espresso. Her sister-in-law had a rebellious streak. If she got Sage on her side, Lola calculated quickly, and then sweet-talked her father into changing his mind, she’d have the voting power to overturn Cole’s decision to oust her as the face of Espresso Cosmetics.

Sage glanced at her husband, and Cole winked in response. Lola’s hopes plummeted as she watched her sister-in-law’s light brown face flush. She recognized a dick-whipped woman when she saw one, and Sage was clearly under his spell. Just as she expected, her sister-in-law shook her head slowly and mouthed the word no.

Cole cleared his throat. “Even if you did vote your shares, it’s not enough to overrule my decision,” he said. “Mr. Freddy Finch is the new face of Espresso Cosmetics. We’ll announce it to the public next month. He’ll also travel to Hong Kong to shoot the campaign for the special-edition red lipsticks.”

“So this was a done deal before I even walked into the building,” Lola whispered, more to herself than to them. “I never stood a chance.”

She glanced around the room at her father, siblings and their spouses. Her family. They were the very people who were supposed to have her back. Instead, she felt their disloyalty as keenly as if they’d took turns plunging a knife into her back.

“I have a contract. I’ll sue.” Lola knew she was grasping.

“That wouldn’t be wise,” Ethan said, sounding more like the lawyer he was than her brother-in-law.

Cole heaved a sigh from the head of the table. “Hopefully that’s settled.” He turned to his secretary. “What’s next on the agenda?”

“It is certainly not settled.” Lola struggled to keep her emotions in check. “This—this is...” she stammered, her brain scrambling for the right word. “This is bullshit!”

“Lola!” her father admonished from the other end of the conference table.

However, she had too much at stake to back down. “You raised me to call it as I see it, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” She addressed her father, and then scanned the room.

“I put my best face forward for years, while this company churned out one stale collection after another, earning the reputation as old-lady makeup,” Lola argued. She was the one the public associated with Espresso’s senior-citizen image. Not her in-laws, her father or her siblings. “Now that we’re finally making a comeback with fresh colors and exciting new products, you want to kick me to the curb, for a man in a wig.”

Zeroing in on her brother, Lola jabbed a gel-manicured fingertip in his direction. “If that’s not a load of crap, then you tell me what is!”

Cole raised a brow. “Since you never have a problem saying exactly what’s on your mind, I’ll return the favor.” His eyes narrowed as he leaned back in the black leather executive chair. “Let’s start with this sudden concern for your job. Where was it last year when Tia had to personally escort you to the airport so you could make a flight to a location shoot?”

He fired off another question before Lola could answer the first one. “Do you know how much it cost Espresso to appease that prima donna photographer you kept waiting?”

She knew before she opened her mouth to explain that he wouldn’t understand. Her sister certainly hadn’t. “My very best friend’s fiancé had just called off their engagement, a week before their wedding. Britt was hysterical. How could I walk away when she needed me most?”

“Easy,” Cole said. He appeared as unmoved as Tia had been at the time. “You hand her a box of tissues and head for the door.”

Lola closed her eyes briefly and wondered how she could be from the same family as her coldhearted older siblings. Then she remembered, when it came to Espresso, their late mother and company founder, Selina Sinclair Gray, could be downright brutal.

Cole wasn’t finished. “Then, following that hotel incident where you were kicked out after throwing a wild party and trashing their suite, I specifically cautioned you to stay out of trouble, but instead of heeding my warning you made news again. What was it this time?” He turned to his secretary, who was all too eager to supply him with an answer. “That’s right, last week an airplane en route to Nashville from Los Angeles had to make a pit stop in Denver, so you could be hauled off it for allegedly assaulting a fellow passenger.”

“B-but—” Lola began.

Again, her brother barely let her utter a word in her own defense. “Do you know how embarrassing it was for Espresso to have its top representative escorted off an airplane by security? Cell-phone videos of it went viral. You’re still all over the internet, dragging our company down with you.”

His secretary held up her tablet computer. “Lola’s airline fiasco is currently trending higher on social media than those reality-show sisters with the big behinds,” she said.

Lola rolled her eyes. So much for hoping the hubbub would die down. The wisecracks about her on celebrity gossip websites and YouTube snippets replayed in her head. Even worse, tabloid television shows had run different cell-phone videos of the same incident every night since it happened, adding horrid titles such as Espresso Diva’s Mile High Tantrum and Pretty Ugly: Lola Attacks Man over Smelly Feet.

Of course, there had been no video footage of the uncouth passenger in the row behind her resting his bare feet atop the seat—and the head—of the elderly gentleman sitting beside her.

Lola exhaled. Contrary to what Cole believed, she had taken his warning seriously, and she had really, really tried not to intervene, knowing the last thing she needed was more trouble.

She’d white-knuckled the armrests as the jerk behind them blatantly disregarded the flight attendant’s repeated requests to put his feet on the floor where they belonged. “It’s none of your business.” Lola remembered muttering the words under her breath almost like a mantra.

However, when her senior-citizen seatmate’s polite pleas were met with the oaf behind them laughing and wiggling his toes, impulse took over. She’d jumped from her seat and shoved the offending feet off the elderly man’s chair, earning the grandfather’s heartfelt gratitude and the applause of everyone in the first-class cabin.

Unfortunately, the moment the lout had caught sight of her famous face he’d immediately yelped in pain and crumpled into the fetal position.

The upshot: they were both escorted off the plane. Lola was flanked by security, while the rude passenger, who claimed she’d beaten him senseless, was hauled away in a wheelchair, his contrived moans and groans echoing in the air.

“Your behavior was unacceptable,” Cole said.

“But they got the story all wrong,” Lola said. By the time airport security got to the truth and released her with an apology, the strangers taking videos on their cell phones were long gone. “I was simply helping a fellow passenger.”

Tia shook her head. Lola saw her father stifle a yawn with his fist, and her brother-in-law took a surreptitious glance at his watch.

“You also helped yourself right out of representing Espresso,” Cole said.

“Under the circumstances, any of you would have reacted the exact same way,” Lola countered. “Only no one else would be painted as a volatile diva or have to stand here pleading for their job.” Nor would they have to dodge tabloid television reporters trying to goad them into saying or doing something stupid.

Cole rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. He met her gaze, and for a moment, Lola thought she’d actually gotten through to him.

“My decision stands,” he said finally.

“B-but—”

“The subject is closed.”

“So where does this leave me?” Years of practice kept her posture ramrod straight, but Lola couldn’t control the telltale quiver in her voice as she looked around the table. “Or did you all go behind my back and vote me out of this family, too?”

“Of course not, baby girl.” Her father’s face, which like Cole’s had been uncharacteristically hard, softened with his tone.

“You know better,” Tia said.

Lola raised a brow. “Do I?”

Cole cleared his throat, loudly. “We discussed this earlier,” he said, his words aimed at Tia and their father. “Lola’s not a child anymore. She’s a twenty-five-year-old woman.” He continued as if she wasn’t standing right in front of them. “And these situations, incidents, or whatever you want to call the messes her impulsiveness constantly gets her into, are bad for business.”

Realization dawned as Lola studied her siblings, who had both married over the past year and a half, and their spouses.

“Oh, now I see where this is going.” Maybe she hadn’t been booted from the family yet, Lola thought, but they were definitely ganging up on her. She pointed at her sister and brother-in-law. “First, there’s you two, who are so in sync you finish each other’s sentences.” Then she turned to her brother and Sage. “Next we have the two of you, who are so much alike, it’s downright scary.”

Cole huffed out an impatient sigh. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It appears I’m the odd man out, in this family as well as this company.”

Her brother frowned. “Look, we have a lot of Espresso business to cover, including our plans for the building, dealing with competition from Force Cosmetics and future ad campaigns for Freddy,” he said. “So either have a seat and put that marketing degree you earned online to work, or stop holding us up with this ridiculousness.”

“R-ridiculousness?” she stammered.

Ignoring her protests, Cole signaled his secretary who announced the next item on the meeting agenda.

A discussion about the future of Espresso’s aging building ensued. Meanwhile, Lola stood frozen, dazed from the callousness of her so-called loved ones. They’d actually pulled the plug on her career, she thought. A career that had already been on life support.

The New York City–based talent agency Lola had hired to field offers outside of Espresso hadn’t taken her calls since the amateur videos of the airplane incident became social-media fodder. Not that they had presented her with a job she’d actually consider.

Lola wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there when the sound of Cole calling her name yanked her out of her own head.

“Well, are you going to just pose like a mannequin, or help us strategize next year’s ad campaigns for your replacement?” he asked.

She blinked. After leading their family’s underhanded coup, her brother had the unmitigated gall to expect her help. There was no way in hell she’d take him up on his offer. She opened her mouth to tell him so.

Don’t be hasty.

A warning from her inner voice, the same one that tried so hard to keep her impulsiveness and tendency to say exactly what was on her mind from getting her into trouble, made Lola hesitate.

You may not like it, but it’s the best offer you’ve had in months.

Lola recalled the proposed gigs the talent agency had called with, and cringed. But how could she even consider her family’s offer after the way they’d all treated her this morning, not to mention the humiliation of being replaced by a drag queen?

Swallow your pride and take the job!

“We’re all eager to hear your thoughts,” her sister said encouragingly.

Gulping, Lola tried to swallow the lump of indignation stuck in her throat. “I—I...” she began.

It just wouldn’t go down.

“Well?” Cole asked. “Surely, as Espresso’s former model you have something useful to say.”

Glaring at her brother, Lola silently told her inner voice to take a hike, along with any notions of kowtowing to the very people who had just given her the boot. “All I have to tell y’all is where to shove the idea of me helping you screw me over.”

“Lola—” her brother began, but this time she was the one to interrupt.

“I’ll give you a hint.” She looked pointedly at the chairs under their behinds. “You’re sitting on it.”

Without stopping to think about her actions or the consequences of them, she hefted her pink leather tote off the table and walked toward the open conference room door. Lola paused in the doorway and glanced over her shoulder.

“Firing me was a huge mistake,” she said. “I’ll try to remember we’re family when you all come crawling for me to save this company and your asses.”

Pulling the sunglasses perched on her head down to cover her eyes, Lola strutted down the hallway toward the bank of elevators, reveling in the stupefied expressions on their faces.

She jabbed the down button and flipped her hair over her shoulder, noting the frayed ends. Espresso wasn’t the only cosmetic company in the world, she told herself. Once word got out she was available, there would be plenty of offers from rival brands.

“Wait!” A male voice rang out as she boarded the elevator.

Humph. It didn’t take them long to realize they’d screwed up in letting her go. Lola pressed her lips together to stifle a grin. Triumphant, she spun around, only to see not a member of her family, but one of the building’s maintenance crew carrying a ladder.

“Thanks for holding the elevator, Miss Gray.”

Remembering the employee was a newlywed, Lola inquired about his wife on the ride down to the lobby. Making small talk kept her mind off the fact that the sense of satisfaction she’d gleaned from her parting shot at her family had diminished. So had her confidence she’d ever be offered another job as good as the one she’d just lost.

In reality, with the exception of some runway work during New York and European Fashion Weeks, there was only one segment of the market vying for her face. At her age, a very unappealing market.

The elevator pinged.

“See you around, Miss Gray,” the coverall-clad worker said.

Putting one foot in front of the other, Lola walked in the direction of the building’s exit with her head held high, as her insides began to cave over the morning’s events.

She stopped short when she spotted through the lobby windows a man she’d recognized. He was standing in front of the parking garage across the street. The slimeball was a cameraman for the reality show Celebrity Pranks, and he appeared to be in deep conversation with a guy dressed in a clown costume.

Lola bit back a curse. That stupid show had been out to trip her up since the airplane incident. She’d first seen the cameraman lurking outside a boutique in Atlanta three days ago, only that time his partner had been dressed in a gorilla costume. Fortunately, another shopper had come in and mentioned a Celebrity Pranks SUV parked around the corner.

It would serve them right if she marched across the street, snatched the big red nose off that clown and stuck it...

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Lola muttered, this time allowing the voice of common sense to overrule her impulse.

Unemployed or not, the last thing she needed was to be caught on video getting in that clown’s painted face. The footage would fuel the reality show’s ratings better than any stupid prank they had up their sleeve to make a fool out of her.

Lola continued to watch them through the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling windows, debating whether to have Espresso’s building security escort her to her car in the parking garage. Maybe she should just tuck her hair under the baseball cap in her bag and try to slip past them unnoticed.

Her phone buzzed, and she shrugged the massive designer tote off her shoulder. Rifling through it, Lola unearthed a curling iron, packets of protein-shake mix, a plastic blender bottle and the remote control for her television that had somehow made its way into the black hole of a bag. The ringing had stopped by the time she’d retrieved the phone, nearly nicking her fingers on a pair of scissors she’d used to cut crochet braids from her hair a few weeks ago.

Lola swiped the screen with her thumb. Her tote weighed down the crook of her arm like a bowling-ball bag. She listened to the message, gave the phone a quizzical glance and then frowned.

Her agent, Jill, had said it was urgent she return the call, but not much else.

“Lola, honey.” Jill bubbled enthusiastically through the phone moments later. That saccharine-sweet voice laced with faux cheer could mean only one thing, Lola thought. She stifled a grunt. Here we go. Another offer to advertise something aimed at the AARP crowd.

“You won’t believe who just called. They want you to—” Jill started.

“No.” Lola cut her off. Usually, she would have heard the agent out and then politely declined, but after getting shafted by her family in the company boardroom and being stalked by that silly tabloid show already today she was in no mood.

“But you haven’t even heard what the job is...”

Rolling her eyes, Lola tapped her foot against the lobby floor. She had a pretty good idea. Espresso’s senior-citizen image clung to her, and no one seemed to care that she was only in her twenties.

“Look, I thought I already made this clear. I’m not interested in being the face of a denture adhesive, walk-in bathtubs or doing commercials where I’m snuggled up to some old dude with an idiotic grin on my face because he popped a pill to get a hard-on.”

“I promise, this one is different. It’s a fantastic opportunity and absolutely perfect for you,” Jill insisted.

Lola grunted again. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

“Please. Just hear me out.”

Lola shrugged. At this point, she had nothing to lose by listening. She leaned against the wall near the windows and faced the lobby’s interior. “Fine, go ahead.”

The agent filled her in on the details, and Lola broke out in a huge grin. If she played her cards right, this wouldn’t be just a job, but the opportunity of a lifetime.

She ended the call and dropped the phone into her pit of a bag.

“Boo-yah!” Pumping a fist in the air, she whispered the words she wanted to scream loudly enough for her family to hear on the tenth floor.

“I’m back!”

Nothing could bring her down now, Lola thought. Not even the sight of the maintenance worker from the elevator removing the giant poster of her that had hung from the lobby’s rafters for years, and replacing it with one of a man wearing a blond wig and lipstick.


Chapter 2 (#ulink_8385a692-fca4-5dfc-9335-2d9b3e7b11aa)

Police Chief Dylan Cooper hadn’t seen faces this unimpressed with what he had to say since dealing with his ex-wife.

“I hauled ten bad guys to jail last night,” someone yelled from the back of the room. “Didn’t even have to call for backup.”

“Is that all?” A snort accompanied the shouted question. “I made over fifty arrests this week, including Big Moe, from the top of the most-wanted list.”

Murmurs of approval echoed off the walls at the capture of the elusive Big Moe. They fueled the fervent bragging, each person who chimed in boasting bigger arrest statistics than the last.

“What about you, Chief? How many bad guys you take off the streets this week?”

Dylan had hauled the Henderson brothers to the county jail after they’d started a brawl at the sports bar to avoid making good on a wager. His efforts had earned him a sucker punch to the jaw from one of the lumberjack-sized brothers, while he’d been busy subduing the other two.

However, those arrests had been two weeks ago.

The metallic gleam of the badge pinned to his uniform caught Dylan’s eye as he glanced at the worn carpet. He raised his head slightly to meet the dozens of expectant faces awaiting his reply.

“None,” he said finally.

A chorus of gasps erupted, quickly followed by muffled giggles.

“However,” Dylan interjected over the din, “I run a small-town police department, not a video game controller.” He eyed the classroom of fourth and fifth grade Cooper’s Place Elementary School students gathered for his day-in-the-life career talk. “So those arrests you all made playing Cop Crackdown don’t count.”

“Not even nabbing Big Moe?” the boy in the back of the room asked.

Dylan took a moment to think it over. A few of his cop buddies back at his old precinct in Chicago played the popular video game, but none had managed to beat the last level and capture the slippery Big Moe.

Dylan stroked the shadow of beard clinging to his chin. “Well, maybe...”

“Dylan Cooper.” The sound of his name, spoken in an admonishing tone he rarely heard, grabbed his attention. He turned from the students seated crossed-legged on the floor to their teacher standing in a corner of the classroom with her arms folded over her chest.

“Yes, Mrs. Bartlett.” Dylan’s deep voice automatically adopted the singsong quality it had decades ago when she’d been his fifth-grade teacher.

She peered at him over the frames of cat-eye glasses that had slid past the bridge of her nose. Her lips were pursed into a frown, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. Time had transformed the teacher’s once dark hair to salt and pepper. However, her expression was the same she’d worn the day a garter snake he’d encountered on the way to school had escaped his backpack and slithered onto her desk.

“These students are in my classroom on this sunny July day because they spent the school year trying to apprehend Big Moe instead of doing their homework.” She paused and gave the open window a pointed glance. As if on cue, the happy shrieks of children at the small town’s playground floated in on the mild breeze.

Dylan exhaled, shoving aside a twinge of empathy for the kids’ plight. It didn’t matter that he’d once missed a summer of Little League baseball sitting in this same classroom, with the same teacher. He was the adult now as well as an authority figure.

“No,” he said finally. “Nabbing Big Moe doesn’t count as a real arrest.”

Mrs. Bartlett rewarded the statement with an approving smile. But if the grumbles filling Dylan’s ears were any indication, his stock had dropped even further with his audience.

“Isn’t it your job to arrest people?” a kid seated in front asked. “That’s what the police do.”

“Not always,” Dylan replied. “My main duty is to keep everyone safe. In a town the size of ours that could mean anything from teaching you bicycle safety to helping Devon’s grandmother across Main Street.” He inclined his head toward one of the boys and then looked over at a set of identical twins. “Or even helping Natalie and Nicole look for their lost puppy.”

Dylan acknowledged the waving hand of a boy he recognized as an old high school classmate’s son. “Got a question, Ryan?”

“Where’s your gun?” the boy asked.

“At home,” Dylan replied. “I’m not on duty today. Besides, weapons don’t belong in a classroom. I didn’t bring one here today, and you should never, ever bring a gun or anything else that could be potentially dangerous to school either, right?”

Heads in the audience bobbed in agreement, and then he saw one kid raise his hand.

Dylan looked down at him. “What is it, Brandon?”

“Is a Swiss Army knife okay? I got one for my birthday. It’s so cool, I wanted to show all my friends.” The kid held out his hand. A shiny red utility knife rested in his small upturned palm.

“That is a very cool present. However, it’s not appropriate to bring it to school.” Dylan remembered having one just like it when he was the kid’s age. However, times had changed. “I don’t want you to get into trouble, so how about you give it to me for now. I’ll give it to your dad later, and he’ll return it to you.”

Dylan pocketed the small knife and stole a glance at the clock on the back wall. Although this was one of his rare days off, he had a meeting this afternoon at city hall about the upcoming mayoral election.

“Well, kids, from my early-morning drive around town to check out everything to my night rounds and beyond, that’s a typical day in the life of a small-town police chief,” he concluded.

“Sounds boring to me, Chief. Just like this hick town,” the boy who’d caught Big Moe yelled. “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to move away and live someplace fun.”

Another boy chimed in. “Me, too. When I grow up, I’m going to be a real cop like the ones on my mom’s favorite show, Law & Order, not hanging around here helping old ladies cross the street.”

Dylan took in stride the comments and ridiculing snickers that followed. After all, he’d felt the exact same way when he was their age. He’d also done exactly what they intended to do. The moment he graduated high school, he’d fled the town named for his ancestors, with big plans and his high school sweetheart on his arm.

He’d never planned to return to Cooper’s Place, but he was back in his hometown doing a job that most days held all the excitement of watching grass grow. Slowly. One blade at a time.

Still, dull was good, he reminded himself.

His stint as a beat cop and then two years as a homicide detective on Chicago’s south side had given him an appreciation for living in a place where the children he heard outside could play without fears of gunshots ringing out. Sure, he went on routine calls concerning shoplifters, noise disturbances, family and neighbor disputes, and the occasional burglary. However, there were no calls in the middle of the night to investigate homicides. No street gangs or armed robberies.

The biggest thing a person was likely to become a victim of here was local gossip.

Cooper’s Place, Ohio, was still a town where the residents were all on a first-name basis and could go to bed at night without double-checking to see if the doors were locked. Peace and quiet reigned here, and Dylan would do everything in his power to keep it that way.

After answering a few more questions, he eyed the exit sign above the classroom door. “It’s been a pleasure speaking with you today,” he said.

His former teacher gave the students a reading assignment and followed him into the corridor. “I’d like to have a word with you, Chief Cooper,” she said, closing the classroom door behind her.

Dylan groaned inwardly at the use of his title, hoping she wasn’t about to give him an update on her ongoing dispute with her next-door neighbor. He’d issued them both citations last month when they’d insisted on pursuing charges against one another over minor transgressions that should have been settled without police involvement.

“How can I help?” he asked.

“It’s that uncle of yours.” She frowned. “My case was heard in Mayor’s Court last week...”

He held up a hand to stop her. Cooper’s Place was one of the small Ohio municipalities that had established Mayor’s Court to hear small cases that would be decided by arbitration. Since the mayor held a law degree, he was qualified to oversee the proceedings. Unfortunately, residents unhappy with the decisions made there often voiced their displeasure to Dylan.

“I’m law enforcement, Mrs. Bartlett. I have no control over Mayor’s Court or the mayor’s rulings. If you don’t agree with his decision you can always appeal to the county court.”

“But he’s your family,” she said.

“Regardless, any problems you have with the way he does his job should be taken up with him or at the ballot box during the upcoming election.”

“Humph,” she muttered. “How can I vote against him if he always runs unopposed?”

Moments later, Dylan stood outside the elementary school building and pulled his mobile phone from his shirt pocket. He briefly debated whether to check in with Dispatch.

The two-man department’s second officer was on duty today, and although Dylan couldn’t have asked for a more dedicated employee, Todd Wilson still had less than a year of experience under his belt.

Also, the rookie could be a bit of a zealot in making sure the town’s citizens adhered to the exact letter of the law, handing out citations to jaywalkers and litterbugs. Wilson sometimes carried a ruler to measure how far drivers had parked from the curb, and then slapped a ticket on their windshields if a quarter of an inch put them in violation.

The young man’s fanatical devotion to the job combined with his clumsy nature often made him the butt of jokes, and the good folks of Cooper’s Place teased the guy mercilessly. Some even compared him to the bumbling deputy from a classic black-and-white television show.

Holding the phone to his ear, Dylan listened as it rang twice before the dispatcher answered.

“Quiet as usual, Chief,” Marjorie Jackson said robotically, as if she’d been expecting his call. After all, he always checked in on the two days off he allowed himself each month. Dylan guessed he’d torn her away from one of the celebrity magazines she read constantly.

“And Wilson?” Dylan inquired.

“He drove the cruiser out to Old Mill Road to monitor for speeders.”

Dylan briefly considered driving out there to tell the officer to stick closer to town, since the area around Old Mill Road had both spotty radio coverage and cell phone dead spots, but he decided against it. The dispatcher had already confirmed nothing was going on.

Traffic was practically nonexistent on Old Mill Road now that the new bypass had opened. Surrounded by cornfields, there was little chance of the young cop finding a speeder or getting into a situation he couldn’t handle.

Exhaling, Dylan stared up at the sky and squinted against the beaming sun. He caught sight of a small dark cloud in the distance as he donned his wire-rimmed aviator shades, and despite the otherwise placid skies, he couldn’t shake the feeling a storm was about to blow into town.


Chapter 3 (#ulink_2ae8348a-b097-54a0-ae89-bd4298777b4a)

Lola squirmed behind the wheel of her red Mustang.

After hours on the road, driving to New York City no longer seemed like the brilliant idea it had back in Nashville. Her shoulders ached and her butt had gone numb fifty miles ago.

She should have stopped to stretch at the last rest stop, on the Kentucky-Ohio border, Lola thought, massaging the kink in her neck. Instead she’d blown right past it, still buzzing with excitement over the offer her talent agency had presented to her earlier this morning.

America Live!

Lola stopped rubbing her neck long enough to give her driving arm a hard pinch.

Nope. It wasn’t a dream.

In a few days, she’d actually be filling in as a temporary cohost on America Live! And the producers had indicated the one-day gig would also serve as her audition for a permanent spot on the top-rated morning show.

A smile formed on her lips as she imagined her family, especially her big brother, looking over the rims of their coffee mugs at their television screens Monday morning and seeing her. They’d be shocked, all right.

The same woman they’d cast aside would be looking back at them. Lola grinned harder. Too bad she wouldn’t be able see the looks on their faces.

“Notoriety appears to have worked to your advantage this time,” Jill had told her during the brief call. “This is your shot, Lola. I don’t have to tell you how important it is for you to bring your A game. Look your best and wow that audience,” she’d instructed, before ending the call with a warning. “Don’t screw this up!”

Not a chance, Lola thought.

Erring on the side of caution, she’d opted to drive solo to New York rather than fly. She didn’t want to inadvertently bump someone on a plane and end up falsely accused of beating the crap out of the person. Also, tabloid television shows tended to stake out airports to corner their prey. Now that she was on everybody’s radar, she needed to lie low.

Still, one thing she hadn’t been able to avoid was summer road construction. Her car’s GPS system had instructed her to exit the interstate to follow detours on state and county roads. She stifled a yawn with her fist. Every mile seemed to take her deeper into the rural countryside. At least flanked by miles of Ohio farmland broken up with an occasional one-stoplight town, there was no way for her to find trouble or for trouble to find her.

The sound of her ringtone filled the Mustang’s interior, and Lola snatched the cell phone off the passenger seat. She peeked at the number flashing across the screen and blew out a sigh.

Although it was Friday, she’d managed, while driving through Kentucky, to secure last-minute appointments in the city for an oxygen facial, brow wax and tint, and of course, a fresh manicure. Now she had to somehow persuade NYC’s top stylist to work his cut-and-color magic on her lackluster mane over the weekend, so every head would turn to look at her when she entered the America Live! studio Monday morning.

“Pablo,” Lola crooned into the phone. “I need a huge favor.”

She’d briefly considered using the top-notch beauty team at her sister’s flagship Espresso Sanctuary Spa before leaving Nashville, but she was too pissed at Tia to ask her for anything.

Besides, Pablo and Lola went way back, before he was known by just one name and had opened the exclusive salon with it emblazoned on the front door. She glanced at her split ends in the rearview mirror as she explained what she needed done to her hair.

“You should have called six months ago, babes, because that’s how far in advance I’m booked,” Pablo said, a European accent lacing his words. “I’m only returning your call personally as a courtesy, because we’re friends. However, I’m afraid what my receptionist told you earlier stands.”

The stylist was her friend. That was why she decided to confide in him about her overall career situation and the humiliating way she’d been dumped as the face of Espresso. “So you can see how crucial it is that you do my hair and not relegate me to your assistant.” Lola’s voice cracked as she tried to persuade him to make an exception. “I’ve got a lot riding on this opportunity, Pablo. I need to look my best, which means I need you. Please.”

Long moments of silence ensued. Lola pressed her lips together and stared through the windshield at the endless ribbon of winding road, hoping he’d change his mind.

“Impossible,” Pablo said, finally. “Not only do I not work on weekends, but I’ve been invited to an A-list celebrity party in the Hamptons. I’ll be hanging there all weekend.”

Lola wasn’t giving up. “Nothing is impossible. Like when I insisted on you as my stylist for a magazine shoot, back when you were fresh out of cosmetology school and sweeping hair off Espresso Sanctuary’s floor.”

“I know you helped me out, Lola, but...”

“Not to mention floating you a loan to help you open your first salon in Nashville, when your loan applications were rejected by the both the bank and the small-business administration,” she said. “Remember?”

She heard a sigh at the other end of the phone as she turned the steering wheel sharply to avoid hitting a squirrel that had darted out onto the road.

“Come on, Lola. We’re talking the Hamptons here.”

Lola frowned. She hadn’t wanted to take it there, but he’d left her with no other option. “Be that way, Sherman.” She emphasized his real name.

“You wouldn’t.” Pablo quickly lost his faux accent.

“What? Start a rumor that international stylist to the stars Pablo, who’s led folks to believe he hails from Barcelona, is really Sherman Meeks from Shelbyville, Tennessee?”

“Don’t you dare!” Pablo shrieked.

“Of course I wouldn’t do that to you,” she said in a syrupy-sweet tone as fake as “Pablo’s” persona. “Besides, I’m sure your A-list friends and high-profile clients already know the real you.”

“All right, you win,” the stylist said in a huff. He rattled off a time on Sunday. “But you’d best be punctual, earlier if possible.”

Lola glanced at the GPS, which estimated her time of arrival. She thanked her friend and assured him she’d be there.

“Good,” Pablo said. “Otherwise, you’ll be out of luck.”

Lola tossed the phone back onto the passenger seat just as the GPS beeped. Here we go again, she thought.

“Accident ahead,” the robotic voice warned. “Detouring to an alternative route.”

Following its directions, Lola exited the state road. She steered the car along winding smaller roads that all seemed to lead deeper into nowhere.

“Turn left onto Old Mill Road.”

She made the turn, and then noticed the gadget had recalculated her arrival time, adding another half hour to her journey. She also noticed a sign warning drivers to be on the lookout for cows in the road. The next sign took the speed limit down to forty-five miles an hour.

“At this rate, it’ll take me a month to get there,” Lola muttered.

Peering through the windshield, she didn’t see any cows. In fact, she hadn’t even encountered any other cars. Just a stretch of two-lane road cutting through acres of cornfields.

She nibbled on her bottom lip and shifted her gaze to the speedometer and then to the GPS’s ever increasing arrival time. A life-changing career opportunity awaited her, and what was she doing? Slowpoking down back roads that looked like a corn maze, Lola thought.

The big toe of her driving foot twitched.

Giving in to the overwhelming impulse to floor it, she pressed the accelerator pedal. The muscle car lunged forward as the powerful engine roared its approval.

“This is more like it,” Lola muttered, steering the car along the deserted road.

She didn’t own a Mustang to drive it like the chauffeur in Driving Miss Daisy. The GPS took the faster speed into account and shaved ten minutes off her arrival time.

Lola switched on the sound system and the acerbic lyrics of Nicki Minaj poured through the car’s speakers, filling the interior. With the afternoon sun on her face, Lola drummed out the fast, thumping beat with her fingertips against the steering wheel.

She saw the speedometer needle inch toward the seventy-five-miles-an-hour mark and then beyond. She was clocking eighty-five miles an hour when her killjoy of an inner voice reared its head, admonishing her to slow down.

The GPS shaved another twenty minutes off her estimated arrival to Manhattan. Lola scanned the windshield and then checked the side and rearview mirrors. No cows. No cars. Nothing but cornfields and open road. There was absolutely no reason for her not to make up some of the time that detours and delays had cost her.

She cranked up the radio and sang off tune in an off-key attempt to rap along with Nicki about being a badass.

A flash of blue lights caught her eye.

“No, no, no, no,” Lola chanted, hoping it was just her imagination.

The wail of a siren drowned out the music. She spotted a police car in the side mirror, and her stomach did a free fall to the floorboards. She definitely wasn’t imagining it. Maybe he wasn’t after her, Lola thought, taking her foot off the accelerator. She saw a tractor in the distance plodding across a field.

Yeah, right, her inner voice scoffed.

Braking, Lola slowed the car enough to pull over to the side of the road. Her talent agent’s warning about trouble and not to screw up played through her mind as she moved the gearshift into the Park position.

Lola eyed the side view mirror and watched the officer get out of the police car. She rolled down her window and narrowed her eyes as he walked toward the Mustang. With his lanky build, awkward gait and uniform a size too big, he looked like a teenager playing cop.

He fumbled with a notebook before dropping it on the ground. When he bent over to retrieve it, his hat fell off. She shook her head at the sight of him trying to get himself together. If she weren’t facing what would undoubtedly be a pricey speeding ticket, she would have felt sorry for the guy.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, when he finally reached her car.

She removed her sunglasses. The officer blinked and then gawked at her, openmouthed. Lola was used to it. In a moment his face would register one of the looks she regularly got from strangers, recognition or, in the case of men, instant adoration.

She smiled, and his face flushed red. Yep, she thought, adoration.

“Officer.” Lola looked at the name tag pinned to the shirt of the baggy uniform. “Officer Wilson.”

The sound of his name appeared to snap him out of his stupor. “Um...ma’am, do you realize how fast you were going?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “The posted speed limit on this road is forty-five miles an hour. I clocked you doing ninety-four.”

Talking her way out of a ticket would be a chip shot, Lola thought. Feign ignorance, smile a lot and hit him with the facial expressions the camera loved.

Easy peasy.

You’re in the wrong. Take the ticket and be on your way.

Lola sighed. Maybe it was time for her to finally allow that inner voice to take the wheel.

“Sorry, Officer,” she said simply. No explanations. No excuses.

Her goal was to get to New York City as quickly and uneventfully as she could. Sitting here trying to sweet-talk her way out of a ticket would only delay her further, or even worse, get her into trouble she had gone out of her way to avoid.

The blush rose from Officer Wilson’s neck to his thin face. “I’ll need to see your driver’s license and car registration.” He fumbled with the pad in his hand, but this time he managed to hold on to it.

Leaning over, Lola opened the glove box and retrieved a small plastic folder containing both her car registration and proof of insurance. She handed it to Officer Wilson, then winced as it slipped from his grasp.

While he looked over her registration, Lola hefted her designer tote from the floorboard of the passenger’s side to the seat. Her arm muscles strained from the effort. Geez, she thought, if the thing got any heavier she’d have to put wheels on it and roll it around like a piece of luggage.

“Your registration is in order.” Officer Wilson returned the plastic folder. “Driver’s license, please.”

“Just a sec.” Lola stuck her hand inside the black hole of the oversize pink bag in search of her wallet. She rifled through the contents, unearthing a camera, next a flashlight and then a packet of protein powder.

One of these days she was going to have to clear out this bag, she thought, her arm elbow-deep in the mouth of the purse. She pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and a pocket pack of tissues.

“Do you need help, ma’am?” The officer leaned down and peered through the open driver’s side window.

“No, I got—” Pain sliced through her hand, and Lola yanked it from the bag. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

Blood oozed from her palm and dripped down her arm. Damn scissors, she thought, looking at the wound. She should have pulled them from her bag weeks ago.

Lola glanced up at the officer, holding her bloody hand in her other one. “I know I have a first-aid kit somewhere in my purse. Maybe you could empty it and...”

The cop stepped back from the Mustang on wobbly legs, and the color drained from his face.

“Blood,” he whispered, staring at her hand.

“It’s just a little cut,” Lola said, though it hurt like hell. She positioned her arm to give him a better look. “See, it’s not a big...”

His eyes rolled back in his head, and the poor guy looked as if he was about to drop on the spot.

“Officer Wilson,” Lola yelled, throwing open the car door.

She reached out to steady him with her good hand, but was a second too late. He crumpled to the ground. Lola heard a horrifying thunk as the back of his head hit the gravel, cushioned only by weeds poking through.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Lola hissed.

Her cut forgotten, she knelt beside him.

“Officer Wilson?”

No response. She lifted his head to her knee and noted from the rise and fall of his chest that the cop was still breathing. Thank God, she thought, sending up a silent prayer. He didn’t appear to be bleeding, but with her hand still dripping blood she couldn’t be sure.

Grabbing the two-way radio from his belt, she pressed several of the buttons.

“Officer down,” Lola yelled into it, imitating the lingo she’d heard on TV cop shows. But unlike television there was no reassuring voice saying the cavalry was coming to the rescue, only the hiss of dead air.

Closing her eyes briefly, she shoved aside the panic threatening to consume her.

“I’m just going to my car for my phone to call for help,” Lola told the unconscious officer.

She rested the cop’s head on the ground as gently as she could, and then dived inside her car. After snatching her cell phone off the passenger seat with trembling fingers, she hurriedly called 911.

Lola clutched the phone to her ear. Silence. She glanced at the screen. The words No Service had replaced the dots indicating signal strength.

The panic she’d banished was creeping up on her now. Looking down the barren road, she saw the tractor still inching through a field in the distance. It was too far away. She ran to the police car, hoping its radio would be more effective than the one the officer carried. Her efforts were rewarded with static and then more silence.

Returning to the unconscious cop’s side, Lola exhaled a shaky breath. She had no idea if she should move him, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t leave him here to go for help.

She was going to have to take him to help.

Lola rounded her car to the passenger’s side and flung open the door. Back at the officer’s side, she sucked in a deep breath before crouching on her haunches. She lifted his head and then his shoulders as gently as possible, finally managing to weave her arms under his.

The cop, who she would have described as scrawny when he’d stepped out of the patrol car earlier, was a lot heavier than he looked.

“Come on, Officer Wilson,” she pleaded. “Help me out here.”

Slowly, Lola dragged him across the hot pavement toward the passenger’s side of her car. Rivulets of sweat rolled down her back as the sun beat on it, and for once she was grateful for years of torturous Pilates classes that had not only kept her lean, but made her strong.

Still, she was gasping for breath by the time she managed to get Officer Wilson slumped in the passenger’s seat.

Back in the driver’s seat, Lola snatched a wad of tissue from the pocket pack to stem the blood still oozing from her hand. She used her free hand to start a GPS search for the closest hospital.

“Hold on, Officer Wilson,” she said, as the route to a facility a few miles away appeared. “I’ll have you at Cooper’s Place Community Hospital in a flash.”


Chapter 4 (#ulink_50c4df86-a5ec-5422-a3e1-ac3b416cb04f)

A scowl and the smell of chocolate greeted Dylan as he stepped through the back door of his mother’s house.

“When are you going to learn to knock before you barge into someone’s home?” Virginia Cooper placed her hands on the floral apron covering her hips.

“Knock? I grew up in this house.”

Standing at the stove, his mother jabbed a finger in his direction. “But the bills in the mailbox out front are in my name. I pay the cost to be the boss.”

“Well, I definitely don’t want to step on the boss’s toes, especially when she’s baking,” Dylan conceded with a chuckle. The heavenly aroma coming from the oven appealed to his sweet tooth, prodding him to get off her bad side. “So, what’s in the oven?”

A corner of his mother’s mouth quirked upward in a hint of a smile, indicating he was out of the doghouse, at least for now. He doubted she’d still be smiling once she found out the reason behind his visit.

“White-chocolate-chip muffins.” Virginia picked up a mechanical timer on the kitchen counter and turned the dial to set it. “They’ll be ready in sixteen minutes. You staying?”

“I am now.”

“Coffee?” she offered.

“Have a seat.” Dylan gestured toward the high-back stools surrounding the large kitchen island, which was cleared except for his mother’s closed laptop computer. When college football season started next month its smooth granite top would be loaded with a wide assortment of breakfast breads and his mother’s homemade preserves. “You’re providing homemade muffins. The least I can do is make coffee.”

Virginia sat in one of the chairs while he opened the door to the cabinet where the coffee was kept.

“What’s with the uniform? Thought you were finally taking a day off work.”

Dylan dumped a scoop of coffee into a paper filter and placed it in the coffeemaker’s brew basket. He added water and switched the machine on. While the coffee brewed, he rinsed the chocolate-muffin batter from the mixing bowl in the sink and placed it in the dishwasher.

“Technically, I am off, but I had a day-in-the-life career speech at the elementary school earlier. It’s the students’ last day of summer school.” He glanced at his watch. “Right now I’m supposed to be at city hall. Uncle Roy called a department head meeting about the next mayoral inauguration, but it’s been delayed. He’s stuck in the waiting room at Doc Hadley’s office, and the doc’s running behind schedule.”

“Inauguration? He hasn’t even been reelected yet.”

Dylan dried his hands with a paper towel. His late father’s youngest brother had been mayor of the town named for their ancestors ever since Dylan could remember. “His reelection is pretty much a foregone conclusion. He wants to take the oath of office outdoors this time, in the town square, and wants it spruced up for the event.”

“The town’s budget is stretched enough. We can’t afford the hours of overtime it would take for the public works department to work on the square.” Virginia’s snort filled the kitchen. “Besides, Roy’s getting too damn old, not to mention crotchety, to hold office. He needs to hang it up. This town needs some fresh blood in the mayor’s office.”

Folding his arms, Dylan leaned against the kitchen counter. His snort was identical to his mother’s. “There is no fresh blood. If nobody files to run in the next three weeks, he’ll be running unopposed.”

“Again,” they both said, simultaneously.

His mother’s eyes lit up. “You could run.”

“No way.” Dylan wagged a finger. “I’m not cut out to be a politician.”

A gurgling sound emitted from the coffeemaker indicated the end of the brewing cycle. Dylan crossed the room and retrieved two mugs from another cabinet.

He caught his mother’s frown out of the corner of his eye. “Anyway, if you were mayor that would leave that bumbling Wilson boy as our new police chief, and that would really leave this town with something on our hands.”

“Stop it, Mom,” Dylan admonished. “He’s young and a bit high-strung, but he tries hard and the job means everything to him.”

Dylan sat the mugs on the kitchen island, filled them with coffee and then went to the refrigerator for the creamer.

“Humph. He gave me a twenty-dollar ticket for jaywalking on Main Street,” Virginia said. “And I’m not the only one. I was with his great-grandmother, and he gave her one, too.”

Dylan added a generous dollop of cream to his mother’s mug and slid it toward her, leaving his black. Wilson was still a rookie and a stickler for every law on the books. His judgment on what he should probably turn a blind eye to—especially in a small town—would improve once he got more experience under his belt.

Meanwhile, Dylan supported his lone officer. “Were you two jaywalking?” he asked, standing across from her at the table.

“Yeah, but...”

He shrugged and eyed her over the rim of his mug. “Do the crime, pay the fine.”

His mother harrumphed. “You’d think with practically everyone who runs this town having the last name of Cooper, I’d be able to get a ticket fixed,” she grumbled, and then took a sip of coffee. “But your uncle Roy decided in Mayor’s Court that we had to pay up. He even threatened us with a contempt-of-court charge when we voiced our displeasure with his decision, for, as he put it, ‘mouthing off’.”

The aroma of chocolate now thoroughly permeated the kitchen, pushing aside thoughts of his uncle. Dylan’s stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d had only coffee and toast for breakfast, and his gaze wandered to the mechanical timer.

As if on cue, it dinged.

Virginia rose from her chair, walked over to the stove and switched off the timer. Donning oven mitts, she pulled the pan of muffins from the stove and placed it on a wire rack. She yanked off the mitts and returned to her coffee. “They need to cool for about five minutes.”

“Nonsense.” Dylan grabbed a dessert plate from the cabinet. He reached to pluck a muffin from the hot tin. Muffling a curse, he snatched his hand back and shook it.

“Greedy.” Virginia laughed from her perch at the kitchen island.

Undeterred, he tried again, this time managing to get one onto his plate and barely singeing his hand. “Starving,” he corrected.

Back at the table, Dylan took a huge bite out of the muffin and slowly chewed. The pleasant flavors of sugar, butter and cream that had won the woman seated across from him blue ribbons for baking at a decade of county fairs were notably absent. His taste buds revolted at the cruel trick his nose had played on them. He took a gulp of cooled coffee from his mug to put them out of their misery and wash the tasteless lump down.

He looked at his mother, who quickly averted her eyes. “What exactly was that?”

“A muffin, dear. I just made a few substitutions.”

Standing at the coffeemaker, Dylan topped off his mug. “Like what? Swap out taste for dust?”

Virginia opened the lid of the laptop at her elbow. Pulling her reading glasses from her apron pocket, she peered through them at the screen. “I’m experimenting with some recipes to give my guests some healthier options next month,” she said. “So I tweaked my regular muffin recipe a bit and cut the amount of sugar in half. I also substituted all-purpose flour with whole wheat flour, used applesauce instead of oil and mashed avocado instead of butter,” she said.

Every autumn, the home Dylan had grown up in turned into a bed-and-breakfast and hosted fans and alumni of the college football team from a neighboring town. The four-room B and B was also the closest thing Cooper’s Place had to a hotel.

“You might have warned me,” he said.

His mother sighed as she typed with two fingers on the laptop. “I was going to take them to my garden club meeting and get their opinion, then you showed up,” she said. “I thought I’d get your visceral reaction.”

Dylan picked up his plate and slid the offending muffin in the trash can. “That visceral enough for you?”

“Maybe if I tried a mashed banana instead of the avocado,” his mother said more to herself than to him, still staring at the screen.

“Just warn me next time,” Dylan said.

Virginia looked up from the recipe, eyeing him over the rim of her glasses. “Speaking of which, what are you really doing here?”

Dylan exhaled. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the kitchen counter. “I was doing my morning patrol...”

“This is supposed to be your day off.”

Dylan had still kept to his routine of doing an early-morning patrol around town before his officer came on duty. “Anyway, Rosemary Moody ran out of her hardware store and flagged down my truck,” he continued.

“Hmmm.” His mother pretended to be absorbed in the laptop, the telltale twitch of her left eye giving her away.

“She wanted to tell me your order had just come in, and she wanted to know when was a good time to deliver it.”

Virginia shook her head. “That’s what I get for doing business with the town blabbermouth,” she grumbled. “I should have just driven to Columbus and picked up what I needed from Home Depot.”

“Everybody blabs everyone else’s business around here,” Dylan said. It was a fact of small-town life he hadn’t missed during his years in Chicago. “So, mind telling me what you intend to do with a truckload of concrete stones and concrete mix?”

He waited for an answer to his question, but her lips remained stubbornly pressed together.

“I’m going to find out eventually, so you might as well spill it.”

She swiveled in her chair and faced him. “I want to put a fire pit out back. When the weather turns cool, the guests can sit out there and roast marshmallows, make s’mores.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” he said. “So I wonder why Luke didn’t know anything about your plans when I asked him what was up?”

Dylan had his suspicions on why the bed-and-breakfast’s part-time handyman was clueless, but wanted to hear the answer from his mother. He shifted his weight against the counter. Several moments passed. “You’re not having that pit built, are you?”

She slowly shook her head.

“You were planning to try to do it yourself.” Dylan chuckled. The sound was as dry as the muffin, which still left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Just hear me out, son.” Virginia raised a hand. Without waiting on a response, she launched into a spiel about some television show on the Home Design channel called Granny’s Old House, where a senior citizen tackles home improvement, design and landscaping projects.

Dylan listened as his mother babbled on, but only because he was waiting for her to stop long enough to take a breath. Then he could ask her if she was out of her flipping mind.

She tapped on the laptop’s keyboard with her index fingers and then turned the screen toward him. “Granny says it’ll only take a couple of hours.” Virginia inclined her head toward the small screen. “See for yourself.”

He glanced at the laptop. Sure enough, a woman with a hard hat covering her gray hair was on the business end of a shovel, talking about how easy it was to build your own fire pit.

“It’s not any more difficult than arranging a few flowers in a vase,” Granny said breathlessly as she hefted one of the large concrete blocks.

Granny was full of it, Dylan thought.

“We’re both in our seventies,” his mother said. “If she can do it, I can, too.”

“More like seventy-nine and a half for you,” he muttered.




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