by Penny Reid
A little flutter of excitement squeezed my chest, and I breathed through a sudden, unexpected burst of anxious energy. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the unanticipated crackling and warmth of electricity racing over my skin as our gazes continued to tangle across the room, and I crooked my finger again.
“This one is mine, Lina,” I decided and said at the same time.
“Raquel. You know how I feel about chin clefts. Cary Grant has my heart forever. Rock, Paper, Scissors?” she pleaded.
I watched as Mr. Police Officer crossed the room toward me, took note of the smoothness of his gait, the graceful confidence of his movements. “Nope.”
“Ugh. Okay, fine.” At the edge of my vision I saw Lina cross her arms. “But if it doesn’t work out with you two, I get dibs next time, if—God forbid—we ever come back here.”
“Totally fine with me,” I said, lowering my voice to add, “You know my rule.”
“Since Harrison, the heart-breaking twatwaffle, never the same guy twice,” she said under her breath just as the handsome man in blue made it to where we stood.
“Hi.” Lifting my chin, I offered my hand to the stranger. “I’m Raquel Ezra.”
“I know.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes, which I could see now were a deep, warm brown, danced. My heart stumbled over itself as he slipped his palm against mine, bringing the back of my hand to his lips. Brushing the barest hint of a kiss there, the texture of his beard teased my knuckles. Both sent lovely, spiky shivers up my arm and to my fingertips. “Jackson James. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Jackson James? Now that was a name I could appreciate. Part of me, the seriously goofy part, wanted to respond with Charmed, I’m sure.
I forced myself to hold his gaze until he released my hand, and only then did I turn to Lina. “This is Lina Lestari.”
He shifted the brunt of his charm to Lina, and I drew in a silent, steadying breath. Okay, settle down Rae. Play it cool. Be cool. Be who he expects you to be.
“I’m a big fan, Ms. Lestari. It’s an honor.”
These statements pulled a smile from Lina—no small accomplishment—and she offered her hand, which he took and shook gently.
Lina squeezed his hand tighter and shuffled a half step closer. “I know who you are.”
“You know who I am?” This seemed to surprise him, but he took her statement in stride, a small, skeptical grin blooming on his lips. He had nice lips, the bottom one much fuller than the top.
“I do,” Lina said. “Your sister is, uh, Janet. Right?”
“Janet is my mother. My sister is Jessica.”
Lina nodded quickly. “I met them yesterday. Your sister is hilarious. She’s dating one of the Winston brothers? The one with the red beard.”
“Yes. That’s correct.” The officer’s eyes narrowed just a fraction of an inch, his voice a modicum tighter, but still a deep, delicious rumble.
Before I could process the subtle shift in his mood, Lina’s smile grew dazzling. “Tell me something, Mr. Police Officer.”
“Anything, Ms. Lestari,” he responded immediately, using her hold on his hand to maneuver himself between us. “But I feel I must tell you, I’m a deputy sheriff. Though you can call me Mr. Police Officer if it pleases you.”
His voice was nice. And his accent was real nice, very Rhett-like.
“Okay, deputy.” Lina tilted her head to the side. “Can you tell me what a toboggan is?”
“I absolutely can tell you what a toboggan is. Just let me grab a water here . . .” Somehow he managed to free his hand from her grip, and in the next moment he reached behind me. His chest brushed against my shoulder while his proximity offered the faintest tease of his cologne, a warm, toasty blend of citrus, sandalwood, and . . . Is that jasmine?
My lashes fluttered as he withdrew, leaving the faint impression of his scent behind, and my mouth felt dry and useless. God, he smells good. I loved me a good-smelling man. There was nothing on earth like it. Three things in life had no substitutions: a perfectly roasted marshmallow; the first cool, crisp day of fall after a long, hot summer; and the closeness of a warm, good-smelling man.
Don’t mess this up, Rae.
Okay, look. I’d been in a self-imposed dry spell for over two years. Yes, my career came first, and any prolonged involvement with a man right now would only serve to distract me from my goals, ambitions, and meticulously crafted plans, because men could not be trusted. Period. I had to keep my eye on the prize, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thirsty for something delicious.
Don’t you ever get thirsty?
That’s what I thought.
So, assuming I could keep my inner oddball in check, and he continued to press all my buttons without trying, and he was interested—which I was eighty-five percent certain that he was—and he didn’t say or do anything to reveal himself as a tepid vanilla pudding of disappointment, chances were really good.
The sexy officer straightened, his eyes dark and hooded as they met mine, that wonderful spark crackling between us. But then, giving his gaze back to Lina, he said, “A toboggan is a hat.”
I laughed, barely avoiding a snort, but I did wrinkle my nose as I spoke without weighing my words, “No. Don’t listen to him, he’s pulling your leg. It’s not a hat.”
The deputy glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, his gaze striking me as both hot and sharp, though his tone was conversational. “Yes, it is a hat.”
“No.” I faced him fully, my neck heating. “It’s a sled.”
He gave me the entirety of his attention, his forehead lined even as a small smile spread over his features. “A toboggan is a knit hat, Ms. Ezra.”
I shook my head, now grinning uncontrollably for reasons unknown. “You are wrong, deputy. It’s definitely not a hat.”
He pursed his lips, his right eyebrow rising as he watched me with eyes that still felt sharp and hot, but now also assessing. “All right. How much do you want to bet?”
“Bet? You want to bet me that a toboggan is a hat?” Little did he know, I loved to bet. I loved games—chess in particular—but only ever when winning was a sure thing. Everyone but Lina knew a toboggan was a sled. Maybe he wanted to lose a bet with me?
His eyebrow hitched higher, and a faint shadow of challenge squared his jaw. “Yes, ma’am.”
A wonderful little thrill, a spike of something hot and promising ignited low in my stomach at how he’d said the word ma’am.
Still grinning, I crossed my arms beneath my chest, careful not to spill my water. “Fine. What are the terms?”
His cognac eyes brightened and moved over me as he rubbed the close-cropped beard on his jaw. “How about, if I’m right—if a toboggan is a knit hat—then you let me show you around Green Valley.”
“And if a toboggan isn’t a knit hat?” I lifted my chin, deciding not to mention that my flight tomorrow left first thing in the morning; if he wanted to show me around, it would have to be right now. Regardless, it didn’t matter, because a toboggan was a sled, not a hat.
He shrugged like it didn’t matter, apparently certain he was right, even as his gaze grew in twinkly intensity the longer it held mine. “Name your price.”
“If I’m right, then—” I paused, needing to swallow.
The side of his mouth hitched, such a flirty little curve, and my stomach erupted in butterflies. No lie, I hadn’t felt anything close to this since Bryce Littleton’s soccer ball landed on my lap freshman year of high school. He’d been a senior, experienced, and very, very hot. I’d been . . . none of those things. But the soccer star had winked at me and that simple action had detonated my first lust explosion, just like what I was feeling now.
Bryce Littleton had also turned out to be one hell of a good time. In truth, he’d been the only hell of a good time I’d ever had. No one else had come close.
Decided, I reached up and curled my fingers around the deputy’s tie, slowly tugging it and him toward me as I leaned forward and, hoping my bravado made me sound ba
dass instead of ridiculous, whispered in his ear, “If I’m right, then you—”
Lina thrust her phone at my profile, announcing, “He’s right. A toboggan is a hat.”
I flinched back, turning to face her, but didn’t release his tie. “What?”
“I internet-ed it. It’s a sled and a hat. But the bet was that a toboggan isn’t a hat, so you lose.” She wiggled the phone, a smirk on her purple painted lips. “Guess you’re getting that VIP tour of Mayberry.”
Part II
“Between two evils, I always pick the one I haven’t tried before.”
Mae West
“I can’t believe you people call a hat a toboggan,” I muttered dumbly.
His lips curved, but then he quickly suppressed the smile, clearing his throat. “We’re here.”
“Here?” I peered out the windshield, having no idea where here was.
I’d been so confused that people in Tennessee called a hat a toboggan and hadn’t said much after Lina declared him the winner. She’d cheerfully—well, cheerfully for Lina—steered us out of the tent, informing him that I would be leaving first thing in the morning, so the tour would have to start now.
Nor had I said much on the short drive over to wherever we were. My bravado had failed me. In this guy’s quiet, steadily calm presence, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Other than asking me if I was cold and offering me his jacket, he hadn’t said anything either. I’d accepted the offer, and this might’ve been my fatal mistake because it smelled like him and made my insides warmer than my outside.
Cutting the engine of his truck, he exited the driver’s side. Meanwhile, I unclicked the seatbelt and sighed, telling myself to speak as little as possible. If I didn’t speak, I couldn’t insert my foot. I would be aloof and mysterious. Except he was being quiet and mysterious, and we couldn’t both be the aloof/quiet and mysterious one!
This was why I liked getting down to business without delay or discussion.
I couldn’t tell you what kind of truck he drove. A big white one, and at least forty years old by the looks of it. The interior was clean, but the seat was one long bench instead of two buckets.
Oddly enough—and this might’ve been another reason why I’d remained mostly silent during the drive—the truck reminded me of Bryce Littleton’s truck, the one in which I’d handed over my V-card. Is the universe trying to tell me to call Bryce Littleton?
I didn’t think so.
Last I’d heard, Bryce had taken over his father’s farm and married an office manager from Cleveland. That was four years ago, right after I’d moved to Los Angeles and started dating Harrison. And that would make him, what? Twenty-six now?
My hot deputy tour guide opened the passenger door just as I’d reached for the latch. That secretive little smile hovering behind his eyes and lips, he offered a hand to help me down, which, after a brief hesitation, I accepted.
Instantly, a shock of disorienting heat traveled up my arm, and I blurted, “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” he said easily, his eyes moving over me like my question amused him.
“Seriously. How old?” I found my footing on the sidewalk and withdrew my hand.
“Twenty-six.”
Twenty-six. Same age as Bryce.
“Did you play soccer in high school?” My chest felt tight.
He seemed to debate the question as he shut my door. “I did play soccer in high school, senior year. Why?”
“No reason.” I twisted my fingers.
This was weird, right? Mr. Police Officer and Bryce Littleton didn’t look anything alike, but the similarities were weird. Both from a small town, both drove an old truck with a big bench seat, both played soccer, both were three years older than me, and both were the only two guys who’d ever made me feel tongue-tied by saying nothing at all.
“Were you very popular? In high school?” I fell into step beside him as we strolled down the sidewalk, reprimanding myself for asking so many questions. How could I be perceived as aloof and mysterious if I kept talking?
He slipped his hands in his pants’ pockets. “Not really.”
So, that’s different.
I felt myself relax just a wee bit, enough to curtail the urge to question him about whether his family owned a farm. At this point, I finally took note of our surroundings and realized he’d taken me to a quaint and deserted downtown. “Where are we?”
“Your friend mentioned you only have tonight for a tour, and we left before dinner. I thought you might be hungry.”
“Well, that’s thoughtful of you, deputy,” I said, trying for flirty.
That secretive smile made another appearance. “I aim to please.”
“Do you?” I bumped his bicep with my shoulder, feeling emboldened—finally. “How long is this tour going to take?”
He seemed to study me before answering, “Not too long.”
“Not much to see in Green Valley?”
“Plenty to see, but I can’t give you the full tour and get you home at a decent hour.”
“What about an indecent hour?” AH HA! There she is. I’m back in business, baby!
He chuckled, a rumbly, masculine sound, his deep-set eyes dancing. “What are you hungry for?”
“What are my options?” I surveyed the street. It was just after 4:00 PM, but no one seemed to be out and about. All the shops looked closed.
“Sandwiches, soup, salad.” He halted in front of one of the closed storefronts and withdrew a ring of keys. Words painted on the glass read, The Sandwich, Soup, and Salad Stop.
“But it’s closed.” I pointed to the closed sign hanging on the door.
“I have a key.”
“Officer, do you own The Sandwich, Soup, and Salad Stop?”
“I do not. But I know the owner and she won’t mind if we grab a bite to eat. If none of those appeal, I also know the owner of the Café on the Corner, and they have muffins and such from the Donner Bakery.”
I glanced over my shoulder and then back to him. “You have a key to the café too?”
“I do.”
Turning my head from side to side, I surveyed the shops along the sidewalk and spotted a hanging wooden sign for a place called Utterly Ice Cream Parlor. “What about the ice cream place?”
“You want ice cream?”
“Do you have a key?”
“Yes.”
My lips parted as curiosity momentarily eclipsed my desire to be aloof and mysterious as well as my brash and bold instincts. “Everyone just gives you a key to their shops?”
He seemed to take my questioning in stride. “Not everyone. I don’t have a key to the dulcimer shop, but my father does.”
“Does he own it? The dulcimer shop?” I had no idea what a dulcimer was.
“No.”
A nagging suspicion had my heart beating faster. “What does your father do?”
“He’s the sheriff.”
“And you’re a sheriff’s deputy,” I murmured.
Bryce Littleton was a farmer with a farmer father. What is going on? Was this guy the Bryce Littleton of Green Valley, Tennessee? Did every small town have one?
“It’s not so unusual in these parts for families to all be in the same line of work.” He gave me his closed-mouth smile, one side of his lips pulling higher than the other, his eyes twinkling down at me. “Most of the Leffersbees, for instance, are in banking. The Donners run the lodge and have for generations. The Monroes are in construction—well, most of the brothers.”
I supposed that was also true where I grew up. The people who stayed after high school tended to work with or for their families, in general. Or in the same line of work.
The flutter of disquiet lessened. “And your people enforce the law?”
“That’s right.” He confirmed with a single nod, his voice quiet and steady. “It’s not so strange, if you think it over. Aren’t there dynasties in Hollywood? Barrymores, Fondas, Smiths?”
Well, look at him. Pretty and smart. �
�Good point,” I conceded, unable to stop my slow-spreading smile. He really was very pretty.
“So where are we going?” he asked, shifting his weight to his left foot and tilting his head, his eyes still on me. “The Stop, Corner Café, or Utterly Ice Cream?”
“I . . .” Reluctantly, I tore my attention from his gorgeous gaze, surveying the small downtown once more. “I guess, uh—”
Quick! What is sexy to eat? Not sandwiches. I didn’t want chipmunk cheeks while chewing. Not soup. What if he slurps? That’d be a dealbreaker. And not salad; dressing is always a hazard. A muffin? No.
Too bad there weren’t any banana stores around here.
“Ice cream,” I said finally. Licking was good. Perfect.
“You want ice cream for dinner? In late November?”
“Whenever possible—” I winked at him “—I like to skip straight to dessert.”
“Ice cream it is.” He grinned.
Nailed it.
“We’re stopping?”
“Yep.” He nodded.
I frowned, gauging how far we were from the flow of traffic—not that I’d seen any other cars on the twisting, two-lane highway. He’d backed us onto what I assumed was a side shoulder and directly into the tree line. Just the hood of the car was visible from the road, and only if someone was really paying attention. The cab and truck bed were surrounded by brush and trees.
“We can stop here?”
“Yes.”
“Uh, why are we stopping here?”
“We’re just above Milton Overlook,” he said, like all my questions would be answered by these words.
We were the only car pulled off the road, and it didn’t look like much of an overlook. “So people pull off here to see a view?” Redirecting my attention behind us, I winced at the sun, low in the sky, coming in directly through the back window.
“Don’t look back.” He checked his watch. “It’s not time yet; we’re early. Give it another five minutes.”
