by Hope Ramsay
“How about we start again,” he said, his jaw so tight she could bounce a quarter off it. He didn’t seem to be focused on the zipper at all, thank goodness. What a gentleman.
“Start again?”
“Yeah. A fresh start. A new beginning.” He extended his hand for her to shake. “Friends,” he tacked on.
Friends? A handshake? Not what she’d been expecting. But what had she been expecting? She glanced from his face to his hand. He looked…hopeful. Or maybe she was just imagining that. After all these years of his I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude, how could he look like he cared what she thought? What she did?
Finally she awkwardly stuck out her hand. To be polite, of course.
He wrapped his big hand around hers. It was warm, and his grip was strong and no nonsense. The grip of a man you could count on. She stared at him incredulously—suddenly the impassive eyes, the perfect posture had returned, and she realized he’d gone back to being the cop on duty.
She was beginning to see how he was able to wear a mask to hide his feelings. It occurred to her that he might be waiting for a sign from her.
But she was still shocked by what he’d said. Still trying to reconcile who the real Colton Walker was.
Their hands were still locked together, and had been for far longer than a normal handshake. His nearness was making her shaky, giddy, confused.
She broke away and walked to her car, but he jogged ahead and got there first to open the door. She moved to get in, then stopped. Impulsively she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. It was rough and raspy in a very sensual, masculine way.
For a second he didn’t move or look at her. She was kicking herself for the reckless gesture when his radio went off.
“Hey, sweet pea,” Carmen the dispatcher said. “You big hunk of love, we’ve got a 314 on Elm Street.”
Colton pulled his radio off his belt. “I’m sorry Pete’s exposing himself again, Carmen, but I’m off duty.”
“Evan has a migraine, and besides, I know where you are from the Find My Friends app on my cell. You want me to call him or you want to take the call?”
“I’ll take it, Carmen,” he said into his radio, but his gaze had swung to Sara. “Tell Pete to keep his pants on.” Sara ducked down into the car, not wanting to keep him from his work. And anxious to get the hell out of there.
“Hey,” he said. The tiniest smile turned up his lips. “You OK?”
His voice was low, easy, rough at the edges, and it reverberated clear through her taut nerves. “Yeah. I’m fine.” She smiled. “Thanks for not giving me a ticket.”
“I won’t give you a ticket, but I hope you don’t mind my giving a bit of advice.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Next time a cop pulls you over, don’t pull your zipper down to try and get out of the ticket.”
“I would never do that. My zipper broke!”
He winked. “And those high-waisted white bloomers. Really sexy.”
Now she was going to die. She knocked her head against the steering wheel.
He placed his hand over hers on the steering wheel. Just covered it lightly, giving it a small squeeze. She looked up in time to see him nod, close her door, then head off to do his job.
And despite herself, hope, dangerous and headstrong, bloomed within her.
Chapter 11
OK, Nonna, I’ve got everything ready,” Sara said, standing in her grandmother’s kitchen after work the next Friday. Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, check. Lemon juice, check. Butter, check. Vanilla ice cream, double check.
She was making pie. Not just any pie, her mother’s mixed berry pie, though the recipe had come originally from Nonna. She was killing two birds with one stone with this one. Nonna was showing her how to make it, so she would learn her mom’s secrets, and…she was making it for Colton’s birthday.
She’d found out from Carmen, whom she’d seen at the Bean today, that he was on duty until ten tonight, so that didn’t leave much time for celebrating. But she thought she’d call him over for a piece of pie. A gesture of friendship. Except maybe she should’ve made cake…yes, maybe she should’ve. But her mother’s berry pie was the bomb.
“Put that butter back in the fridge until just before you’re ready for it,” Nonna said in a commanding grandma tone, and Sara instantly obeyed. “Everything’s got to stay as cold as possible for a good crust.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sara said.
“Who are you making this for?” Nonna asked, looking her over carefully.
“I’m just really craving pie,” she said. “Doesn’t that sound delicious tonight before bed? Warm berry pie with ice cream melting all over it?”
Nonna had just taken a pitcher of sun tea from the yard and was making lemonade to mix with it for her favorite summertime drink. She narrowed her eyes and gave Sara the once-over. “Yes, but you hate baking, Sara Jane. I know you.”
“Fine, it’s for Colton’s birthday.”
Nonna clapped her hands. “Oh, you’re making him pie for his birthday. This is serious. You know what your grandfather always used to say.”
“Um, you find your way to a man’s heart through cooking?”
“No. Of course not. ‘Kissin’ don’t last, but cookin’ does.’ And truthfully, the kissin’ can last too. But it sure helps if you can cook.” Nonna chuckled at her own joke.
“OK, Nonna, what next?” Sara asked, waving the measuring cup to bring her grandmother’s attention back to the recipe. Actually, it was a relief to have her make bad jokes. “How much flour?”
“Four cups,” she said. Four seemed like a lot, but Sara dutifully dumped that amount in a large bowl. “Got it. Now what?”
“Put some of this in,” Nonna said, shoving the sugar bag over. “You know how to do it.”
Sugar, in the crust? Sara was no expert, but that didn’t seem right. She’d just pulled out her phone to Google how to make a piecrust when Nonna thrust a tin of Crisco on the counter.
“Oh, I’ve already got the two sticks of butter ready,” Sara said.
“But it needs Crisco,” Nonna said. “That’s the secret ingredient.”
“I did want to kill Colton, Nonna, but not by giving him a heart attack.”
Just then there was a rap on the back door, and Rachel walked in.
“Hi, Sara, hi, Nonna,” she said, giving them both a kiss. “What’s cooking?”
“We’re making a berry pie my mom used to make a lot,” Sara said. “Nonna’s teaching me.” Sara hugged her grandma. Although she was convinced the piecrust was a bust. Maybe Evie knew the recipe. Or maybe she should dump everything and just go buy a pie at the bakery. She tried not to be disappointed that her grandmother could no longer make the family recipe she loved so much, and cursed herself for having been gone for so many years. She’d been so wrapped up in her own life. She hadn’t cared about piecrusts at all, and now it was too late.
“You finish now, dear,” Nonna said, patting her arm. “I’m going to take my drink and sit down. Rachel, how about some tea and lemonade?”
“Thanks, Nonna, I’d love some.” Rachel came to stand next to Sara at the counter and surveyed the work in progress.
She hoped Rachel didn’t see the sadness in her eyes. No, not disappointment. Heavyheartedness. First off, Nonna never sat down. Ever. She was a powerhouse of energy. The old Nonna would’ve snatched the ingredients up and had them all blended and mixed and would be champing at the bit to show her exactly how it was done.
Rachel gave her a squeeze and smiled and was her usual undaunted self. “So you cut the butter into the flour”—she looked into the bowl—“except that looks like a lot. There shouldn’t be more than two cups in there. And you add ice water by the tablespoon until it turns into dough. And there’s a secret ingredient—lemon juice. Got any of that?” Rachel began moving things on the counter and rustling around for a new bowl.
Sara stepped back while Rachel became a whirlwind of reorgan
ization. She’d never even thought Rachel would know how to make this recipe. Never even thought to ask her. And that shook her to her core.
“What’s with the sudden urge to make pie?” Rachel asked, as Nonna sat outside the back door on her little deck watching the birds at the feeder.
“It’s for Colton’s birthday.” Maybe she shouldn’t’ve said that, but frankly it was a relief to tell someone.
“Oh,” Rachel said judiciously. Her careful tone spoke volumes.
“We’re just friends,” Sara added hurriedly.
“I see.”
“We had a talk. Got a few things straightened out.”
“Is that right.” Rachel cut the butter into the flour with a fork.
“I would never want to do him—I mean date him. Date him!” Oh my God. “It’s just that he’s working late on his birthday today and I thought he might like some pie. A gesture of friendship, you know?”
Rachel stopped and looked at her until Sara met her gaze. “Sara. Sweetheart. It’s OK. It’s just pie.”
The sweetheart kind of melted her.
“I mean, I’m totally not ready to start anything with anybody. Especially someone who lives in the same town. After all those years with Tagg, I mean, come on. I need to meet lots of different men, right? Nothing serious for me, no sirree. And let’s face it, Colton would never get serious about anyone. He’s not that kind of guy. In fact, he’s the kind of man most sensible women stay away from.”
Ramble, ramble, ramble. She needed to shut up already.
Rachel’s mouth twitched. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Maybe he just hasn’t found the right one.”
Sara got busy collecting dirty dishes and wiping the flour off the counter.
Rachel touched her shoulder. “Sara, it’s OK to explore your feelings. Besides, I like Colton. It’s Malcolm we have to worry about.”
Sara looked up. “He’s still awful, isn’t he?”
This time Rachel outright laughed. “Why are we the only ones who know this?”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. But something pretty quick.”
As Sara considered that, she put dishes in the sink and started washing them. Rachel added tablespoons of ice water to the flour mixture. It was actually starting to look like dough. “Nonna used to be able to make pie crust in her sleep,” Sara said.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. You know, I’ve got her signed up at the senior center for some activities there.”
“You mean senior day care?”
“Yes. The director is your dad’s patient. Apparently it’s quite a nice community, and they offer lots of options. We’re going to check it out next week. And remember Claudia Gaines? Her husband died recently and she said she can come be with Nonna a few days each week. Take her places, grocery shopping, to get her hair done, that kind of thing.”
Sara nodded, although her heart was twisting. Her grandmother couldn’t be alone anymore. They’d talked about all these things, but it was so hard to accept.
“We’ve all agreed to keep her at home for as long as we can. I think between all of us, we can make it work. One day at a time, right?”
“Girls, come out here, quickly!” Nonna said. “There’s the cutest little chipmunk and he’s eating all the birdseed. I wish I had a camera!”
Rachel guided Sara toward the door. “Don’t miss the chipmunk. Oh, one more thing. Over the years, Nonna’s given me a lot of your mom’s recipes. I’m working on assembling them all for you girls and making keepsake books. So if you need anything, just ask me, OK?”
“Oh. Thank you, Rachel.” She hugged her stepmother, tears gathering in her eyes. In part from relief that the recipes weren’t lost. But mostly over Rachel’s thoughtfulness. Somehow it had never occurred to Sara that Rachel would want to be a protector of her mother’s legacy.
Sara walked outside to see Nonna enraptured by the antics of two chipmunks who were chasing each other around the patio near the bird feeder.
“Aren’t they the cutest things?” she said, chuckling.
Sara sat down next to Nonna. She remembered all the times her grandmother had gotten excited about little things like birds, or the color of one of her roses, or some little anecdote she’d heard. She had a simple excitement about things that had always been contagious.
Somewhere along the line, Sara feared she herself had lost the ability to enjoy—or even notice—simple things. When was the last time she’d sat like this on a porch? Or taken time to notice the flowers? She couldn’t even remember. Life had gotten too busy.
But not today. Today she would hold her Nonna’s hand and sip iced tea and lemonade, and watch the chipmunks chase each other across the lawn.
* * *
Colton had just spent the past two hours settling a domestic dispute. Elias Riegler, who lived in a rental whose front yard resembled a garage sale in progress, had thrown a bottle that barely missed his wife’s head. His fist, however, made contact just fine. The man wasn’t drunk, and being an idiot wasn’t good enough reason to bring him in when his wife refused to press charges.
She’d said it was her fault she made him mad.
Elias was the family’s only income source, so with five kids, the woman was terrified to toss him in jail. Or maybe she was afraid of what he’d do to her once he got out. So Colton left without an arrest. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called out there either.
Colton had no problem with his job when he could help people, but when his hands were tied…Well. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the kind of call he wanted to respond to on his birthday. Or any day, for that matter.
Thinking about Sara on his drive back to the station was far more pleasant, but a little uncomfortable too. He hadn’t spoken to her since last weekend, just waved to her across the street one time while he was helping ninety-year-old Moira Perkins navigate the curb on her way into the library and Sara was walking out of the antique shop.
It wasn’t like him to avoid anyone. In this town it wasn’t possible to do that. But Sara…something had shifted between them. And he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.
Thing was, he couldn’t stop thinking about their talk last weekend. The part, specifically, when she’d stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.
Her hands had rested for that brief moment on his chest, and he’d wondered if she could feel his heart practically beating out of it like a trapped bird. Or the sudden way his breath caught. Because it was all he could do to keep himself from wrapping his arms around her and pulling her flush against him, turning his head so that his lips met hers, not his damn cheek.
Instead he’d stood still as a statue while her lips made contact. While her pretty scent surrounded him and her hair tickled his neck. She’d worn it down for once, all that thick red hair spun through with gold. He’d never in his life seen hair like that, and the urge to drag his fingers through it and pull her lips to his had him fisting his hands at his sides.
He’d be a fool to read anything more into that kiss besides a truce, a gesture of friendship. They’d spent ten years nearly despising each other. Why couldn’t he just be grateful that was over? After all, he’d been the one who’d stuck his hand out like an idiot and suggested friendship in the first place. Good one, Einstein. He could no more be her friend than he could be her enemy anymore.
Ten years of crossed wires. Who knew what could’ve happened between them if it weren’t for one simple lie?
Who knew what still could?
That kiss had opened a floodgate of possibility. Thing was, he had no idea what to do next. Pray the attraction would pass? Hope it was just temporary insanity brought on by an old memory best left forgotten? Certainly getting involved with her was a bad idea in a small town where they had to face each other nearly every day. Not to mention how that would complicate his relationship with Tagg.
Besides, he didn’t really do relationships. He liked keeping things casual and fun, without attachments.
He’d had a few steady girlfriends—none of them from town—but he didn’t want to be shackled to anyone. Yes, his buddies called him the Revolver in jest, but it was true in that he didn’t care to have any of them stick.
Colton checked his watch. One more hour on duty, then it was the weekend. The Fourth of July was tomorrow, and besides some paperwork in the morning, he was finally getting some time off.
His phone buzzed just as he finished his last cruise through town for the night.
Can u stop by on your way home? the text read. It was from Sara. How had she gotten his number? He’d wager from Carmen.
Sure, he typed back. Everything OK? His first thought was that maybe something had happened with her grandmother.
Nothing wrong. See u soon.
Those last three words triggered a flurry of emotions. Puzzlement. A little trepidation. And yes, excitement. He’d missed her. Although he wasn’t quite sure what to do after that heart-to-heart. Maybe he needed a good run-in with her to show him how annoying she was and prove to him why thinking of her romantically was a very bad idea.
When Colton pulled up to her grandma’s little bungalow, Sara was sitting on the swing, the porch lit only by a couple of outdoor candles—the kind that kept the bugs away. She motioned for him to hurry up.
As he got out of his car and climbed up to the porch, he saw a solitary birthday candle planted in the middle of a pie sitting on the low table. She sat there in a gray Indians T-shirt and cutoffs, smiling. The candlelight flickered on her hair and her face, casting all her features in a warm glow that nearly stopped him in his tracks.
Rocket was cuddled close to her side, snoring.
“Nonna believes in recycling candles,” Sara said with a sheepish smile. “This is the only one in the house, and it’s down to a stub. Make a wish fast.”
His brain finally put two and two together. How had she remembered? “You got me a pie for my birthday?” Suddenly the simple act of drawing in air became complicated, like he’d somehow forgotten how to do it. He dragged his gaze from her to the pie so she wouldn’t see what was surely on his face.
