by Terry Odell
Ashley felt Scott’s hand on her back. She took several deep breaths. “What just happened?”
“Does she—Felicity?—have a history of going ballistic?” Scott asked.
Elaine shrugged, keeping her eyes on the papers in front of her. “She has a temper, but it’s more than that, I think. I’m not one to talk out of turn, but she owes me money, and I had to draw the line at handling any more of her business until she pays. I think she’s blaming everyone but herself for her problems.”
“How long has this been going on?” Scott asked.
“Six months, give or take,” Elaine said. “At least that’s when her credit ran out with me.”
“That’s before I got here,” Ashley said. Her mind whirled like the beaters of her mixer. She looked at Scott, then Elaine, and found a smile. “I really have to be going, but again—thanks for another rush job.”
“I have your information on file,” Elaine said. “I’ve got an anniversary party to shoot tonight, but I should be able to run these before I leave.”
Ashley couldn’t help but notice that although Elaine was addressing her, the woman’s attention was focused on Scott, who seemed oblivious to the obvious flirtation. His hand hadn’t left the small of her back. “Thanks again.”
As she walked toward her bakery, she glanced around, wondering if Felicity was waiting in a doorway, ready to pounce. Her heart hadn’t stopped pounding. Keeping her voice low, she asked Scott, “Do you think Felicity could have anything to do with the sabotage to my place? According to Elaine, she was having business problems before I got here, but maybe I sent her over the edge.”
“Blaming others for your own problems, especially if they’re due to your own ineptitude, isn’t unusual.”
“I don’t suppose you could ask your cop friends to check her out?” He tugged her arm, and she realized her anxiety had her zipping down the sidewalk. She slowed her pace. “Never mind. It’s a total imposition and a stupid idea anyway. I can’t see a way she could have orchestrated all the foul-ups. They were all unrelated. She’d have had to have pulled strings with a lot of subcontractors. Carl—the contractor—swears they were all accidents or the normal snafus that go with the territory. He’s got a good reputation. He’s even been working nights to make sure he’s done on time.”
“Which he’d do rather than tell you he was taking a part in sabotage, as you put it.”
She stopped dead. Lifted her gaze to his. “You think there’s something to it? But what about the worker who had to go to the hospital? Surely nobody planned that.”
“What happened?”
“A worker was setting a toilet and dropped it. I don’t know exactly what happened, or how, but I can’t believe someone coerced him into injuring himself.”
He shrugged, then rubbed his shoulder. Without thinking, she took the bag of books from him. He didn’t object. Her brain caught up. He’d said he was in an accident. Didn’t say what parts of him got hurt. Might have been more than his leg. She almost asked, but what was the point? He’d blow it off. Men. Always having to be invincible.
They’d reached her shop. Goosebumps rolled over her skin when she saw her name and logo on the window. She wondered if she’d ever take it for granted. Inside, she saw Willie Duncan staining the baseboards. A table saw whined. No screams, no swearing. She fished out her keys. “You want to come in? I’ll give you the nickel tour.”
“I’d love it.”
Although she knew she’d love to show anyone around, including total strangers dragged off the street, showing her bakery to Scott filled her with more warmth than could be attributed to pride alone. As she described her vision for the finished project, she couldn’t help but watch the workers. Things seemed to be moving smoothly. One man called out measurements to the man on the table saw, then installed the appropriately cut pieces, followed by Willie with his stain.
“Wonder why they didn’t stain them all before cutting,” Scott said.
“Are they doing it wrong?” she asked, her heart thumping again.
Willie turned. “Afternoon, Miz Eagan.” He spoke slowly. Everything Willie did, he did slowly. “If we’d had ‘em sooner, we coulda stained ‘em first. They gotta dry. This way, we can get everything done today. We’re gonna finish before we go, even if it’s late.”
Ashley wondered how Carl was handling overtime. Not her problem. They had a contract, and labor was included in his bid, so if he had to pay his workers more, it was out of his pocket. If he’d asked her for more money, she might have suspected he was trying to pad the bill by staging accidents, but he hadn’t.
She stepped into the kitchen area and stopped short. It looked—almost done. The appliances had arrived in all their stainless steel splendor. They stood there, as if waiting to be put to work. Tall racks for cooling and storage lined a wall. She merely stared. It looked like a kitchen. A real kitchen. Her kitchen. Tears burned.
“Looks good,” Scott said.
She nodded, afraid to speak for fear her voice would crack, if she could talk at all past the rising lump in her throat.
Scott seemed to understand. He didn’t speak, merely rested a hand on her shoulder. Gave a gentle squeeze.
She swiped at her eyes. Cleared her throat. “We should get out of the way. Plus, I need to shop so I can bake for your office party.”
“If you need someone to sample, I’m your man.”
She smiled. “I’ll let you know.” What she wanted to do was go home and shout. Dance. Heck, jump up and down and clap her hands like a kid at Christmas. But not yet. They were close, but there was plenty more to do. She’d save the happy dancing until they passed the final inspection.
Someone pounded on the back door. “I’ve got it,” she said, not wanting to disrupt the smooth rhythm of the workers. She sidestepped past the table saw, dodged other construction tools and debris, and yanked the door open.
Scott followed, waiting at her side while Ashley signed for the UPS delivery. She checked the return address and her heart raced.
Chapter 7
“Need some help?” Scott asked as Ashley took a large carton from the delivery man.
“It’s not heavy,” Ashley said. She set it down and clawed at the tape.
He immediately went on full alert. She’d talked about sabotage.
“Were you expecting this?” he asked. When she said yes, he backed off. “Hang on.” He went to one of the workers and borrowed a box cutter. Ashley took it from his hand with trembling fingers. “Don’t cut yourself.” Well, that was brilliant. Handling knives was probably something Ashley did often. And well. Yet something about her had all his protective juices flowing.
Regroup. “Is your restroom hooked up?”
“It was working yesterday. Can’t promise more than that.” She gestured across the main space. “Over there.”
When he returned, she knelt over the open box. Her shoulders shook. Crying? What the—? He approached slowly. As a cop, he’d seen more than his share of tears, but that was part of the job. Had something in the box upset her that much? He envisioned another accident. Broken dishes, or the wrong coffee cups? Some other snafu? He’d known her only a couple of days, but she’d already become someone he wanted to protect from harm. And not in a cop way. If she wanted to be alone with whatever was upsetting her, he’d respect that.
He cleared his throat. “Ashley?”
She snapped upright. Tears streaked her face, but beneath them she was smiling. She reached into the box and pulled out some chocolate brown fabric. As she shook it out, he recognized it for what it was. One of those chef’s coats.
“I can’t believe it’s real,” she said.
“Hey, put it on. Let me be the first to see you in uniform.” He closed the distance between them and took the coat, holding it out for her. She slipped her arms into it, smoothed it over her torso, buttoned it up and tugged the sleeves.
“It fits,” she said, as if she didn’t believe it would.
“Turn
around.”
“Wait.” She dug into the box again. “Close your eyes.”
He did, bracing his feet. He’d learned that his balance was still off, and closing his eyes exacerbated it. He ignored the quick jab of pain and waited for Ashley to give him the all clear.
“Okay. You can look now.”
She stood there, gazing at him expectantly. He stepped closer. Her coat had her store’s name and logo embroidered on the front. On her head, she wore a short cap, also brown, somewhere between a beret and those big tall things the fancy chefs wore. What he saw in her eyes, in the way she stood, flooded him with memories of the first time he’d put on his uniform.
“You look … fantastic.” He was surprised at the huskiness in his voice. “Nice hat.”
“Toque,” she said. “I was afraid it might seem too … pretentious. But I’ve never thought ball caps were proper kitchen attire.”
“I agree. It looks perfect.” He hesitated. “Shouldn’t we celebrate?” As soon as he uttered the words, he wished he could suck them back.
Why did he think she’d want to celebrate with him? She probably had a circle of supporters who would laugh and giggle and be all girly. People she’d known longer than a couple of days.
She took off her hat. Fussed with it. Stared at it. Ran the band through her fingers. “Rain check?”
He hoped his disappointment didn’t show. “Sure. You’ve got a lot to do. You let me know.”
“I mean, of course I want to celebrate,” she said quickly, as if she thought she’d hurt his feelings. “But not until it’s official. I’m afraid I’ll jinx something.”
She folded the coat and almost lovingly put it in the box. The hat followed. No, not hat. Toque. He’d have to remember that.
She picked up the box. “I really have to get going. Maybe I’ll see you later.”
“Sure.” He headed for the back door.
“Wait,” she called.
He turned. Had she changed her mind?
She tilted her head toward the floor near the refrigerator. “Your books. Don’t forget them.”
He retrieved the bag and followed her to the door. Even wrestling with her carton, she still had the door open before he got there, and held it for him. Her eyes sparkled. “Just being courteous,” she said as he approached.
He stepped outside, and Ashley called over her shoulder to let the workers know that she’d be leaving. She clutched the box to her chest as though it was a precious treasure. Which, to her, he assumed, it was. He figured she wouldn’t let him carry it, so he didn’t bother to offer. With a silent apology to his mother, he got in his car. But instead of heading home to the Jacuzzi he’d been thinking about since noon, he went back to the station.
The door to the detective’s office was half-open. Kovak sat behind his desk, his fingers tapping the computer keyboard. Scott sucked in a breath and tapped on the door frame. “You have a minute?”
Kovak looked up, then grinned. “Sure. Take a load off.” He gestured to a wooden chair across the desk.
Scott gave up hiding his aches and pains. Adjusting the chair so he could extend his leg, he eased himself onto the seat. “Thanks. I talked to Ashley about the desserts. She’ll be glad to contribute.”
Kovak opened a desk drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope. He reached in and handed Scott forty dollars. “Great. Hope this’ll cover it. If she needs more, let me know.”
“She didn’t want to take any money at all. Said she was experimenting with recipes and was glad for the exposure. I told her cops couldn’t accept gifts—at least we couldn’t at County.”
“Yeah, same here.”
When Scott asked him about discount coupons, Kovak didn’t think the rule extended that far, and Scott figured that was good enough for him.
“I’ll let you get back to your paperwork,” Scott said. “That’s something I don’t miss.”
“I’ll be done in a few. Want to grab a quick beer?”
Scott noticed the picture of two smiling children, clearly related to Kovak. “You don’t have to get home to the family?”
“Soccer practice. Janie’s running car pool. My job is to pick up a pizza for dinner. And there’s usually time for a beer while I wait.”
“In that case, sure.” If Kovak’s agenda was to rub elbows with a hero, then Scott had no qualms about having an agenda of his own.
***
Ashley struggled to turn her recalcitrant shopping cart down the aisle of Thriftway. Did they manufacture these things to insist on going either left or right, but never straight ahead? Intent on steering, she didn’t see a cart making the turn from the other direction and couldn’t stop before clipping it.
“Sorry,” Ashley said with an apologetic smile. “These things are impossible to maneuver, aren’t they?”
“You! What are you doing here?”
Ashley snapped her gaze to the woman pushing the loaded cart. Felicity Markham stood there, frowning.
“I’m sorry, Felicity. I should have been paying more attention to where I was going.”
“Never mind.” Felicity did a respectable one-eighty with her cart and sped away.
Shaking her head, Ashley continued her shopping. When she arrived at the checkout lines, she scanned them, hoping to avoid another confrontation, but Felicity was either still shopping or had already checked out.
Ashley paid for her purchases, looking forward to getting home and unwinding over some baking. The berries had looked like so many sparkling jewels in the produce section, and she decided she’d make a glazed almond torte and garnish it with raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries.
Carrying the last of her bags up to her apartment, she paused as she passed Scott’s apartment, as she had on each trip. She dreamed up excuses to knock. Advice about what the cops wanted? No, being new, he probably didn’t know, and she’d already had her menu items planned. Tell him she needed a taste tester? Well, maybe later, when she actually had something for him to taste.
No. she had too much to deal with, and didn’t need distractions. And Scott would definitely be a distraction. She went to her apartment and set to work.
Surprised to find it was almost midnight, Ashley shut down her computer and put all her bakeoff paperwork into a folder. Still too wired to sleep, she poured a glass of wine, hoping it would help her unwind. She tried to avoid breaking out into a huge grin every time she saw her chef’s coat draped over the back of her couch where she’d laid it after pressing out all the wrinkles. Tempted to sleep in it, she decided she really didn’t like ironing enough to deal with it again.
She crawled into bed with her wine and the romance novel she’d picked up while she was at the Book Worm, hoping between the two of them, they’d unplug her brain. Eventually, she drifted off.
Ashley awakened slowly from an erotic dream, surprisingly aroused. Distant sounds filtered through the fog of sleep. Moans and groans interspersed with shouts. Her head cleared enough to realize her brain must have connected thoughts of the romance novel she’d fallen asleep reading with the sounds from next door. The moans grew louder, the shouts more intense. Maybe it wasn’t sex after all. Then again, some people liked it rough. Maybe her first impression of the handcuffs on Scott’s robe had been the right one.
Consenting adults. None of her business.
Blocking the images, she shoved a pillow over her ears.
A pounding broke through her consciousness. Groggy, she tried to place the sound. Someone at her door. She grabbed the pillow and rolled over, clutching it to her chest as she squinted at the bedside clock. Not even five a.m. Who would be pounding on her door at this hour?
Adrenaline swept through her system as her brain cleared. Nobody, that’s who. Unless it was an emergency. Was the building on fire? Wouldn’t the smoke alarms be blasting?
Grabbing a robe, she worked her arms into the sleeves while rushing to the door. “Who’s there?”
“Pine Hills Police, ma’am. May I come in?”
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Her mind whirled. What could the police be doing here? Her first thoughts shot straight to her parents. Had something happened to them? Would the Pittsburgh police have sent the Pine Hills cops to notify her? She yanked the door open.
A uniformed officer stood in the hallway. “Ashley Eagan? I’m Officer Brody. Pine Hills Police.”
“Yes?”
“May I come in?”
“What happened?”
“You’re the owner on record for the new store on Plum Street? Confections by Ashley, is that correct?”
What now? She remembered Willie saying the Klutz Brigade would work extra hours to finish on time. Another accident? Carl hadn’t called. Something serious, or why else would she be inviting a policeman into her apartment at five in the morning? “Yes, that’s my shop.”
Before he stepped inside, another voice intruded. “Is there a problem, officer?”
Ashley sidestepped so she could see beyond the officer who now blocked her doorway. Scott approached, hair mussed, shirtless, a damp towel draped around his hips, looking like he hadn’t slept. Remembering her dream and the noises, Ashley felt heat rise to her face. She had trouble meeting his eyes, but staring at his bare chest—a very nice chest, well-muscled, with a light dusting of pale gold hair pointing down to the towel—didn’t work either, because all she could think of was what was under the terrycloth. Instead, she focused her gaze on the officer.
Scott stepped closer, adjusting the towel. His posture straightened. He met Officer Brody’s gaze. “I’m Scott Whelan. I live next door.”
The cop’s eyes narrowed. Ashley sensed that male alpha dog syndrome brewing. Clearly Officer Brody thought Scott should be more submissive. Scott didn’t back down, despite the fact that a uniform trumped a towel—at least in her mind. Scott didn’t seem to agree. But he broke eye contact and looked at her. “You’re not obligated to answer his questions.”
Ashley tugged at her hair. “He hasn’t asked me anything. Not really, anyway. Only if I own my bakery—which I do. And he hasn’t told me anything either.” She switched her attention to the officer. “Has there been another accident? Is there an emergency? Should I get down there?”
