by Lori Foster
Why was she so aloof?
Trailing a good distance behind her, he watched the movement of her toned, shapely legs, the swing of her slim arms and the gentle sway of her round ass. She turned the corner.
Knowing she wouldn’t hear him, not over the rhythmic thwap-thwap-thwap of her sneakers, he picked up his pace.
Did his scar bother her? Sure as hell bothered him, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Well, he’d retired from his position in one of the largest SWAT teams in the country and taken a much less demanding position in southern Ohio. That was something, he supposed. Wouldn’t rid him of the scar, but maybe it’d keep him from getting more.
Thinking about that day and the changes he made always left him hyperaware of the memory, the people who had died—and the people who had lived.
He touched his face where the scar cut across his cheek from his temple to the corner of his mouth.
Stopping suddenly, she turned and looked right at him.
Nathan dropped his hand and continued jogging.
So did she, but not for long.
She paused at the stop sign to a cross street and turned to face him.
Anticipation crackling, Nathan slowed as he reached her.
The second he was close enough, she demanded, “Are you following me?”
A direct attack. He hadn’t expected that, not when she’d been so cagey previously. Lying, he said, “Just out for a jog.”
She eyed him like she didn’t believe him.
Smart lady. “Do you jog every day?”
“Yes.” She unbent enough to ask, “You?”
He lied again. “Sometimes.” These days he did most of his cardio in the gym in his basement. But he’d always enjoyed jogging, so why not? “What did you say your name is?”
Giving him “the look,” she shook her head. “I never said. And you don’t strike me as the obtuse type, so I’m guessing you already knew that.”
Of course he did, and the curiosity drove him nuts. Hell, he’d thought about her all night. “Is it a secret?”
“No, I just...” Hands on her hips, she looked across the street.
Was she thinking about running? Away from him? Nathan took a step back, ensuring he didn’t crowd her.
She surprised him by holding out a hand. “Brooklin Sweet.”
Warmth uncurled inside him. Trying not to rush her, he gently took her hand. “Nathan Hawley.”
“I remember.” She pulled away. “Your friend introduced you.”
“Hogan.”
“Yes.”
Clipped answers. Trying to get rid of him quickly? Too bad, because he wasn’t in a mood to accommodate her. Perversely, the more remote she acted, the more he dug in. “I’m pleased to meet you, Brooklin.”
Her beautiful eyes stared into his. “Did I have a choice in the matter?”
“I don’t know,” he said, pretending to think about it. “I was pretty determined.”
A smile cracked, but she controlled it. “Nathan.” She spoke gently, as if to a half-wit. “You’re a very handsome man. And clearly successful. Being sheriff, I imagine people fall into line pretty quickly for you.”
Not really. Not in Clearbrook. He could debate the successful part, but he stayed quiet, anxious to hear what else she’d say. He thought it would be just as surprising as the rest of this meeting had so far been.
“Please don’t take it personally. But I really value my privacy right now.”
He lifted a brow.
“I’m not interested in dating.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t recall asking you.”
She almost flinched. “No, you didn’t, did you? That’s good.” She rallied together a look of optimism. “Saves us both the awkwardness—”
“But now that you’ve mentioned it,” he said, cutting her off. He smiled over her groan. “How about a no-pressure, meet-your-neighbor visit? Screwy Louie’s would do. Lunch, or maybe dinner?”
“Has a woman ever told you no?”
“Often. It’s never as much fun as yes.”
Her mouth twitched. “You’re dangerous.”
Hands up, he denied that. “Swear I’m not. I’m the sheriff, you know. I have to be on the up-and-up.” When she looked ready to bolt again, he said, “Odd. Your eyes look much darker with the sun behind you.” Almost like whiskey, instead of topaz. But that sounded absurdly poetic, so he kept the description to himself.
“How tall are you?” Staring up at him, she said, “I’m five-eight, not exactly petite, but you still tower over me. I’m thinking six-two?”
Wondering at that observation, he shrugged. “About that.” In case she wanted all his stats, he added, “I’m thirty-four, a hundred and eighty pounds.”
“What? No credit report? Marital status? Financial statement?”
Nathan laughed. “Never been married, no kids, and I’m financially comfortable. Not rich, so don’t get greedy. But I don’t struggle.”
Brooklin blew out a breath. “I never asked for any of that. My point, if I can remember it now, was that I don’t like men towering over me.”
“You’re into shorter guys, huh?” Maybe he should stoop down a little.
“I’m not into guys at all.”
That brought both his brows up. “Gay?”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “No. Just very uninterested in...” She waved a hand between them. “This.”
“Me?”
“Anyone. For crying out loud, pay attention.”
“Yes, teacher.”
She backstepped, breathed a little faster and said, “I need to go.”
Nathan gestured. “Lead the way.”
“No...” Hand to her temple, she groaned. “Alone. I want you to go away now.”
He would.
For now.
But first... “Just in case you think you can dodge me by jogging in the opposite direction tomorrow—”
The look on her face assured him he’d nailed it.
“—you should know that it’s going to be a nice day, which means Mr. Westbrook will be cutting his grass early. In his Speedo.” He watched her face. “He’s sixty-eight and let’s say he’s on the stocky side.” Very stocky.
Thick lashes lifted. “You’re joking.”
At least she wasn’t so jumpy now. “He claims it keeps his boys healthy, like maybe they need the fresh air, too.”
“His boys?”
“Balls.”
“Oh.” She snickered.
“A few neighbors have complained, but I figured at least he’s wearing the Speedo, right? Even though he somewhat overflows them.” Nathan touched a hand to his own trim middle. “He’s a beer drinker you know, and has the gut to go with it.”
“If I jog your way, will you follow me again?”
Once more direct and to the point. Nathan looked up at a bird on the lamppost near them. “Possibly.” Definitely. He met her worried gaze. “Has this little chat been so painful?”
Brooklin shook her head. “I guess as long as it’s only chatting, it’s okay.”
Headway. He crossed his heart. “Only chatting.” Until she relaxed enough for him to push for more.
* * *
Joni Jeffers was every bit as annoying on Monday as she’d been on Friday. Without an ounce of encouragement from Hogan, she’d set her mind to furthering their association beyond the professional.
She hovered around his desk until Hogan knew he wouldn’t get anything done.
Her continued interruptions for intimate, too-close chitchat, along with his preoccupation worrying over Violet, added to a lack of sleep over the weekend, and he could barely see the numbers in the columns.
He turned his chair to face Jon
i, ignored the few coworkers around them and said, “I was thinking of working from home the rest of the week.”
The way she smiled, you’d think he’d invited her over. “If that’s what you need to do...”
“I’ll get more done there.” And it’d give him time to check on Violet. “I’m missing a few returns, but I’ve already emailed the client. I’ve got the basics down on the restructuring and modernizing of the system used. Everything is online now and I should be able to present it by the end of the week, or next Monday.”
“Did you see any savings?”
“Plenty, actually.”
“Perfect.” She smiled down at him while trailing a finger up and down her cleavage.
Thank God her back was to everyone else.
“You know, Hogan, I might stop by middle of the week just so you can show me everything.”
“I can come back in Friday,” he said quickly. Then, to shore that up—because he seriously didn’t want a surprise visitor—he said, “My son has friends over a lot.” A lot, meaning occasionally. “You know how loud boys can be.”
Her gaze became assessing. “How old did you say he is?”
“Almost eighteen.”
“Closer to a man than a boy now.”
“No.” Hogan didn’t trust Joni, not at all, and he wanted those thoughts out of her head real quick. “He’s still in high school.”
“You weren’t much older than him when you became his father.”
“True. Colt is a hell of a lot smarter than I was.” As he spoke, Hogan gathered up his papers, saved his files and stood.
Joni didn’t back up.
Jesus, half the office—all of five other employees—were watching this farce play out. “I’ll check my email first thing every morning. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“I’ll walk you out,” she said.
Short of telling her to go to hell, what could he do? Is this how women felt when being sexually harassed? No, for a woman it’d probably be worse. After all, Joni didn’t physically threaten him.
She just annoyed the hell out of him.
* * *
Violet wanted to crumble. She wanted to sink down to the floor and put her head on her knees and give in to the need to sleep. Thanks to the meds, her chest didn’t feel quite so tight and the coughing was now at a minimum, but the awful exhaustion remained.
Where had her usual energy gone? After being a complete slug all weekend, having Hogan wait on her—even hold her while she slept—she should have had a little more pep.
To everyone she saw, she explained that she wasn’t contagious, but still, she tried to avoid direct contact with the food and the customers, just so no one would worry.
In a diner, there was always something else to do, and she stayed busy doing it. Too busy.
Once the lunch-hour traffic died down, she decided she could finally head to her office and tackle some paperwork. She was just leaving the seating area when Hogan stepped in.
Doing a double take, she watched him talk with Colt for a bit.
Damn, he was a good dad. Very hands-on and available. So what if he’d had a temporary lapse while chasing tail? Most men she knew made it a lifelong profession, not a temporary anything. And even then, he’d been with Colt a lot.
Just not in the evenings, when he’d spent time in other women’s beds.
She’d bet her last biscuit that he hadn’t slept chastely with any of them, not the way he had with her.
After his private talk with Colt, Hogan looked around, searching, she knew, for her.
Violet didn’t move from her position near the farthest corner booth where she’d been collecting dirty dishes. She’d planned to deposit them to the washer on her way to her office.
Hogan smiled and came her way. When he reached her, he took the heavy tray from her hands.
“How are you feeling?”
“What are you doing here?”
His gaze searched hers. Then he started away, saying, “You first.”
“I’m fine.” Violet hustled along behind him. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“Liar,” he said, almost like a compliment. They were both quiet as he deposited the tray in the commercial sinks where two high school boys worked with awesome efficiency.
It wasn’t until they reached her office that Hogan said, “I’ll be working from home the rest of the week.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re here.” She headed to the chair behind her desk and sank down to sit.
For too long, Hogan studied her.
She fought off a sigh, a frown and a cough. “What?”
“I wanted to check on you.” As if he had every right—and maybe he did after the weekend—he put the back of his hand to her head. “You don’t feel feverish.”
“Not even a little.”
“But you’re still pooped.”
Given she had both elbows propped on her desk to keep her head from hitting the surface, lying would be pointless. “Pretty much.” She forced herself into a more upright position. “But we won’t get that busy again until dinner and I can veg here while doing—” she made a face “—paperwork.”
To her surprise, Hogan looked uncomfortable. It took her about two seconds to realize why, and with renewed energy she rushed to her file cabinet, but the files were gone, just as she’d known they would be. Slowly turning to glare, she whispered, “What did you do?”
“I brought you into the twenty-first century, for one thing.” He took a step toward her, no longer abashed but now righteous. “I streamlined your really shitty records.”
“Hogan—”
“And I started the process for some cost analysis.”
Throwing up her hands, Violet asked, “When the hell did you have time? You spent all your weekend with me!”
“Not all of it. Most, yes, but—”
God, she felt inadequate next to him. Completely, utterly inadequate. “So you...what? In the random fifteen minutes you had free you updated all my bookkeeping?”
“As I said, I haven’t completed it yet, but I’ve made enough headway to know your old accountant sucked. Good riddance to him.”
Violet was barely listening. “I’ll pay you.”
He stiffened.
“What’s your hourly salary? Let me know, and how many hours you spent on it, and I’ll—”
Looking more than a little pissed, he took long steps to reach her, caught her chin and, after scowling fiercely, kissed her.
Oh, he was definitely fired up. Maybe in a good way.
When she didn’t fight him, didn’t lurch away, he lifted his head and stared down at her. Heat lightened the color of his blue eyes and his breath had thickened.
Violet licked her lips, tasting him. But it wasn’t enough. Without really thinking through the obvious consequences, she rested her hands on his chest and leaned closer.
Hogan groaned. By slow degrees he gathered her against his body until they touched from thighs to chests. His attention drifted back and forth from her eyes to her mouth until, finally, his mouth settled on hers again.
Slower this time, more gently.
Far more devastating.
Fisting her hands in his shirt, Violet fitted herself more tightly against him. Oh, she’d known he would be trouble to her senses, but heaven help her, it was even worse than she’d expected. He turned his head, and his tongue touched along her bottom lip. She immediately opened, making her own small, desperate sound of need.
He stroked a hand down her back to her hips, hesitated, then opened his fingers over her backside, cuddling, exploring—
The knock on the door sent them both jumping apart.
Hogan stared at her, unblinking.
“Dad?”
Colt’s voice. Dear God. Violet jerked away, pretending to be busy with her file cabinet. Honestly, she didn’t know what she was doing. Shuffling something...
Behind her, she heard the door open, and then Hogan said, “What’s up?”
“Someone just dropped off a stack of the Clearbrook Trickle. What should I do with them?”
“The what?”
Violet cleared her throat. “How can you have been here so long and not know about the Trickle?”
“What is it?”
Glad to have something to focus on, but keeping her back to them anyway, she explained, “It’s the free community paper. All the various establishments in Clearbrook set them out so the locals can know about any sales, public activities, school calendars and stuff like that. Each week they herald a local citizen for one reason or another, and there’s also this newly added advice column. Very delicious stuff.”
“Advice column?” Hogan asked.
“Yeah. It’s been really fun.” She glanced back at Hogan, and with Colt standing there smiling at her in such a knowing way, she had to fight a blush. “It’s all worded in a way that you’re unsure who is who, you know? You were in it last week. Some lady wanted to know how to convince you to go shirtless.”
She watched his face blanch. Then, amazingly, hot color slashed his cheekbones. “You’re making that up.”
Feeling more herself, now that he was the uncomfortable one, Violet crossed her heart. “Swear it’s true.”
Colt laughed. “Did you keep a copy?”
Of course she had. She opened a lower drawer of the cabinet and withdrew her saved copy, already folded back to the right page. “Here you go, sugar. Bet you didn’t know your old dad was a hottie, did you?”
“Yeah, it’d be hard to miss the way the ladies carry on.” Colt shifted the stack into one arm, and with the other, he skimmed the paper. He read aloud.
“Many denizens of the female variety would like to know how to get a certain barbecue chef to tend his meats...shirtless.”
Hogan looked aggrieved.
“Ladies, I suggest you ask him. It appears he has few boundaries, if all the gossip is true. Or to be more effective, issue the request to the one who employs him. She seems to be a very competent business owner who won’t likely let a promo opportunity go unchecked.”
