n. The soft inner part of a loaf of bread or cake.
Jackson
* * *
"How do you bake here?" I asked. Wearing only my boxers and the lazy grin of a guy who just had incredible sex, I stretched out my arms, almost certain I'd be able to touch two walls from the center of Annette's apartment. I couldn't but I wasn't far off. "It's…it's tiny."
Annette's home was just like her: small, pink, and hemmed in with some awkward ceiling angles. And there were flamingos everywhere. Embroidered on little pillows, printed on mugs, painted in watercolor. The short, silky robe she was wearing.
"It's not that bad," she argued, twisting her hair up into a bun. "It works for me."
The kitchen and living room were separated by nothing more than a big footstep, and the dining room was a corner. Her queen-sized bed was tucked into an alcove to create the illusion of privacy. As much as I liked her, it wasn't big enough for the two of us. Or, more specifically, it wasn't big enough for me. That, and I kept knocking my head on the sloped ceiling.
"Your stove, it's tiny. The oven, too." I motioned toward the miniature appliances, the ones I'd expect to find in a child's play house. "How do you bake here? It must've taken you hours to bake all those muffins."
"Not really." She shrugged and moved toward the refrigerator. Also child-sized. "How about…hmm. Let's see what we have in here."
She opened the door and peered in while she stroked the top of her foot against the back of her calf. This common movement was sensual and intimate, and it had me crossing the room in two steps to wrap my arms around her waist.
"Hello there." She dragged her nails down my forearm. Loved that sensation. "You just can't leave me alone around refrigerators, can you?"
Kissing her neck, I murmured, "So what?"
"Just an observation," Annette replied with a laugh. She bent at the waist, forcing her backside against my cock. Without conscious thought, my hands shifted to her waist and my hips rocked forward. "Fridges really turn you on, huh?"
"It has nothing to do with the appliances," I said, a low growl rumbling in my throat. "All about you."
She didn't say anything for a long moment and I forced myself to be still, even as I craved her friction. Then, "I have cheese, rye bread, too. I made it the other night so it's not the freshest but it's good. I know I shouldn't keep it chilled but it's been so warm recently. It would've turned stale and moldy in a hot minute if I didn't refrigerate it. I also have a Sussex pond pudding with apples but that recipe didn't turn out anything like I anticipated."
I didn't know what Sussex pond pudding was and I wasn't about to ask. "Rye bread it is," I said.
"I have beer, too," she offered. "Grab some, will you?"
Our arms loaded down with bread, its accompaniments, and beer, we returned to her bedroom. The blankets and pillows were in a heap on the floor and the top sheet clung to a single corner but we nestled in with our snacks, no care for the linens.
Annette handed me a slice of bread topped with a hunk of cheddar, a dollop of sweet, spicy mustard. It looked like art. Everything she did was beautiful, thoughtfully precise. For the first time in my life, I wanted to stop what I was doing and photograph the food I was about to eat because sharing this with everyone seemed necessary. I wanted to say, "My lady made this. She made it from scratch. Isn't she something?"
And it didn't escape my notice that she served me before fixing her own slice. That was Annette's way.
"Is that okay?" she asked, pointing toward the bread. The bread I'd been staring at for a solid minute while I fantasized about Instagram captions. "I can make you a slice without mustard."
I leaned over, kissed her temple. "It's great," I said. "It's the prettiest piece of bread I've ever seen."
"Thank you for that but it's not particularly pretty," she said. "I didn't score the dough correctly and the bake was a bit uneven. I think the loaf was too big for my oven so the heat didn't distribute effectively."
"You know my oven's huge," I said, working damn hard to hit that innuendo. "You're welcome to it any time."
"Your oven is amazing," she said with a breathy sigh. My cock was interpreting that sigh as a point in its favor and I took no issue with that. "But, you know, that's—it's very nice of you to offer."
"But?" I prompted.
She was busy assembling her own slice. "But I can get along fine with my own," she said. "I don't want to trouble you."
"What troubles me is you leaving your home open for anyone to walk in," I said.
"Oh, stop it," she said, waving away my concern. "Nothing like that happens in the Cove."
I traced the line of her jaw with my index finger, drawing her toward me. "That's what everyone says until something happens. Don't leave your front door open all day, Annette. Don't leave the back door to the shop open either."
"Jackson, I've lived here my entire life. I know this town inside and out. You could blindfold me and drop me in the woods at midnight, and I'd find my way home without a scrape. Hell, I can identify most of the residents by the way they jingle coins in their pockets." She pinned me with a sharp look. "I know this town."
My finger still on her chin, I said, "I don't doubt that. I don't doubt you, beautiful. But I know a few things, too, and this town isn't as safe as you think it is."
She blinked, nodded. A flash of surprise passed through her eyes. "Okay. I'll work on it."
"And I'm getting you a can of pepper spray. You're going to keep it with you." I kissed her then, mostly because I couldn't get enough of her lips but also to head off her disagreement.
When we parted, Annette reached for the beer bottles on the window ledge. She passed one to me before taking a long drink from hers.
"What made you come here?" She ran the back of her spoon over the slice of bread, distributing the mustard to every corner. There was an eroticism to her ministrations, something captivating about the capable way her hands moved. "What about Talbott's Cove appealed to you?"
I felt my cock lengthening, hardening as I watched her drizzle more mustard over the slab of cheddar. Why was mustard drizzling sexy? What was it about the way she twirled that spoon over the bread and cheese that made me think of the kind of sex that resulted in broken bedsprings and scratched backs? It took real effort to respond to her question when I wanted to force her legs apart and taste her sweetness.
"I field this question a fair amount," I managed.
"I'm sorry," she said, biting into her slice. "I didn't mean to pry."
"No, it's fine. I like it when you pry. Talbott's Cove isn't the kind of town that brings in a lot of newcomers, and people are curious," I said. I sampled my bread—heaven. I still wanted to feast on Annette but that would keep while we talked. "I usually tell people that I wanted to work in a town where I'd know all the residents."
"But that's not the truth?" She licked a spot of mustard off her thumb and I couldn't hold back my growl. "Or, not the entire truth?"
"Yeah, not the whole truth," I admitted, staring at my beer. The beer wasn't licking its thumb or sitting cross-legged in a short robe with nothing but skin beneath. The beer was safe. "The whole truth isn't a good look for a sheriff."
"I'm sure it's a good look for the man I'm sleeping with," she said.
"Is that what I am?" I squinted at her, not understanding her. "Is that all?"
Her words, they stung a bit. I didn't want them to but they did. I didn't know what I wanted her to say but I wanted to be more than the man she was sleeping with. And I would be. It was just going to take some time.
"Tell me your story," Annette insisted, patting my knee. "We'll save the labels for later. They go better with breakfast. I'll make you some cinnamon rolls with fresh caramel sauce."
"Fuck, yes," I said, laying both hands over my belly. "All right, well, since cinnamon rolls are on the line, I better get on with this." I laced my fingers around the bottle and stared at the ceiling, silent for a long moment as I gathered the words. "There was a missing persons case
a few years back. A little boy disappeared, and the circumstances were highly suspicious. Conflicting stories from the parents, physical evidence that couldn't be explained away. Something about that case stuck with me. I couldn't let it go. Even when the evidence dried up and the trail went cold, I couldn't stop thinking about that kid and the gut sense that someone who knew him did something terrible to him. It kept me up at nights, interfered with my cases, drove me damn near crazy."
"That's awful," she murmured. "I'm so sorry, Jackson."
I forced down a mouthful of beer, trying to push images of the crime scene from my mind. Tried, failed. This job had a way of changing people, and that case changed me.
"It hit me hard when his body was discovered. Harder when the forensic evidence pointed toward the father," I said.
I'd never forget the anger that flashed through me like a bomb blast after finding that boy's remains. The anger stayed with me, too. Followed me around for weeks, months. I'd always accepted that some violence was senseless but I couldn't accept this. For a time, I doubted whether I wanted to live in a world with the kind of savagery that had killed that boy.
"It hit me harder than any other murder investigation. I had some time off shortly after that. If I was smart, I would've seen the department's counselor and got my head straightened out, but I didn't. I hopped in my truck and drove east until I hit the ocean. Then, I headed north. It was an unintentionally scenic road trip through Rhode Island, Massachusetts, New Hampshire. I stopped in small towns along the coast, and by the time I crossed the border into Maine, I knew I needed to get out of the city for good. Part of it was the case. The other part of it was realizing I did want to work in a town where I knew every single resident."
"One small step toward saving the next kid?" she asked.
I blew out a breath but didn't respond until Annette ran her fingertips down my arm. "I realize that I can't prevent every crime, but in a town like this, I can keep an eye out for the signs." I shifted to the side, gazing at Annette. "What makes you stay here?"
A deep laugh rumbled up from her belly. "When I'm not chasing after unavailable men and getting sloppy drunk and generally embarrassing the hell out of myself, I like it here. I like the people, the community, the way this place changes slowly but surely."
"Why are you still beating yourself up about that?" I asked. I dropped my hand on her thigh, needing some physical connection to her.
She avoided my gaze as she worked on another round of rye bread extravaganzas. "Because I'm probably banned from The Galley for life and I acted like an emotionally unstable drunk girl, and both of those things are embarrassing."
"That's not what I'm talking about," I said. "I think you know that."
Annette turned back toward me, a slice of bread in her outstretched hand. "Because I'm not so different from the town, Jackson. I change slowly but surely."
15
Creaming
v. Beating sugar and softened butter together to form a lighter, aerated mixture.
Annette
* * *
August peaches were the best peaches.
This was the first summer I was paying attention to peach quality but I knew this month's crop was as good as it got. Last month's peaches—the one that ended up down my dress—didn't compare to the beauties coming out now. Since they were so damn good, I couldn't stop testing new recipes. My kitchen was filled to the rafters with cobblers and crumbles, crostatas and cakes. And that didn't include the pastries I'd distributed around town.
I'd shipped a peach and almond tart off to Brooke's house on Monday and a peach and raspberry yogurt cake to the Fitzsimmonses on Tuesday. Jackson took a basket of cinnamon peach turnovers to the station on Wednesday and my sales clerk Jane got a peach and blueberry bread pudding on Thursday.
It was hard to believe I'd baked this much in one week. It helped that I had Jackson hauling in big sacks of sugar and flour for me and washing the dishes while my creations were in the oven.
As much I adored the kitchen at his house, I never managed to bring all the things I needed. Either it was the good sifter or the board scraper I always misplaced, or the paring knife I liked better than the rest. There was always something missing.
That was part of the reason I ended up back at my apartment after baking at Jackson's house. The other part was my own crazy mind game where I refused to accept I was falling for him but inventing a world of feelings based on good sex and well washed dishes. That crazy mind game was cool with the sex and the dishes but everything came to a screeching halt at the notion of spending the night at Jackson's house. That was the hard limit, the third rail.
It didn't make sense but neither did my fantasy relationship with Owen.
I allowed myself to believe it didn't have to make sense. Love didn't make sense. Hell, life didn't make sense. Why did my thoughts have to follow a logical sequence? They didn't and it wasn't worth my time to dwell on the roundabouts and contradictions in my head. Not when I could enjoy the time we had together and hope it all worked out for the best.
I hadn't planned on baking this afternoon but a thunderstorm rolled in and canceled my beach plans. I didn't take many days off from the shop but liked to reserve some Fridays and Saturdays throughout the summer. Not always the whole day but even a few hours away was worth it. Good for my tan, better for my soul.
I washed the frosting from my fingers and dried my hands on a towel while inspecting my latest bake, brown butter peach cupcakes. They stood in neat rows and columns on my cooling racks, perfect rosettes of luscious peach-scented cream cheese frosting on top.
I studied them for a moment, my hands still curled around the dish towel, then glanced to the clock. Jackson was still at the station. He'd be there a little while longer.
I stepped toward the window and looked to the sky. Only drizzle and lake-sized puddles remained. The worst of the storm was on its way north.
Seemed like the right time to deliver a snack.
I knocked on the door to Jackson's office and wiggled the glass container filled with cupcakes when I poked inside.
My stars, he was a sight. Legs open as if he was giving a master class in manspreading, his tan uniform trousers pulled taut over his tree trunk thighs. Phone pressed tucked between his ear and shoulder, a pen trapped in one hand, the other wrapped around the nape of his neck. With his arm bent behind his head and that short-sleeved sheriff's department shirt, it looked like his bicep was carved from stone. And now that I'd caught his attention, his dark gaze traveled over me, his eyebrow arched.
Jackson beckoned me closer as I shut the door behind me. He usually kept his door ajar but if history was any guide, we'd want it closed. The station was mostly empty but Cindy was out there and I wasn't taking any chances.
"Are you sure?" I whispered, pointing to the bullpen behind me. "I can come back later."
"Don't you dare leave," he said, his hand over the mouthpiece. His tongue poked out, tracing his lip as he studied my white sundress printed with green palm fronds. "Stay. Let me finish up this conference call but stay."
I moved toward the open chairs but he shook his head and motioned for me to come around the side of his desk. He repeated the gesture when I stood there, staring at him.
"Why am I going over there?" I asked.
"Because I want you over here," he mouthed.
With a saucy smirk, I rounded Jackson's desk and handed him the cupcakes. "Thought you might need a treat." I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back against his desk, waiting for his reaction.
He didn't open the container. Instead, he set it aside and tapped his palm against the wooden surface of his desk. "Sit," he ordered. I gave him an are you serious? head tilt but he tapped the desk again. "Sit."
With an exaggerated eyeroll, I edged myself onto the surface. Jackson responded by grabbing me by the hips and dropping me right in front of him. He leaned back in his seat, his jaw tight and his eyes hooded as he looked me up and down. It felt like an
appraisal. Then he nodded, brought his free hand to my ankle. His thumb stroked half moons into my skin.
"Eat," I said, my fingers drumming on the lid.
Jackson glanced at the container but responded with a curt shake of his head. I loved his stern sheriff vibe. He was such a soft, sweet teddy bear under the stares and head shakes and that made me love the stern even more.
I watched while he listened to the call, his brows sliding together or climbing up his forehead in reaction. Every few minutes he'd chime in with a comment or reach for his pen and scribble on the pad beside me. At one point, he scowled at the phone, rolled his eyes, and then dropped his head back against the chair.
Definitely time for a treat.
I pried open the container and scooped a dollop of frosting off the lid. I held out my finger to him, not at all surprised when he curled his hand around my wrist, tugged me forward, and licked every drop of frosting. His teeth scraped over the pad of my finger, sending electricity up my spine and through my limbs.
"You were in the kitchen without me," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the inside of my wrist.
"Don't worry," I replied. "I left all the dishes in the sink."
Jackson dipped his chin as his dark gazed settled on me. "Good girl," he mouthed.
Was it any wonder I couldn't keep my undies up around this man?
He reached for his pen, poised to write something, but then dropped it to the pad. "Thank you. I appreciate any insight the Bureau can offer on this matter," he said into the phone. "That's all. We'll be in touch if this matter continues to develop. Thank you again."
Jackson slammed the phone down, shot to his feet, and shoved his fingers through my hair.
"Look at you. Coming into my office in your pretty little dress with all your sweetness. Sitting on my desk like an angel waiting for permission to sin. Just look at you."
His lips hovered over mine as he watched me, waiting for a reaction.
Hard Pressed Page 14
