In Seconds

by Brenda Novak

  Why was she so skittish?

  He might’ve guessed that he intimidated her. Police officers got that reaction sometimes. It came with the uniform. But at six foot two, he was only four inches taller. And maybe she was slender, but she was fit. She didn’t seem like the type to feel easily threatened.

  Besides, he’d been so nice to her! He rolled her garbage can to the curb if she forgot to set it out, mowed her lawn when he mowed his, bought enough fresh strawberries to share (he’d once overheard her telling her son that she loved fresh strawberries). He couched it all as an attempt to be neighborly, and it was—being neighborly to the beautiful brunette, who was no longer a brunette, next door. But nothing he did seemed to break down her defenses. Her kids were always excited to see him, but other than those strawberries or something as small as that, she politely declined every gift or invitation.

  His instincts told him he was better off not getting involved with her. But he could sense the chemistry between them, and that was what confused him. He’d never forget the time he was working in the yard without a shirt and caught her watching him from where she was weeding her garden. It was as if a lightning bolt had gone through them both, incinerating them on the spot.

  He knew desire when he saw it; she was as attracted to him as he was to her. So why wouldn’t she let him take her to dinner?

  “Can I help you?” Determined not to try any harder than he already had, Myles kept one hand on the door. It’d been a hell of a day. The last thing he needed was to top it off with another dose of sexual frustration.

  “Um, yes…maybe you can.” She cleared her throat. “I’m afraid my fridge has gone out.”

  The images of blood and death he’d seen earlier still filled his head, making it difficult to immediately comprehend her words. He’d returned from the scene of Pat Stueben’s murder more than an hour ago, but he’d carried the grisly sight home with him. The fact that anyone would beat a good man, a friend to everyone, in Myles’s own backyard, so to speak, made him so angry he couldn’t think of anything else. “Did you say your fridge?” he clarified.

  “Yes.”

  He felt his eyebrows go up. “Okay…”

  “It went on the blink a couple of hours ago and… Claire told me you’re a better handyman than Byron Jacobs.” She flashed him a quick smile. “She said he had to call you when he couldn’t fix her stove last month.”

  She was here for a favor? She never darkened his door, except to drag her son away. Jake slipped over whenever he could. The kid liked to follow him around, even help with the yard work, so Myles had been training him to use the weeder, the edger and the pruning shears.

  But he wasn’t in the business of fixing other people’s broken appliances. He’d done Claire a favor. He wouldn’t mind lending Vivian a hand, too, but it’d taken him three days to screw up the nerve to ask her if she’d go out on the lake with him two weeks ago. And her response? She had to clean her house—an excuse that was almost as bad as telling him she had to wash her hair.

  He opened his mouth to turn her away. He was about to say the food would last until Byron could get to it in the morning. But he couldn’t make himself go through with it, which just proved how obsessed with her he’d become. His wife had died of cancer only three years ago—but thirty-six months of celibacy felt a lot longer to his body than his heart. Not only that, this was the first time Vivian had invited him inside her home. From what he could tell, she didn’t ask anyone in. Except maybe Claire and Vera Soblasky, who occasionally watched Jake and Mia for her.

  Curious to see how she lived, he heard himself accept. “Sure. I can come over right now, if you want.”

  “Marley won’t mind?” she asked.

  His daughter had a friend over; they were watching a movie upstairs on the big screen in his room. They wouldn’t miss him if he stepped out for a few minutes. “No. She’ll be fine.”

  Vivian’s face lit up. “Great. Thank you so much.”

  When that rare smile shot like an arrow to his groin, Myles cursed the testosterone that made him so…male. He had single women coming on to him all the time, but he wasn’t interested in them. Instead, he wanted this complicated neighbor who’d let him know in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t welcome him even as a friend.

  But tonight she needed help. And he was planning to make sure she got it. Apparently even the gruesome murder of an upstanding Pineview citizen couldn’t lessen her impact on him. “I’ll grab my toolbox and come over.”

  2

  Vivian sat at the kitchen table while the sheriff unplugged her fridge and tore apart the motor. She hadn’t been sure he’d agree to help, but now that he had, she hoped he wouldn’t be able to tell she’d sabotaged it herself. She also hoped the job would take long enough to strike up more than a superficial conversation with him. It hadn’t required much effort to cripple her fridge. She’d yanked out a few wires and was afraid he’d simply reconnect them before she could learn anything about Pat Stueben’s murder, see if he had any idea who might be responsible.

  “Kids in bed already?” he asked as he worked.

  “Yeah. They’re usually out by nine.” He looked better in a pair of jeans than any man had a right to. She tried not to let her gaze drop to the assets those jeans displayed, but it wasn’t easy. She hadn’t allowed herself to get this close to a man in the two years she’d been living in Pineview—especially a man who made her so aware that she’d soon be heading to bed alone. Just like every other night.

  “What do you do after they’re asleep?”

  A screw fell to the floor. She bent to pick it up so he wouldn’t see the warm blush that’d infused her cheeks. “Work. The hours from nine to one are my most productive.”

  “You must not get much sleep. Not with kids who wake up at…what, eight?”

  “Or earlier.” She rolled her eyes for emphasis.

  “Where’s Jake and Mia’s father?”

  He’d spoken conversationally but this was information he and almost everyone in town had been dying to get out of her since she’d moved here. They didn’t like how closed off she was; they weren’t used to it. But she hadn’t revealed any details about her ex so far, and she wasn’t starting now. If she didn’t give Pineview’s good citizens a loose thread to tug on, they couldn’t unravel the whole ball. “He’s no longer part of our lives.” And that’s all I’ve got to say on the subject. She didn’t add that, but her tone implied it.

  “I see.” If he was offended by her clipped response, he didn’t show it. His fingers brushed hers as he took the screw and her stomach did an inconvenient little somersault. “So once they go to bed, you design purses?”

  He smelled like soap. She wondered if he’d come home and showered. Probably. Anybody would want to wash after seeing what he’d seen. She knew because she’d watched two men gunned down four years ago. In some ways, it seemed as if eons had passed since that night. She’d come so far since then, had changed so much. In other ways, it felt like only yesterday, as if the horrifying sights and sounds of those murders were forever etched onto her brain and would stay there, as vivid and constant as the moment it happened.

  Myles had stopped to look at her; she hadn’t answered. “I do some designing, yes. I also handle orders, do the accounting, check out my competition or look at the photographs for my new catalog.” Or, occasionally, Claire talked her into taking the night off and watching a movie. “I’ve got more than enough to stay busy.”

  “Your job is unusual for someone living in the wilds of Montana.” He put the screw she’d picked up in his back pocket and she had to fight to keep her gaze from lowering to his ass. “How’d you get into designing?”

  Although they’d never discussed this—they typically exchanged nothing beyond a few pleasantries—she was fairly sure he’d heard the story through the grapevine. That much of her past she’d already divulged. But if he wanted to make small talk while she waited for an opening to bring up the murder, she had no objections.
He didn’t seem to think there was anything strange about what had happened to the fridge, thank God. “I entered a contest sponsored by Coach purses and Vogue magazine while I was living on the East Coast and—” she shrugged “—my design won.”

  The interest in his green, brown-flecked eyes felt as good as a long massage. Maybe it was the two glasses of wine she’d drunk to get up the nerve to go next door, but a warm tingle swept through her whenever he looked up or smiled. She missed having a man in her life. She hadn’t realized how much.

  “Were you surprised?” he asked.

  “Shocked.” Even that was an understatement. Other than the births of her children, winning that contest was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  “To what do you attribute your success?”

  To an intense fascination with fashion and design. To watching every show there was on the topic. To reading all the beauty magazines. To trial and error. She was self-educated, but careful not to miss the tiniest detail. She had too many handicaps to overcome, she couldn’t afford to be halfhearted or sloppy. But exposing the desperation that had fueled her dream seemed too personal. “Luck,” she said to make it simple.

  “That contest must’ve opened the right doors.”

  “It did. Coach asked me for other samples of my work, so I quickly came up with a few.”

  “They liked those, too?”

  “Even more than the one that was selected as the winner.”

  “You must have natural talent.”

  With the kids asleep, the clock ticking rhythmically above the sink and the wine circulating in her blood, it was easy to let down her guard enough to enjoy his company. “That’s what my boss at Coach said when he offered me a job. Before I went out on my own.”

  “Had you been to fashion school?”

  She laughed out loud. There’d been no time or money for that. “No.”

  “Where did you go to college?”

  Her levity vanished. Inevitably one question led to another. And so much of her past was too painful to talk about, or would be too dangerous to reveal. That isolated her from others, kept her from being able to connect…?. “I didn’t.”

  Once again, he paused. “You didn’t have the opportunity?”

  “No.” She jerked her head toward the fridge. “That looks pretty complicated. Have you ever fixed one before?”

  Taking the hint, he continued working. “Actually, I have.”

  “Did they teach you that at the police academy?” She grinned to make up for her coolness. Prickly wasn’t her true nature. It was a learned response, the only way she could create the space and privacy necessary to function somewhat normally.

  He changed the head on his electric screwdriver. “Not quite. My father was an attorney, but he was raised by the most frugal individual on earth. Fortunately, he didn’t turn out to be quite as tightfisted as his old man, but he refused to hire anyone to fix what we could learn to fix for him. He believed boys should grow up to be self-reliant. And there were four of us, so he had a lot of ready labor.” He raised his voice to compensate for the hum of the screwdriver. “He’d find broken garbage disposals, toasters, fans—you name it—at the dump and haul them home just to make us fix them.”

  “What’d you do with those things after you got them working? Four boys could potentially fix quite a few toasters.”

  “We’d sell some.”

  She could picture him in a household of rough-and-tumble brothers. With his charm and energy, she guessed he’d be right in the thick of trouble. “And the others?”

  “We’d give them to the poor. Until I got into college, anyway. Then I was ‘the poor,’” he said with a chuckle. “I survived and paid my tuition by fixing various appliances. And cars. When I turned sixteen, my dad had a tow truck deliver an old clunker for me to rebuild. That was my birthday present.” He gave her the crooked smile that had half the women in Pineview swooning over him. “Now I love to tinker.”

  Trying not to be taken in by that smile, Vivian leaned against the edge of the table. “Is that what you do in your garage late at night?”

  She’d often seen the light seeping out from under his garage door. When she stepped onto the screened-in porch in the middle of a dark and silent night, she sometimes heard the whine of his power tools—even though quite a bit of space separated her home from his. Enough for two old sheds and a large garden, and that was just on her side. On his property, an expansive deck and party-type barbecue area took up most of the back and side yards. She’d never known him to use it, though—and she would’ve noticed since there was no fence. She was pretty sure he’d built it as a gift to his wife. She’d heard from Claire and the other women who liked to discuss the handsome sheriff that he’d finished it shortly before Amber Rose passed away, and then couldn’t bear to see it once she was gone.

  “I’m restoring an old Ducati,” he explained.

  “A Ducati’s a…car?” When he glanced at her, she couldn’t help wondering whether he liked her new haircut. He hadn’t mentioned it, despite the fact that it was now as short as his.

  “Motorcycle.”

  Briefly it occurred to her that Jake might have seen it. Was this one of the marvels that drew him next door?

  She didn’t ask, didn’t want to acknowledge her neighbor’s massive appeal to her nine-year-old, or all the manly activities and shared interests Myles could offer Jake that she could not. “How long does a project like that take?”

  “Depends. I’ve been at it for six months, but it should’ve been done already.” A dimple appeared in his cheek. “I haven’t made a concerted effort.”

  Maybe there was a reason for that. Maybe he was afraid to finish for fear there’d be nothing left to distract him during those lonely hours. Sometimes she’d slip out, hoping to hear him working so she’d know she wasn’t the only one walking the floor while the rest of the world slept. If he wasn’t in the garage, she’d occasionally spot him sitting on his porch, drinking a cup of coffee or tea. He’d stay there for some time, even in the dead of winter, staring into the inky blackness. She’d stay, too, until he went inside. She could feel the hole his wife’s death had left in his life, knew he missed Amber Rose. But Vivian was too attracted to him, and too afraid of where it might lead, to lend him more support than these secret vigils.

  “Are you almost done with it?” she asked.

  “Getting close.”

  “Will you keep it or sell it?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  Vivian was about to bring up the murder, but he spoke before she could. “Are you glad you branched out on your own?”

  Cursing herself for not jumping in sooner, she forced a smile. “Definitely.”

  “Why’d you leave Coach?” He was on his hands and knees so he could reach whatever he needed in the motor.

  “I wanted more artistic freedom and control, and that meant establishing a separate brand.” She’d also had to quit, but she couldn’t tell him that. There was no way to keep her job and assume a new identity. “It’s a little lonely being such a small enterprise. I have only three employees who run my showroom in New York. But we’re starting to grow.”

  “Did you ever consider using your name, like so many other designers?”

  Which name? Certainly not her real one. She had to stay behind the scenes or run the risk of putting her life, not to mention her kids’ lives, in jeopardy. She had Colleen Turnbull, her most experienced employee, handle all media appearances. “No, to me Big Sky Bags lent itself to a certain look and a certain feel, which was more in keeping with the type of brand I was hoping to create.”

  He held up one part of whatever made her fridge work. It wasn’t the part she’d damaged, fortunately. “This fridge isn’t that old. I’m surprised it’s giving you trouble already.”

  Planning to place the blame on rats or precocious children once he diagnosed the problem, she mumbled something about having bought a lemon and got him a paper towel so could set the p
art on the floor.

  “How long have you been out on your own?” he asked.

  “Since forever.”

  When he twisted around to look at her, she wondered why she’d said that. He’d asked in regard to her business. But she was just so tired of having the same superficial conversations with everyone. She wanted to go deeper, to really talk to another human being—to talk to him—but she couldn’t. She had to watch herself even with Claire. She couldn’t trust anyone.

  “Care to elaborate on that?” His voice suggested he understood her desire to open up and welcomed the honesty, but she already knew she could say no more.

  “No. Sorry. It’s the wine.” She waved an apologetic hand. “I started Big Sky Bags the minute I moved here.”

  She could sense his reluctance to let the more personal comment go, but to his credit he didn’t pry. And for that, she was grateful. Her brother constantly warned her, in almost every one of his weekly emails, that she couldn’t trust anyone. Especially a cop, who had access to far more information than the average Joe.

  “Isn’t it tough to succeed as a designer when you’re so far from New York City and all your competitors?”

  It was hard. For months she’d been afraid that she’d taken too much of a gamble when she launched Big Sky Bags. But a lot of designers lived west of the Rockies. Like her, they had their showrooms, their PR companies and their ad agencies in New York and their warehouses in New Jersey, but so many things could be done over the internet these days that it worked. Although she’d initially planned on running her business exclusively on the internet, and had been managing in just that way for two years, her designs were gaining popularity among a few influential fashionistas in Los Angeles. In the past three months, several high-end boutiques had begun to stock her purses. She felt encouraged, as if she was entering a whole new phase of her career. It was one of the reasons she’d been so happy recently.