The Hunk Next Door

by Debra Webb

  “The present is all we’re guaranteed.”

  The pragmatic philosophy reminded her that she’d likely stirred up a brand-new hornets’ nest before she’d left the station. Tomorrow could very well be her professional downfall if she’d overplayed her hand in that email.

  “How much time before dinner’s ready?”

  She checked her watch. “Fifteen more minutes.”

  “Great. Point me to your decorations and I’ll pull down the boxes.”

  “I can do that tomorrow,” she protested. “You’ve really done enough.”

  “I’m on a roll here,” he said with that dead-sexy grin. “If Mrs. Wilks and I can decorate two trees—”

  “She helped you decorate your tree?” He really had been keeping an eye on the older woman. His kindness created a warmth inside Abby that had been missing in recent weeks.

  “The cookies went to my head,” he replied.

  “Right.” Abby started up the stairs. “I keep the boxes of decorations in the attic.”

  She tried not to think about how close he was as his boots sounded on the steps behind her. The man sent her system into overdrive with just a look. The present is all we’re guaranteed. His words echoed in her head, mocking her, tempting her. If leaving the lasagna wasn’t risking a fire, she might have taken him on an immediate and present detour to her bedroom.

  She pulled down the access door in the ceiling and unfolded the steps. “Christmas boxes are just to the right.”

  Squeezing around him, she headed back downstairs. “Riley?” He paused on the steps. “Thanks.”

  “Your lasagna is well worth it.”

  There he went, lightening the mood and putting her at ease.

  She returned to the kitchen with a smile on her face and had a quick debate over which table to set. The kitchen felt too casual and the dining room felt like too much pressure.

  She split the difference with green place mats and a votive centered on a bright red napkin on the kitchen table. It felt like something out of a magazine from the 1950s, but she heard Riley in the hallway and knew she didn’t have time to start over.

  * * *

  “THAT’S QUITE A VIGNETTE,” Riley said, pausing in the doorway and taking it all in. It was a significant part of his job in Belclare to keep an eye on her, but it was a major perk, too. He’d told her the truth: he liked her. In uniform. In a firefight on the shore. Looking elegant in the ivory shirt, black skirt and heels that she wore right now.

  He liked kissing her. And talking with her. Even arguing over bombs or flowers. “Smells even better the second time around,” he said, searching for a way to get his mind back on the matter at hand. He needed to know if she’d learned anything about the dead sniper or the men who’d kidnapped Mrs. Wilks.

  With the Christmas Village officially opening tomorrow, it would be easier if they could narrow the search parameters beyond ruling out Calder and Mrs. Wilks. He probably shouldn’t have spent so many hours babysitting Mrs. Wilks, but he’d learned a lot just from listening to the woman chatter.

  “Thanks. Have a seat,” Abby said. “Do you want wine?”

  “No, thanks.” He watched her pour a generous glass for herself. He peered around her to the oven timer. Six minutes was enough time. “Do you mind if I grab a beer from my place?”

  “Not at all.”

  He went next door as fast as he could without running until he got inside. Then he pounded up the stairs and changed into khakis and a button-down. He’d cleaned up after the ordeal on the shore, of course, but he’d been dealing with fresh pine trees and dusty boxes the rest of the day. Dressed the way she was, she deserved to share the meal with a man wearing something better than his work jeans and thermal shirt. It was the excuse he was sticking with anyway. He was too rushed to review his sudden urge to impress her. He brushed the dust out of his hair and then found his socks and deck shoes.

  When he returned to her kitchen door, beer in hand, she was pulling the casserole dish out of the oven. She set it on the table and looked up, her jaw dropping. “What... You didn’t have to...get all dressed up.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he replied. The way she looked at him proved it a hundred times over. He came around and pulled out her chair, noticing the level in the wineglass was the same, but the lipstick print at the rim was new.

  So he wasn’t the only one dealing with a few nerves. Nice. The big question remained—were her nerves a residual from the tumultuous day or somehow related to him? He decided he could deal with the combination as long as he was a contributing factor.

  She started the small talk as they filled their plates and he kept the conversation light, as well. While he wanted to know about the issues with the case, he respected that she needed a little distance.

  “You look great,” she said as she assembled a small bite of salad on her fork.

  “Thanks.” He’d noticed she wasn’t eating, just sort of moving her food around on her plate, but he didn’t think his wardrobe change was the cause. “What’s distracting you?”

  “Nothing. Everything.” She poked at another piece of romaine lettuce and rolled a cherry tomato on top, but she didn’t put it in her mouth.

  “I’m a good listener.”

  “I’ve noticed.” She looked up, smiling. “But this isn’t the time.”

  He took a sip of beer. “Offer stands. You know where to find me.”

  “True.”

  He cast around for a better distraction. “Are you picky about stringing lights?”

  Her gaze narrowed at him. “Define picky.”

  “Well.” He pushed his plate back and leaned forward a bit. “In my experience there are three kinds of people when it comes to Christmas lights.”

  “Do tell.”

  “There are those who don’t care how the job gets done. Then there are those who are picky about something. Either the amount of wiring that shows or starting at the top versus the bottom. You get the idea.”

  She nodded, her mouth full of salad.

  Progress. “Then there are the insane types who are morally opposed to anything less than their personal definition of lighting perfection. A precise balance across every branch, the cords all arranged out of sight and connected at the back of the tree... Well, you get the idea.”

  “Yes.” She paused, filling her mouth with a big bite of lasagna.

  “Mrs. Wilks is picky in a sweet, traditional way. She likes white lights that go from the bottom to the top, casting her angel tree topper in a halo of light.”

  “Well said.” She raised her glass to him. “You like colored lights.”

  “To be fair, those were left over from one of the displays. No time to shop, so I bought them from my boss yesterday.”

  “What will you do for ornaments?”

  “Peg had a decent selection at the hardware store. Thought I’d go by tomorrow.” That put the tension right back in her face. Damn. He mentally scrambled. “When I was a kid, each grade level took turns decorating the big Christmas tree in the narthex each year.”

  “Based on what you’ve done to Belclare you must have loved it.”

  “Not when Sister Mary Catherine was in charge. She was one of the insane types when it came to stringing lights. For the sake of the children I hope someone eventually donates a pre-lit fake tree to the church.”

  She relaxed enough to chuckle at the story and he was relieved to share something real about his past with her. “Are you going to answer the question?”

  She pushed her chair back from the table and carried her wineglass to the counter. Mischief flashed in her eyes as she watched him. “What will you do if I admit I’m an insane sort?”

  “I’ll let you string them yourself.”

  “No problem. I’ve done it before. Every year of my adult life, in fact.”

  “Sounds like you have a system. Maybe I’ll learn something new,” he said, matching her teasing tone as he picked up their plates.

  She moved forward to take them
. “You don’t have to clean up.”

  “I know.” In her heels, she was almost eye level with him. He leaned in and kissed her. The contact was just a soft meeting of lips, nothing involved or intense, but it rocked his world all the same. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

  She shot him a look full of suspicion. “Either your mother raised you well or two trees are too much for you in one day.”

  “Could be both,” he replied, grinning. “And you did mention all that experience.”

  “I did.” She stepped back, raised her hands in surrender. “You clean, I’ll string. Just out of pity for you.”

  He cleaned up the table and dishes in record time. Not only did he want to watch her process, but he remembered too late that the tree would ruin her shirt. When he reached the front room, he found her on her knees by the outlet under the window, the lit string of colored lights in her hands apparently forgotten. She was staring past the tree toward Calder’s house, surely reliving her friend’s accident.

  The snow was coming down a little heavier now and would really set the mood for the Christmas Village in the morning. Belclare couldn’t have wished for better weather and he was surprised by how much he hoped the sudden crime spree didn’t hurt the event.

  This place, after such a short time, felt more like home than anywhere he’d been before. He looked to Abby and knew she was a big part of the reason.

  “Hey,” he said gently, not wanting to startle her.

  She turned and the hard expression in her eyes startled him. This wasn’t a woman mourning a friend’s pain or struggling with guilt that she might be part of the cause. No, that was sheer determination in her eyes.

  “You’ve done something,” he said without thinking.

  “What?” She blinked rapidly and her expression cleared. “No. I just don’t know where to start.”

  “Bull.” He dropped to his knee beside her. “You barely remember why you’re in here.”

  “That’s rude.”

  “Rude might just be the beginning,” he corrected. “Hand over the lights before you ruin your shirt.”

  “I can do it.”

  “I know, Abby.” She could do whatever she set her mind to. Which worried him considering what she was up against. He wanted her to tell him, but why would she? As far as she knew he was only a carpenter with some life experience. “But I bet you don’t normally string lights dressed like that. Test the next string.”

  “Riley.”

  “What? There’s no shame in accepting a little help.” He couldn’t look at her. He was too close to offering her more truth than she needed. More than he was allowed to share.

  Eyeing the distance from the tree to the outlet, he started weaving lights through the lower branches at record speed. His hands knew what to do, which was nice considering he had no idea how to proceed with Abby.

  “Riley?”

  He adjusted the cord so the connector would be hidden. “Next string.” He held out his free hand, but nothing landed in it.

  “Look at me.”

  He sat back on his heels. “My pleasure.” He tried to focus on her, just her, not his irrational fear for her safety. She’d kicked off her shoes and her feet were tucked under her, the skirt riding just above her knees.

  “I was thinking about what you said, that we only have the present.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t know what to do with his empty hands. Was that a veiled invitation to demand professional answers or personal pleasure? There was nothing in her gaze or body language to clue him in. “I can work on the tree lights in the present.”

  “You can.” Her smile was slow and lovely in the soft light of the lamp in the corner. She put the next strand of lights in his hand.

  Grateful for the distraction, he went back to the task.

  “You’re a man of many talents,” she said carefully. “Can you tell me where you learned about bombs?”

  Officially, the answer was no. “I learned about explosives on the job,” he said, choosing not to specify which job.

  “But we didn’t open that trunk and find explosives. You found wires. And the note.”

  “Wires that didn’t belong. Wires that led to explosives. The note was meant to be found. If not by me, then by you or another officer.” He risked a look over his shoulder, catching the thoughtful crease between her brows. Someone had made her doubt him when she didn’t really want to. He resumed stringing each branch with lights. “Explosives are used in a number of construction situations. I’ve had my share of experience handling those situations. Truth is, I know a little something about a lot of things, Abby. Cars, flooring, garland. It’s why I took the job here.” Another nugget of truth, though he doubted she’d ever willingly forgive him for the omission. “It’s why I took on the Hamilton house.”

  “Okay.”

  He finished with that strand and plugged it into the previous one. “Plug it in,” he said, nodding to the outlet. “Let’s see if you’re happy so far.”

  On hands and knees, she gave his resolve one hell of a test as she plugged it in. He turned his gaze to the tree before she caught him lusting after the sweet, ripe curve of her backside.

  “Wow,” she whispered. “It’s lovely.”

  Man of many talents, he thought. “I’m thinking you’re less picky and more the easygoing type.”

  “You wish,” she said. “Forgive the interrogation. You were just cucumber-cool with everything today, I thought maybe you’d spent time as a cop or...”

  “A criminal?”

  “They are known to wander.”

  “Would a criminal have helped Mrs. Wilks?”

  “No, but a con man might.”

  He’d walked right into that one. “Well, she does make a chocolate-chip cookie worth reforming for, but I’m neither criminal nor con man.”

  “No. According to Mayor Scott, you’re the hero of Belclare.”

  He choked on that moniker. “I could go the rest of my life without having those words aimed at me,” he said. “You can trust me, Abby.” If anyone in Belclare was on her side, it was him. “Let’s finish this.” He was referring to more than the tree.

  “Maybe I don’t trust myself,” she admitted, handing him more lights. “Every time I turn around something else is damaged or someone else is in jeopardy.”

  “You got the win today.”

  She snorted and started pacing across the room behind him. “No one to question is hardly a victory. They didn’t recover any helpful prints at Mrs. Wilks’s house.”

  “Has Filmore offered anything more?”

  “No.”

  Her impatience was disconcerting. He’d bet his fake cover story family and their shepherd’s pie that she’d done something drastic. “I trust you,” he said. “So do Mrs. Wilks, Calder, Peg, your department. They aren’t idiots, Abby, and you don’t have to be a lifelong resident of Belclare to see they rely on you because they know they can.”

  He wrestled his way through the middle section of the tree, grateful that it kept him from reaching for her. She had to bring him a stepladder to finish the top, but he could tell she was pleased when the job was done.

  “I hate stringing lights,” she said.

  “Happy to help.”

  “Whether I start at the top or the bottom,” she continued, “I always get irritated and careless before the job is done.”

  “That sounds really out of character for you.”

  “It’s one place patience fails me.” Laughing at herself, she handed him a star for the top of the tree.

  “Don’t you want to put it on?”

  She shook her head. “You’re already there.”

  “All right.” He secured the star to the top and stepped down, setting the ladder to the side so it would be there when she put on the ornaments. “Looks good, if I do say so myself.”

  She pulled the drapes across the window. “I agree.” But she was staring at him, not the tree. “You have sap on your shirt.” She came closer and pointed
to the offending spot.

  “It’ll wash.”

  “It’s not your only good shirt?”

  “No.” Though most of his clothes were in storage while he sorted out where he’d live in Belclare.

  “That’s good.” She reached out and yanked his shirt open, sending buttons flying.

  “Abby?”

  “I’m living in the present,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to do that, but until you, I haven’t been inspired.” Her hands, warm and soft, flattened against his bare chest. “Tell me you’re surprised. Please?” She pressed up on her toes, her lips brushing fleetingly against his.

  “Surprised?” Then he remembered her words last night in the truck. “Oh, yeah.” He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her close, the silk of her shirt an enticing, filmy barrier against his skin. Slowly, taking his time instead of just taking, he lowered his mouth to meet hers.

  Her lips were soft and needy, and when her tongue stroked against his it was sweeter than it had been last night. She tasted of the deep red wine she’d had at dinner, a dark, sultry counterbalance to the crisp pine and sweet roses scenting the air.

  She pushed the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms. Reluctantly, he released her to shake free of the binding fabric. He was nearly ready to beg, desperately eager to learn everything about her body, about how well it would fit with his. He wanted to discover what she liked and more, what made her absolutely crazy with passion.

  Her hands molded and caressed his arms while he feathered kisses along the side of her neck, nipping gently at the warm curve of her shoulder.

  She tempted him to rush with her kisses, her touch and her soft sighs. “Abby,” he whispered against her skin. His blood pounded through his veins. If there had ever been another woman, he couldn’t remember it.

  There was only her, here and now in this moment. He skimmed his hand up her ribs to cup her full breast. With a moan, she arched into his touch and he felt her nipple pebble against his palm. He couldn’t wait to taste her.

  He heard the soft purr of a zipper followed by the rustle of fabric as her skirt fell to the floor. Ready to protest as she stepped away from him, the view stole his breath and he couldn’t form the words. Lace-topped stockings caressed each thigh and the creamy skin above invited a thorough exploration.