Craving Heat

by Adrienne Giordano

  The parking spot. Every morning Maggie drove by the B, where Mr. Greene’s car sat snugly in the space just outside the front door. She’d known, right down to her thick-soled boots, it would eventually be a problem. Bound to happen.

  “Who are you calling an old bat?” Mrs. Royce shrieked. “You’re older than me!”

  Maggie checked her watch: 9:05. Vacation: T minus five days, ten hours, and thirty-nine minutes. Just hang on. That’s all she needed to do. But being a sheriff in a small town sometimes tested her. Like now. Was it sick that she occasionally craved a good, savage crime? Something that required investigative skills that went beyond enough patience to deal with ornery residents.

  “My spot!” Mr. Greene hollered.

  Enough already. Maggie whistled through her teeth, sending enough of a shrill to shatter cheap windows in a three-block radius.

  Mrs. Royce covered her ears. “My ears! I have my hearing aids in. Are you trying to kill me?”

  Oh, the drama. “No, ma’am. But you two are blocking this sidewalk. I need you both to calm down so we can fix this.”

  Mr. Greene banged the cane again. “We’ll fix it by you ordering her to move that damned boat out of my spot.”

  “Bah!” Mrs. Royce said. “It’s not your spot. I don’t see a sign. And why should I park across the street when there’s an empty space right here in front? My hip is killing me. The less I have to walk, the better.”

  Ah. The hip. That explained it. After all this time of Mr. Greene monopolizing the closest spot, Mrs. Royce’s bad hip cried foul. And it had a point.

  Maggie held her hands up. “Mr. Greene, the residents have given you latitude when it comes to parking. You have to agree with that.”

  “Well, sure. Because it’s my spot.”

  “No, sir. Technically it belongs to the town.”

  Mrs. Royce bobbed her head and the loose skin at her neck wobbled. “That’s right. And I don’t see no sign reserving it for you. I’m old, too. We need to take turns or something.”

  A sign. Hmmm. Maggie faced Mrs. Royce. “Ma’am. Please. I’m talking.”

  “Sorry.” She swung a fist at Mr. Greene. “He makes me so mad.”

  “I understand, but that’s not helping.”

  “My spot!”

  A dull thump erupted behind Maggie’s right eye. Usually, if she got a headache, it waited until lunchtime. The day’s nonsense had started early today.

  Randi poked her head out the door. “Y’all are making a spectacle of yourselves. And you’re disturbing the customers. Either come inside and let me buy you a coffee while you talk this out or move it along.”

  “Randi,” Maggie said, “would you join us for a second, please?”

  Randi speared her with a look. “I’m in the middle of a rush and the new barista is struggling.”

  “I’ll be quick. Mr. Greene and Mrs. Royce are arguing over the parking spot.”

  “Because it’s my damned spot.”

  In her mind, Maggie sighed. Too darned early to feel this tired. “No,” she said, her voice carrying the rough edge that came with strained patience. “You’re lucky you’ve been given liberties this long.”

  Before Mr. Greene could launch into a counterattack, Maggie pressed on. “I have a solution. A compromise that should make you both happy.”

  Clearly needing to be on her way, Randi peeked over her shoulder. “Mags, can we move this along?”

  “Yes. What do you think about reserving this spot for a customer of the week? You have regulars that come in every morning. Maybe you do a raffle to make it fair. We’ll rotate the names and whoever has a certain week has the spot reserved between 9 and 9:30 every day. If they don’t get here by then, first come first serve.”

  Randi pondered the idea. “I like it. I could even do a discount for that customer for the week.”

  Excellent.

  Mr. Greene tapped his cane. “How often would I get the spot?”

  “We’ll come up with a fair rotation,” Maggie said. “That’s the best we can do.”

  Mrs. Royce nodded. “I’m in favor. Thank you, Randi.”

  “Don’t thank me. It was the sheriff’s idea. Now, I need to get inside. Breakfast for you three is on me this morning. Just quit blocking my foot traffic!”

  At the thought of one of Randi’s ham-and-egg breakfast croissants, Maggie’s headache backed off a smidge. “It’s settled then. Randi and I will work out the particulars. In the meantime, whoever gets into town first, gets the spot. No arguments.”

  “But—”

  “Mags, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Maggie looked over Randi’s shoulder and spotted Grif exiting the B. Saved by her cousin. Thank you, kind sir.

  She faced Mr. Greene. “No arguments or I’ll ban you from the spot altogether. Now head inside and get your coffee while I talk to our esteemed city manager.”

  Randi escorted Mr. Greene and Mrs. Royce inside and Maggie met Grif’s eye. “Thank you for saving me.”

  “What were they fighting about?”

  “The damned parking spot. It was bound to happen. I can’t believe this is the first time. And, by the way, we’re making it a reward. Customer of the week. You good with that?”

  Grif shrugged. “Whatever you and Randi want. I need to talk to you.”

  Apparently her cousin had bigger fish to fry. “What’s up?”

  “Can you come up to my office? I have a client coming in who you’ll need to meet.”

  Since when did Grif have clients come to Steele Ridge? He’d become the king of video conferencing since moving home.

  And why, unless it somehow involved her, would Grif want her to meet his client?

  Vacation: T minus five days, ten hours, and twenty-two minutes.

  Across the street, a shiny black Range Rover pulled into one of the spaces in front of the Murchison building.

  “This is him,” Grif said.

  They jaywalked across the street and earned themselves a honk from a passing car. So, arrest me. It wasn’t as if Main Street suddenly needed a stoplight to control congestion. Still, Maggie offered an apologetic wave.

  “Grif, I’m leaving on vacation on Monday.”

  “I know. I know. You’ve reminded me no less than five times. Where are you going again?”

  “Bahamas. A women-in-law-enforcement retreat. By Monday afternoon, I’ll be sipping drinks with silly umbrellas in them. Nothing is keeping me from those umbrellas.”

  She hadn’t taken a vacation in the last three years. Not even a weekend away since she’d become sheriff. She deserved this trip. She needed this trip. She wanted this trip. And that didn’t happen all that often.

  Grif was oddly silent. Her cousin. The master negotiator. A smooth-talker, he chose his moments of silence carefully. Grif’s silence was usually packed with a whole slew of messages.

  As long as one of those messages wasn’t her canceled vacation, she had no problem with it.

  2

  Jay sat in his SUV staring at the sun-dappled front of a brick building that, if he knew his agent at all, Grif had had recently painted. But this was Grif and plain old beige wouldn’t cut it. This color had a hint of…something. Red or orange maybe. Just enough to give it a rustic look. Whatever it was, it managed to maintain the charm inherent with buildings about to hit birthday number 125, according to new-looking bronze plaque beside the front door.

  Grif. The magic man.

  Said magic man had his work cut out for him when it came to salvaging Jay’s career. The ring of his cell trumped Stevie Ray Vaughan and filled the car. His phone had been blowing up since yesterday with calls from the press, his sister and unhappy teammates. He appreciated the support from his sister and teammates, but the idea of having to return every call and explain how his career imploded gutted him.

  He checked the dashboard for the caller ID. Mom.

  “Crap.”

  The week kept getting better. He didn’t need her brand of crazy right now. He look
ed out at the building again, where the sun’s rays showered over it. That’s what he’d focus on. Sunshine on a nice fall day.

  Resigned to dealing with his mother, he picked up the call. “Mom, what’s up?”

  “Only youuuuuu,” she said, “would be dumb enough to wreck your career by puh … puh … punching someone.”

  Barely 9:30 and his mother was already tripping over her words. “What can I say? I learned from the best.”

  Damn. When would he learn not to take the bait?

  A sharp intake of breath sounded and the telltale clink of ice in a glass confirmed Jay’s suspicions. On a good day, Sober Marlene was a mouthy handful. On a bad day, Drunk Marlene raged hard enough to send innocents scrambling for cover.

  “How many have you had?”

  “You know,” she said, “all the years I put into you—”

  Game over.

  He stabbed at the button on his steering wheel and immediately turned his cell to do not disturb. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hung up on his mother. She’d never remember it anyway. He’d developed an adeptness to ending their phone calls at precisely the right time. That time being right before she got really wound up, spewing about what losers she’d raised and how he and his sister weren’t fit to carry her name.

  Which, technically speaking, wasn’t even hers anymore. Over two decades later and she still paraded around, signing the Tucker name all over the place as if Dad hadn’t shacked up with another socialite. One who definitely did not drink.

  His parents. What a pair. Jay rested his hand on the top of the steering wheel. “How the fuck did this get to be my life?”

  A knock on the window jerked him from his mind travel and he swung his head left.

  Grif.

  Christ. He hadn’t even seen him.

  Call it fatigue from last night’s long drive and one hell of a week, but Jay was off his game. In a big way.

  He killed the engine and opened the door. At the rear bumper stood a tall woman with hair that was a cross between honey blond and light brown. All of it in a tight ponytail. She wore a police uniform and Jay’s exhausted mind went to a bachelor party five years ago when the stripper put the groom in handcuffs.

  This one had the body, no doubt, but her demeanor didn’t say stripper. Her pressed uniform shirt was tucked in neatly, the buttons all aligned. Even the creases in her uniform pants were straight.

  She locked her eyes on him for a long few seconds. Given his experience as a professional athlete, he’d seen that look before and it usually meant good things for a man ready to get laid.

  “Hi,” Jay said, immediately extending his hand.

  She nodded and shook his hand. Like the rest of her, the handshake was a quick, efficient affair. “Maggie Kingston.”

  “My cousin,” Grif said. “She’s the sheriff here.”

  There went the stripper fantasy. More interesting might be the dynamics in play with Grif being the city manager and his cousin the sheriff. Small towns. Always fascinating. Growing up on the upper East Side of Manhattan, Jay learned a different way to get things done. A way that included money—a lot of it—and regular smacks with a belt from his mother.

  Maybe small-town life wouldn’t have been so bad.

  “I trust you slept well,” Grif said. “I told Mrs. Tasky to give you the best room. Figured since you got in late, you could crash at the B and B last night and avoid my mother’s fussing.”

  “All good. I slept hard.”

  After the meeting with Drew and Paskins the day before, Jay had gone home, packed a suitcase, and hauled ass out of town before the press had mobilized on the street in front of his condo. By the time they’d gotten there, he’d been forty minutes into a ten-hour drive that let him be alone and think. One thing about him, he could bug out quick when necessary. Years of ducking his mother’s fists and then running from rabid fans and reporters had taught him evasion skills.

  Grif jerked his chin at the brick building. “Let’s head to my office. You hungry? We can grab you something.”

  “I ate. Thanks.”

  Mrs. Tasky had offered a hell of a spread that morning. He’d stuck to proteins and avoided carbs and starches, but the potatoes had looked damned good. The realization hit him that being an unemployed professional athlete meant not having to worry about his carb intake as much.

  Grif stood back, waved his extremely hot cousin ahead of him. “Let’s go to my office.”

  All right then. The sheriff joining their meeting.

  Jay must have made a face because Grif met his eye. “We’re bringing Maggie up to speed in case the press shows up.”

  As much as they’d like to keep his location quiet, thanks to endless Sports Illustrated covers and various men’s magazines Jay’s mug wasn’t exactly unrecognizable. Hell, the attention from the sexiest man alive gig took him to a level of fame that had blown his mind. Who knew that was such a big deal?

  The sheriff shot Grif a look. “Vacation,” she said. “Silly umbrellas.”

  What the hell did that mean?

  Grif flashed a smile. “I got it, Mags.”

  Inside the building, Grif ushered them to his first-floor office, a simple deal, with minimal accessories and a large desk for Grif to do his magic. Jay waited for the sheriff to take a seat at the small, round conference table, then sat across from her, leaving the seat between for Grif, who dropped a legal pad and pen in front of him.

  “Mags, here’s the short of it. Jayson and the Knights have parted ways.”

  “I saw that on ESPN last night.” She looked at Jayson. “I’m sorry. Sounds like you got a bum deal.”

  “I’m the old guy. Replaceable. Welcome to professional sports.”

  “He won’t be on the market long.” Grif faced Jay again. “I’ve had a few calls already.”

  That sounded promising for a thirty-six-year-old quarterback who, in his humble opinion, still had a few good years left. Thanks to smart investing and the fact that he’d get paid the rest of his contract, he had enough money to last him four lifetimes. This wasn’t about money, though. This was about not being slapped with an assault charge. This was about passion. For the game. For leadership.

  For his identity.

  Since high school, football had been the goal. Sure, he’d graduated from college with a solid 3.5 GPA, but the degree was an afterthought. Football had been the dream. One he’d achieved.

  At this point, he’d only just begun thinking about what life after football would look like. And when it came to a career? Dead loss. No clue.

  “We’ll talk about that when we’re through here,” Grif said. “Mags, we’re keeping Jay’s location under wraps. So far, the media thinks he’s holed up in his condo in New York. My thought is we’ll put him up at the training center. There’s security up there. He can stay in Jonah’s old room at the house rather than the hotel. I don’t know if Reid has a group coming in and I’d rather Tuck have privacy. In case fans start showing up.”

  “And,” the sheriff said, “the press.”

  “Sorry, Sheriff,” Jay said.

  She shook it off. “Don’t apologize. A surge of people needing to sleep and eat is never a bad thing. Still, you’re a guest here and we’ll want to keep you safe.”

  “Exactly,” Grif said.

  “Obviously,” the sheriff said, “given your high profile, I’d imagine you get unwanted attention. Is there anything I should be aware of?”

  “As in wack-jobs?”

  Her slow, curving smile brought him back to that damned stripper fantasy. “I was trying to be polite about it, but yes.”

  Polite? He’d given up on that long ago. At least behind closed doors. In public? He’d become the master of ignoring idiots. People who threatened and called him foul names didn’t deserve polite.

  Jay shrugged. “It’s run-of-the-mill stuff. After the past few days, a few threatening e-mails and tweets are expected. My security team is on it.”

  She gave him a look
like he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had, but if he had a meltdown every time he got hate mail he’d be in a mental ward by now.

  “What do you consider run-of-the-mill threats?”

  Yep, the hot sheriff thought he was loco. “It sounds flip, but we take them seriously. Every threat is vetted by my security team. I’m informed when I need to be. I can’t have the details in my face all the time. If I did, I’d be afraid to walk outside. I’m not living that way.” He waved it away. “This week’s threats included someone explaining how he’d break my throwing arm. The other was from a woman claiming she and Eric Webb—he’s the rookie I’ve been grooming—were meant for everlasting love. That they were soulmates. A rare and beautiful thing, she claimed. Guess she discounted the fact that he’s married.”

  The sheriff’s brows drew together. “What was the threat?”

  “Since I dared to put my hands on her beloved, she intended to do me bodily harm.”

  “What kind of bodily harm?”

  Jay glanced at Grif. Really, he didn’t need to use coarse language in mixed company, but Grif urged him on with a brief nod.

  “She…uh…told me she knew where I lived and could gain access to my building. Where she would tie me up and carve my pecker to pieces.”

  The sheriff didn’t flinch. This chick took total deadpan to another level, which, oddly enough, released some of the tension locking up his shoulders. Talking about this crap was never easy. Forget telling a female about how someone wanted to make sushi out of his dick.

  “I see,” Sheriff Kingston said.

  “Yeah. This is my life.”

  “All right.” She faced Grif. “We’ll increase patrols around Tupelo Hill.”

  “Thank you,” Jay said, already anticipating making a sizable donation to the Sheriff’s Department. He’d dig around, see what fancy new equipment Sheriff Maggie wished for, but couldn’t afford on the city’s budget.

  Grif smiled at Jay. “Reid is anxious to get his hands on you. I believe he said, ‘Send me the superstar. We’ll see what he’s got.’”

  “Lord,” the sheriff said. “He’s such an ass.”

  For the first time in at least twenty-four hours, Jay laughed. “Nice. This should be fun.”