The next morning Jeremy entered the facility, with a fully recovered Jeffrey in custody.
“Hey there, JB,” she greeted.
He sidled her a look. The quirk of his lips let her know clearly he enjoyed her use of the nickname. He helped Jeffrey out of his coat. “Hey yourself, Jellybean.”
She laughed, taken aback by the slightly audacious reply. “Wait a minute. Jellybean?”
Jeffrey tended to, JB reached inside the pocket of that same, supple, somewhat distressed leather jacket from yesterday and pulled out a bag of the candy. It was her very favorite. He stepped close and handed it over. “I noticed the supply on your desk yesterday. Figured you might enjoy a refill.”
“Well you get big points for continuing to be an awfully good charmer. Jellybeans are my weakness, I admit it.”
“Want to know what mine is?”
That playful spark, the absurdly tempting magnetism he displayed had her skin tingling, her tummy fluttering. “I shudder to think.”
“Coffee, of course. Charm, by the way, is the blessing and the curse of the Irish, land of my ancestors.”
“So’s blarney,” Monica retorted, which made Jeremy laugh deeply. “Feel free to have a seat in my office. I’ll be right there after I help Deborah set up some art supplies for the kids.”
“You sure I’m not keeping you?”
“Positive. Go on in. Make yourself comfortable.”
Monica walked to a supply cabinet in the main room. She pulled out a stack of paper, and several plastic containers of water-based paints. She carried the supplies to a group of long tables and set them out, energized by the idea of spending some time with Jeremy before they had to move forward into the day. In passing, Deborah caught her eye and had no problem addressing Monica with a satisfied smirk, and an arched brow. Monica clucked her tongue and laid out materials so the kids could paint. But she blushed, too, muttering, “Oh, grow up.”
“You first,” Deborah retorted, off to start ushering the pre-K kids into place.
Monica returned to her office, and, bless his heart, Jeremy had already poured them cups of coffee.
“So. You’ve already pegged me as the charming Irishman who’s full of blarney, eh?”
“The evidence doesn’t lie.” She absorbed his interested gaze with a smooth smile that belied the way his attention worked through her system. “But, since I’m Polish, I’m bowing out of the whole ethic stereotype and mythology thing.”
His brows went up. The two mugs remained suspended in his grip. “That does it.”
“Does what?”
“Polish. Don’t bow out quite yet. We have to go to Polonia. We have to.”
“Since we’ve just met, and I highly doubt you’re offering me a trip to my motherland, I can only assume you mean the restaurant. The one in Hamtramck.” Eagerly he nodded. Monica didn’t fight a laugh. “I’m Hamtramck born and raised. That place is an institution in my family.”
“When’s the last time you were there? What did you get?”
He was enthralled. He was salivating. He was the epitome of winsome appeal. Plus, there was something irresistible about watching a well-sculpted man doing battle with his stomach. For a precious moment, Monica savored having the upper hand, and she smirked at him. “Stop it. You’re seriously about to drool.”
“Yeah, I am. So what? Quit stalling and spill. What’d you have?”
“I had Polish smoked sausage and kraut.” Then, she became just as distracted. In fact, she quickly warmed to the topic. “Oh! And I had that really great appetizer they serve—the cucumbers, onion and dill in sour cream. Do you know the one I mean?”
Jeremy was the one who smirked now. He set the mugs aside then stepped in close. He reached up and lightly stroked the corner of her mouth, and all things cool and temperate went up in smoke. “Careful. You’re seriously about to drool.”
Monica was lost. Suddenly she was assaulted by cravings—for food—for surcease to the hungers she felt—especially her hunger to build on this wild, heady connection to Jeremy Blaise Edwards…
“I think we have to go there. Together.”
His statement left her silent, and blinking. “Ah.”
“Get back to me on that. You’re lost at the moment.”
“Lost in a world of food.” She longed to moisten her lips without being obvious about, well, moistening her lips. Attraction had completely taken over, but she shouldered that reaction to the side and met him in the middle of the field, saying, “I could be cajoled. I suppose, though, I should complete the tale by letting you know my last Polonia dining experience came about as the result of what turned into a monumentally unsuccessful blind date. How about you?”
Jeremy didn’t move away by a single trace, not even a fraction of a millimeter. That fact left Monica swept through by a tantalizing, melting pull.
“I was there for a friend’s birthday celebration. I had their beef and cheese pierogies. Like you, I indulged in that wickedly good cucumber dish. So, all things considered, I’m thinking we’re more than compatible. In fact, I’d be about willing to bet tonight’s friendly poker pot that our first date would be far from unsuccessful.”
His smile lit her nerve endings and set them on fire. So she shored up her wiles. “Careful, there, hotshot. You’re making some pretty strong assumptions. After all, I haven’t even accepted yet.”
He gave her a mischievous grin that made her shiver. “Maybe. But you will. I have faith.” He sealed the deal by gliding his hand against hers, and taking hold. Teasing ended. He went serious, but just as intense, and ten times as provocative. “Are we on, Monica? You game?”
Oh yes. Yes, indeed. But she schooled her features into calm, unruffled lines. Just barely. “I guess that’d be fun. When?”
“Friday?”
She didn’t even look at her calendar. In fact, her gaze didn’t leave his. “Let me get you my address.”
****
It only took about ten seconds past Jeremy’s departure. Monica clocked it on her wristwatch, stretching back in her chair as Deborah stormed the gate—or office threshold as it were.
“OK, day three with Adonis. I want information, Monica.” To emphasize her point, she propped her hip against the corner of Monica’s desk. She folded her arms and drum-tapped impatient fingers on her arms, clearly going nowhere until answers were delivered.
Demure and nonplussed, Monica simply looked up, and blinked prettily. “Information? About what? The uncle of a student? Nothing much to—”
“Oh, no. No dice. Kittelski, you fail to heed a pair of key points.” Deborah lifted a finger. “First of all, I saw you when he came in the other day. Sparks flew like pyrotechnics around here.” Up came finger number two. “Second of all, he couldn’t wait to return that car seat and see you today.” Then a third. “Now that I’ve witnessed round three today, I have but one observation. It’s a good one, too.”
Monica rolled her eyes, forcing herself to act bored. “Then by all means, don’t keep me in suspense. I can hardly wait.”
“You two are off the barometer.”
Monica burst out laughing. “Barometer? What barometer?”
“The flirt and play barometer. Surely you’ve heard of it.” She waggled her brows. “Seriously. You guys are completely off the scale. To kick things off there’s the whole ‘Jellybean’ nickname thing. Then, you bat those obscenely thick lashes of yours and mention Polonia?” She shrugged widely. “Yeah, I heard that part of the conversation when I walked past the door. You’ll so have a dinner date before this day is done.”
Monica’s throat went dry. Was this whole playful affection and discovery thing with Jeremy headed to those danger levels she sensed yesterday? Monica gulped, but gulping didn’t help much. This was just harmless fun. Good-natured man and woman playfulness, with a date or two on the side.
Right?
“We’ve already…umm…” Monica was too taken aback by now to finish the sentence.
Deborah, howeve
r, whooped it up, then concluded for her: “You’ve already made a date, right?” Numb and wide-eyed, Monica could only nod. Deborah just rejoiced all the more, chortling. “Ha! I win!”
Hearts Communion
5
In a gesture that Monica found both protective and stimulating, Jeremy tucked his arm around her waist as they followed the hostess to a quiet, corner booth at Polonia. There he settled her comfortably before taking his seat.
Monica adjusted the fall of her dress, leaning back against the chair as she opened the wide, plastic menu and began to study the selections. Her mouth already watered.
Until…“Ew.”
Jeremy lowered his own menu and looked at her in question. “Hmm?”
“Ew. I can’t help it. I always react that way to the only two words on this menu that I just can’t tolerate.”
“Which are?”
She offered an exaggerated wince. “Blood sausage.”
Jeremy laughed, and nodded. “I have to agree. Not one of my favorites, either. My brother Marty, on the other hand, absolutely loves it.”
Monica cringed, but gave Jeremy a teasing wink, which, as she intended, made him smile. She resumed the task of narrowing her food choices, but Jeremy’s gaze slid against her like a piece of silk. Behind the cover of her menu, Monica nearly sighed, flattered to be the center of this man’s exclusive attention. His reactions made her glad she had opted for a decidedly feminine, flowing dress of deep green knit and simple, but tall, black leather heels. Yeah. She was on a mission to win, and maintain, his interest. No doubt about it.
But Jeremy kept pace with her easily. He possessed the kind of frame she loved best in a man—broad of shoulder, lean, and long of leg, strongly muscled, but not to excess. On top of it all, he wore a gray wool suit and vivid, burgundy tie with total flair.
He leaned close, closing the space between them. “You look fantastic, Monica. Absolutely fantastic. The ankle bracelet, in particular, is very eye-catching.”
Monica nearly dropped her menu. He had noticed that small of a detail? Jeremy’s voice was low and come-hither, but completely sincere as well. Granted, she had chosen her ensemble with care—right down to the drape of a few thin silver chains, matching earrings, and yes, even the thin, shimmering ankle bracelet that decorated her right leg. Still. Wow. “You make me very glad I chose the accessory.”
“Good.”
Her insides danced, but she ducked behind the menu, her pretense of dinner selection lasting just a few minutes longer. Soon their waitress checked in and they placed an appetizer order of pierogies to share. Monica added a glass of merlot to the mix; Jeremy chose a pint of beer. The selections arrived shortly thereafter.
He unfolded his dinner napkin and spread it across his lap. “I want your story. All of it. Then to now.” A sense of quiet intensity wrapped around Monica’s heart like velvet, almost protective enough to muffle the undercurrent of edginess his request stirred. “Leave out nothing.” But then he sipped from his drink and reconsidered. “Hang on. I take that back. Hairstyles, fashions and any kind of girl drama can be edited.”
She forced a laugh. Despite the warm atmosphere, despite a call to relax her guard, alarm bells sounded. Sure, the warning chimes were just an undercurrent for the moment, but Jeremy’s request triggered a tense internal circuit.
I want your story. Would he like it? She didn’t think so, all things considered.
So, in motions that were well-practiced to the point of being instinctive, she executed a diversion. “Sorry. Yours comes first. You promised me a story of your own, remember?”
He paused for a few seconds, glanced down at the table. “Chief.”
“Chief.”
Jeremy nodded, albeit with trace levels of disquiet, and reservation. “OK. But I warn you now, it’s not a happy story—”
“Not to worry. I have a few ‘not happy stories’ of my own. Still, I’d love for you to share it with me.”
An intimate, testing silence fell between them before Jeremy nodded. “I only ask one thing in return.” Monica leaned into the conversation at hand and urged him to continue with a look and a nod. Those eyes of his—eyes she could easily sink into—narrowed slightly. “Reciprocation.”
She nearly flinched, but held her ground. She nodded once more. “Agreed.”
Jeremy settled for that answer by softening, and relaxing once more. “I come from a family of eight—well—we used to be eight. Five boys, three girls. A total handful for my parents, but they somehow manage to see the best in us anyway.”
“Gotta love parents. What happened to the eight?”
Jeremy flexed his jaw, deflected his eyes. “Eight became seven.”
A sensation took over, akin to ice sliding down her spirit; the chill built, but then came a tender warmth. .“I’m so sorry, Jeremy. How?”
He gathered a breath, blew it out. “We lost my oldest brother in the line of duty. He was an officer with the St. Clair Shores PD.”
He paused there, and Monica drifted with the silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward, but rather, a seek-and-find.
“You know,” he continued quietly, looking at a spot beyond her, “there are things that happen in life that change you forever, no matter who, no matter what. Kind of like the gut-punch you never see coming. This was one of those moments for us. All of us were shocked and stunned when he was killed.”
Sudden memories flashed through her mind—the recollection of news reports about a police sergeant who had been killed in the midst of a domestic dispute. “Lance Edwards—your brother was Lance Edwards.”
Jeremy nodded.
“I was fairly new to The Shores at that point, which is probably why it stuck with me—I remember the media coverage.”
“It hit my brother Collin the hardest, I think. You see, he was doing a ride-along that night, and he witnessed the whole thing. He even tried to help stop the perp—but Lance—well, obviously he didn’t make it—and Collin wrestled with a lot of ghosts and negativity afterward.”
Monica listened, enrapt.
“When he met Daveny, he found his way back—back to God, back to his faith—and he found the most incredible woman—a woman who’s tailor-made for him.”
Monica smiled at the romance of the words, the simple joy of them.
“When Jeffrey was born, I don’t even remember quite how it happened, but the guys in our family started calling him Chief. We talked about it at Sunday dinner one time, asking ourselves why the nickname even began. That’s when Collin piped in and put it in stone.” Jeremy grinned, but a sadness lingered, etched around the corners of his mouth. “It’s probably just family pride and all, but we decided, if Lance had survived, he’d’ve easily made police chief someday. Since Jeffrey’s middle name is Lance, after our brother, we figured the nickname should stick.”
Family love. Legacies. Children.
Monica’s heart lurched. A sharp pang, accompanied by a lump that formed hard and fast in her throat, threatened to break her. She responded to an influx of emotion—emotion that had nothing to do with Jeremy’s story, and everything to do with her own.
As ever, though, she pushed on, rebuking her feelings and shoving them away.
“I still remember every word of Collin’s eulogy,” Jeremy continued, unaware of her discomfort. “Collin is a born writer—a teacher of the language. He did a fantastic job. Me, I’m no wordsmith.”
Safe ground. Internally Monica eased up a bit, feeling relieved. She slid into a shared moment of warm, meat-spiced air, soft dinner sounds, flickering candlelight and charming, checkered-cloth table linens that spoke not of ritzy elegance, but rather all things homey, comforting and good. The centering interlude helped.
“So how did you cope?”
Jeremy shrugged. “I swing hammers. I build. I get physical. What I went through with Lance is what brought me to where I am today. I work hard, I give thanks, and I give back by helping people in need.” For a moment he toyed with the flatware
next to his plate; the unsettled motion drew Monica’s attention to the glimmer of soft candlelight against the toughness of silver. The parallel to Jeremy softened her heart, but shored her resolve to not let him in too fast—nor too deep. “He died in late autumn. My workload was slowing down for the season, and that’s the last thing I needed at that point. So, I looked for opportunities to help some people in my community who needed construction assistance—fix-ups, repairs, that kind of thing. There was a lot I knew I could do, and I wanted to be busy. I wanted work. Work helped me think, and sort things through.”
“So you volunteered your time with what? Community agencies and such?”
“I got more work than I could handle just by talking to my Pastor.”
“Really.” She took in yet another facet of his character and came away increasingly intrigued, and that lovely little pull kept coaxing her toward him. In fact, the strength of it increased exponentially. Careful, Monica, she thought in a building panic. Proceed with extreme caution. This is enjoyable, but it can never, ever work. Not over the long haul. Not with everything you lack. She cleared her throat, and found a smile. “Where do you attend services?”
“Woodland Church. I’m a lifelong member. I’m an usher, and actually just found myself appointed to the worship commission.”
“Congratulations—I think that’s wonderful. Your place of worship means a lot to you.”
“God—Christ—means a lot to me,” he amended. “Always has. Always will.”
She didn’t have much time to admire that conviction, that absolute faith, and recognize the empty void that loomed in her own heart. For in the passing of a heartbeat, his playful smile dawned, and it hit her hard, making her smile in turn, for no other reason than she simply had to respond to him. Add in those sparkling eyes, and she was swept away.
“Do you know what else?”
“What?”
“You, Jellybean, are one smooth customer.”
“Well thanks for noticing, but where does that comment fit into our lovely dinner conversation? Not that I’m complaining, mind you—”
Hearts Communion Page 3
