“Well, we’re obviously not most people, are we?” He straightened and swiped his sleeve across his face. Since the shirt was dripping wet itself, mostly he succeeded in rearranging the sweat drops. “Mind if I walk with you?”
“Don’t you need to keep your heart rate up?” She let go of the street sign and began walking again, still hugging the curb.
“My heart rate’s not settling down for a while. Trust me.”
She made a noise that might have been an aborted laugh or a derisive snort. He chose to think she’d come that close to laughing.
He liked that she seemed to find it easier to talk to him this evening. Her gaze had actually met his right from the start, and some of that tension had drained from her body. She looked... His gaze went sideways to her. Softer. Prettier.
Every time he saw her, he thought she was prettier than before. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before he was using words like beautiful and gorgeous and sexy.
And innocent. In shorts and flip-flops that made her legs look a mile long and a thin white shirt that molded to her breasts, with her hair collected into a ponytail high on top of her head, she looked young and sweet and small-town wholesome good.
Not too young, though—only nine years younger than him—and sweet and small-town wholesome good were two of his favorite things.
“Did you guys have a better afternoon than your morning turned out to be?”
“We did. Was your afternoon worse?”
“How could it get worse?”
“Someone had to tell Mr. Greeley’s family, and rumor is someone had to talk to Mr. Lawrence.”
“Ben Little Bear in both cases. Greeley didn’t have any close family. His ex-wife said the appropriate things and seemed to genuinely regret having to tell their children. They’re teenagers. Sad they had to lose their father this way.”
Mila looked right and left before stepping off the curb to cross Elm, then shifted her gaze to the sidewalk as if it was a threat. The downtown sidewalks were over a century old, but they were decently maintained. She wasn’t likely to trip on a crack and take a header if she didn’t watch like a hawk.
Maybe Greeley’s kids were harder to think about than his death or his ex-wife. Maybe she had a tender spot for kids, especially since her own parents weren’t around. There’d been that moment at dinner last week, when he’d asked about Jessica’s secret for dinner and Mila had...
Well, if it had been anyone else, he would have just said she got upset. But she was so controlled, it carried more weight than just upset. More like meltdown.
At odd moments, he still found himself wondering why.
Deliberately Sam changed the subject. “Did I tell you my dad owns a plant nursery?”
That made her look at him, her brows both tilted up. “Douglas Plant Farm? Is that him?”
He nodded. “Mom helps out part-time, but she makes him pay her. She says being a Douglas and working for free would make people think she’s the Douglas, and she doesn’t want that responsibility on her shoulders. This way it’s clear she’s one of the sheep, not the shepherd.”
She almost smiled again. “Most of the plants in my garden came from there. I had to order some online, and my crape myrtles are all volunteers from our old house before Gramma and I both moved, but I bought the rest there.”
“If you want to keep shopping quick and easy, don’t tell Mom you know me. She’s inordinately interested in every female I meet between the ages of twenty and forty. On the other hand, if you want first dibs on some of the cool stuff Dad gets, drop my name. He’ll set it aside for you.”
Her mouth twitched, and he asked, “What? What’s that twitch?”
“I’ve never name-dropped once in my life. I never knew any names to drop.”
Though she said the words in her usual tone, Sam got the impression that she meant them very seriously. She’d never had many friends, many people to trust. The first time he’d seen her, he’d thought she was totally alone in the midst of the crowd. Every meeting since had helped solidify the feeling. A woman her age should be dating, partying, hanging out with friends, clubbing until the early hours. She should be keeping company with someone other than her dog and her grandmother, no matter how lovely they both were. She shouldn’t be so isolated.
Unless she liked isolation, but Sam didn’t really think that was the case.
As they passed an open lot, Poppy spotted a rabbit and veered hard in that direction. Sam grabbed hold of the leash when Mila stumbled, taking the pressure off her wrist. “Would she know what to do with a rabbit if she caught it?”
“With Poppy, who knows?”
He tugged on the leash, and she relinquished it to him in case of future bunny attacks. “You know, you can train her not to pull or run or jump with a few treats and a little discipline.”
“Discipline is highly overrated.” Her voice and expression were equally flat, her gaze narrow, but after a moment, she swallowed hard, exhaled and forced a lighter tone. “Isn’t pulling and running and jumping what puppies are supposed to do?”
Again questions about her parents came to the forefront of his mind. Too much discipline? Was that the reason her grandmother had done at least part of her raising?
Just the thought set every protective instinct inside him on high alert, but he kept them under control and instead lightly said, “I think pulling, running and jumping is what we’re all supposed to do until we get too old or too tired or too creaky or too fat.”
She gave him a long look that roused awareness, from the tiny sweat-coated pores on the surface of his skin all the way deep down inside him. He had no idea what she wanted to find, but if it was good, he hoped it was there with lights flashing. If it was something that might make her keep her distance from him, he hoped it had never been.
“Well,” she said softly. “You don’t qualify on any of those.”
Pathetic as it was, he thought it was a damn nice compliment. If she ever truly complimented him, he’d be as delighted as Poppy and act just as silly.
He looked forward to it.
* * *
Mila drew to a stop at the next intersection. The post office, a marvel of drab government construction, was catty-corner from them, and her house was a short block behind it. She didn’t mind walking farther, but her stomach was threatening to rumble, and Poppy was past her usual dinnertime, too.
It would be really easy to say, “You want to get something to eat?” At least, it should be. But there was little food in her house besides canned soup, ramen noodles and frozen dinners, so her invitation would have to mean ordering delivery or going out. She had never asked anyone besides Gramma to do either with her.
She looked down the street ahead—a fried-chicken place, an ice-cream shop with burgers and a Chinese buffet were the only offerings in sight—then glanced toward her house. It was quiet. She loved it for its quiet. It was her retreat from a world that was too much for her...but she’d retreated for far too long. Years ago, Dr. Fleischer had told her healing would come, and with it, she would find her way into the life she was meant to live. Even at eleven, she’d known the life she was meant to live: hidden away, left alone by anyone and everyone but Gramma. She’d wanted to be safe, and she had been.
But she was twenty-six years old, and she’d never had the chance to pull, run and jump. She hadn’t been too old, too tired, too creaky or too fat.
Just too afraid.
Always afraid.
Sam didn’t question her stillness. He watched with patience and interest and a little hope on his face. He didn’t want to end the evening here, saying goodbye like casual acquaintances. She could see that as clearly as if they were acting in a scene and she held his script. Problem was, no one had provided her with a script. Could she really risk inviting him to have dinner with her? What if she was misreading him and he said no?
She would never know if she never tried.
“Would you like—” Hearing an echo, she broke off. He’d spoken at the same time she had, said the same words. He stopped, too, a grin brightening his eyes, and gestured for her to go on. She shifted her feet uneasily, looked once more toward her house, her haven, her isolated retreat, then forced the best smile she could manage. “Would you like to get some dinner?”
His grin got bigger. “I don’t think they’ll want me looking and smelling like this, but we could pick up something to take to your house, or to my house if you want. I live a few blocks that way.” He pointed to the east. “Of course, if you don’t want to eat with me looking and smelling like this—”
She interrupted him with a shake of her head. If she gave him time to shower and clean up, she might lose her nerve. “Those places set their standards too high. They don’t want Poppy in there, either. Taking something back to the house—my house—is good.” She was already nervous over the idea of sharing a meal with him without Gramma as a buffer. Having that meal at his house, where he lived, slept, read, watched TV...that was one step farther than she could manage.
“Good.” He gestured ahead of them. “You choose.”
Her immediate impulse was to demur. What if she chose chicken and he wanted Chinese? What if he hated Chinese but ate it anyway because it was the first word to make it out of her mouth? What if indecision was one of the little things that drove him nuts?
“Hamburgers.” Her voice was less substantial than she would have liked. Quickly she cleared her throat and added, “Poppy loves ice cream on hot days.”
“A girl after my own heart,” he teased.
It was two and a half blocks to Braum’s, and Sam filled most of it with normal chatter, lamenting the ugly post office, remarking that it used to be in the beautiful old building downtown that now housed the police department, commenting on a lovely house and the busyness of the liquor store and the building that had once been the church home to dozens of Douglases before they’d moved into a newer—also uglier—facility on the edge of town. There wasn’t much for Mila to say besides hmm and nice, and it was easily the highlight of her week.
Maybe her whole life.
The parking lot at the ice-cream shop was filled with vintage cars, their hoods raised, people talking engines and restoration and good ole days. Several of them greeted Sam, a couple including Mila in their nods, and he returned their hellos. At the curb, he stopped and pulled a debit card from his pocket. “You want to stay out here with Poppy or go in and get the food?”
Staying in the parking lot with friendly people around? That was a no-brainer. “What do you want?”
“Double cheeseburger with jalapeños and fries. Don’t forget Poppy’s ice cream.”
She withdrew her own debit card, but he took her hand, laid his card in it and folded her fingers over it. “It was your grandmother’s treat last time. This time it’s mine.”
The instant his fingers made contact with hers, she lost the ability to move. Instinct told her to pull away—she wasn’t a touchy-feely person at all—but all her muscles had gone rigid while every nerve in her body was firing off neurons and sparks and tiny, strange, delicious little electric shocks. It was...
The first time any man besides a doctor or dentist had ever touched her.
Ever.
It was incredible.
An older man standing next to an even older pickup called Sam’s name, and he squeezed her hand before letting go. “Get Poppy a carton of ice cream. Maybe she’ll share with us for dessert.”
Unable to speak over the swelling in her throat, she nodded, stiffly turned and walked into the restaurant. The chill inside was a shock to a system already in shock. She shivered, goose bumps raising everywhere, went to place their order, then got a tub of ice cream from the freezer. While she waited for the food, she watched out the plate glass windows as Sam chatted with a group of the car enthusiasts. His hair stood on end, his shirt clung to his body and his smile was worthy of preserving forever.
Just the sight roused an ache in her chest for all the things she’d never had. All the things her parents had taken from her.
They’re dead, Gramma reminded her.
Dead. They couldn’t hurt her anymore.
Unless she let them. Unless she stayed hidden away the rest of her life. Unless she chose solitude over people.
Because it was a choice. The easiest one she’d ever made, but also the hardest. She was safe, all right. No one knew anything about her past because no one knew her. No one could hurt or shame or hate her, but that also meant no one could like her, love her, hug her, laugh with her, cry with her. Life with her parents had been a prison, but the life she chose now was also a prison. Not as ugly, not terrifying, not one with a death sentence hanging over her head, but a prison all the same.
Maybe it was time to plan the greatest escape in the history of escapes.
A teenage employee came around the counter to where Mila waited against the wall. “Ma’am, here’s your food,” she said in a bored voice that suggested it wasn’t the first time she’d said it. She handed over two bags, hot food in one and ice cream in the other, then hurried back to her spot.
The intense smells of greasy meat, jalapeños, onions and French fries made Mila’s stomach growl. She and Poppy were going to be such happy girls this evening.
It took only a second to locate Sam, bent over a flame-red car, peering at the engine as if he fully understood what he was looking at. Cars and engines weren’t on her list of interests, so she waited until he noticed her. He smiled, said good-night to his friends and they left.
“I take it Poppy loves hamburgers.” He was walking on the far inside of the sidewalk, the leash wrapped repeatedly around his wrist to restrict her bounds and contortions.
“She loves them. And French fries. And peach ice cream is her absolute favorite.”
“Aw, man, homemade peach ice cream at the Porter Peach Festival. It’s in July every year. Have we missed it?”
“I have no idea.” With her uneasiness in crowds, she never went to any of the local festivals. Bad things could happen in crowds. But as Mr. Carlyle and Mr. Greeley had found out, bad things could happen alone in your own backyard.
Poppy didn’t dally this time, making Mila glad she carried the food. Being on the receiving end of the pooch’s jerks and twirls and excited leaps could make for sore muscles sometimes. And while her muscles were in good shape, thanks to her job, Sam’s were a whole lot better.
At her house, she fished her keys from her pocket and unlocked the door. Poppy shoved her way in as soon as her nose could clear the space and trotted to the kitchen for water. Mila checked the thermometer hanging near a set of wind chimes. “Wow, it’s cooled all the way down to eighty-six. You want to eat out here, on the back porch, or gee, I actually do have a dining table inside.”
Sam made an exaggerated face. “Will I sound like a sissy voting for the dining table? Especially if there’s an air-conditioning vent nearby. I’m so ready to cool down that I might just ask you to turn the hose on me.”
“There’s a vent and a fan.” She went inside, crossed the living room in a few strides and stepped into the dining room. Like so much else about the house, it was tiny, really more of an alcove that provided passage between living room and kitchen. The table was handmade, oak with a worn golden glow, three boards nailed across the top, four sturdy rectangular legs. The seams between the boards were uneven and marred with chips and scratches, and the two oak chairs showed the same wear and tear.
She set the food down, stashed the ice cream in the freezer and filled
Poppy’s food dish. After gathering napkins and drinks, she returned to the dining room and took the seat closest to the wall, the one that left little maneuvering space to get in and out.
“Nice table. Family heirloom?” Sam ran his fingers across the top after he settled into the other chair.
“Someone’s family. Not ours.” She thought she’d said it carelessly enough to go unnoticed, but turned out, she could have chosen any number of better answers, because the next response from him was the one that seemed most logical in hindsight. It was one she’d rather never answer with anyone, especially a police officer. A police chief. A gorgeous, handsome police chief who made her insides flutter.
“Tell me about your family.”
* * *
Sam kept his tone even, conversational, as if it was the most natural question to ask a woman over dinner. And, really, even though Mila’s jaw had gone tight and an emotion he couldn’t identify had come into her eyes, it was natural. Asking and answering questions about themselves—that was how people got to know each other. That was how they determined if they liked each other. He knew he was attracted to Mila physically—he’d swear that brief touch of her hand had scorched the shape of her fingers into his brain—and he was interested in her as a person, but he couldn’t know if it went beyond that if he didn’t find out things about her.
The pointless things. The silly things. The things that made her smile and laugh and want to tear out her hair. The pet peeves, the favorite books, the movies she loved and the music she hated.
Knowing she was pretty, isolated, emotionally distant but dearly loved her grandmother and her dog...those were important, but not enough. He wasn’t sure anything less than everything would be enough.
“I’m not asking for life histories. I don’t need to know that you potty trained early—though my mother would proudly tell you that I did—or if you walked late. I don’t want to know if there are more Ramirezes around somewhere than there are Douglases here, or what they do or how they think or what their politics are. Just a general overview will be enough.” For right now.
Killer Secrets Page 10
