Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set

by Grover Swank, Denise

  My head couldn't keep my heart straight—or maybe it was the other way around.

  I reached for the bowl of cracked eggs but Jackson beat me to it. "I've got this. I'll have it for breakfast, since you claim I chug raw eggs," he said, gesturing with the bowl toward the epic mess we'd created in his kitchen. "Whenever you decide to revisit the scene of these crimes, I'll have everything waiting for you, and I swear I'll stay out of the splash zone until it's time to hit the pots and pans."

  With my hands washed and my baking tools stowed in my tote bag, I laced my fingers with Jackson's and let him walk me home. In the harbor, sails jangled against masts. A dog barked in the distance and beetles hissed at the street lights. The midnight air was cool with a hint of damp sea breeze, the kind of air that folks referred to as "good sleeping weather." It was a blessed reprieve from the past weekend's wave of hot, humid days and equally unpleasant nights.

  This would've made for the perfect weather to sleep with Jackson. I knew he'd be my personal furnace. My big grizzly. I bet he was a compulsive cuddler, too. He'd chase me right to the edge of the bed and then lock me in his strong arms all night.

  I didn't know whether I was a cuddler or not. I'd never lived with anyone but my family and college roommates, and I didn't snuggle with any of them. I'd never had serious relationships either. I was always making big plans, always climbing.

  Climbing didn't leave much time for cuddling.

  We walked down the street and into the village without a word, and I was thankful for the quiet. It helped ground me in my decision to slow this—this flirtation. It was barely more than that, if I didn't include the nakedness and the one time in his office when we were this close to having sex and then the time he said the dirtiest things I'd ever heard spoken.

  Just a flirtation. One that was dry humping its way out of control. Dry humping. My word. How did that even happen? I wasn't telling Brooke about this. She'd rake me over the seventeen-and-in-a-minivan coals.

  When we reached the alley behind my shop, I gestured toward the building as if he didn't know where we were and said, "This is me."

  "It is," Jackson said, bobbing his head as he surveyed the area.

  "Okay, well," I said, my voice trailing off. "Thank you for the walk. And dinner. And attempting to bake scones with me." I hiked my tote higher on my shoulder, a move that separated my hand from his. "I should go. Up. Go upstairs. To the apartment. Where I live."

  Chuckling at my inability to produce complex sentences, Jackson announced, "I want to see you to the door."

  I lifted my clasped hands to my lips as I searched for the words to send this man away. He was one of the good ones, I knew it. Too good.

  "That's okay. I can't get lost on a single staircase," I said, regret thick in my words. "Jackson, I think"—I glanced to the sky, the moon and stars, and the dark expanse of the ocean for guidance but found none—"I think we should stop seeing each other like this."

  Shocking the shit out of me, Jackson replied, "I concur."

  "You do?" I snapped. I wasn't expecting him to agree this easily. If I was honest, I'd hoped for a tiny bit of protest. A lady needed hope, right?

  He ran a hand down his face as he laughed. "I don't want to walk you home at midnight."

  "Well, you insisted so that's not my problem," I replied, flicking my fingers at the street behind him. "I would've been perfectly fine on my own."

  Jackson rubbed his brow, laughing. "I don't want to wonder whether I'll bump into you at the market," he continued. "I want to get your phone number from you and not from questionably ethical uses of my office. I want to have dinner with you and then I want to spend the night with you. I want to spend a lot of nights with you. As many as you'll give me. I want to watch you bake and then wash your dishes for you. I want to give the people around here something to talk about because the only dirty secrets we keep are the ones in the bedroom, you hear me?"

  Without conscious thought, I took a giant step toward him. It was the wrong direction but I couldn't help myself. "I want you to have that," I said, "with someone who wants it, too."

  We stared at each other for the longest minute since humanity started measuring time. It stretched on and on as he stared at me, stern as always, and I did everything in my power to keep from taking his hand and walking him up the stairs with me.

  It wasn't about me wanting him anymore. Feelings and expectations were wrapped up in this now, and I couldn't handle those.

  "You have really big feelings and I don't know how to deal with that," I said, a little breathless. "My entire world has tipped and twisted in the past week and you're fast-forwarding ahead with these—these plans." Jackson gave me a slow blink but no other response. "I'm squarely in no-plans mode and you're—hell, you're picking out new dust ruffles."

  Another slow blink.

  "Jackson, say something or leave. Staring at people in the dark is creepy."

  The sails went on clanging and that dog was still barking, and Jackson just blinked at me.

  "I don't know what a dust ruffle is," he said. "I don't believe I've picked one out."

  I ran my hand through my hair, sighing. "We're in different places. That's all I'm trying to say."

  "I understand that you're not ready," he replied. "But know this: I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here, waiting for you."

  "I speak from experience when I tell you waiting isn't a winning strategy," I said, a rueful grin spreading across my lips. "Don't waste your time repeating my mistakes."

  His eyes crinkled as he stared at me. "I don't see it that way."

  "Find someone who doesn't make you wait, Jackson. It's not worth it."

  Jackson took a breath and glanced away, his eyebrows inching upward. "I have to disagree with you there," he replied. "You might know this town and everyone in it, but you don't know me. If you did, you wouldn't try to change my mind when I already know it. You'd know I'm not a dumb cop fixated on somethin' pretty. You'd also know that I have enough patience to wait for what I want and enough sense to know when it's worth waiting for."

  He leaned in, sliding his hand through my hair, and brushed his lips over mine. It was quick but earnest, making promises I realized he intended to keep.

  "Good night, Annette," Jackson said, dropping a kiss on my forehead.

  The forehead kiss hit me hard. Somehow, it was more intimate than the straightforward lip lock and it left me aching for more. And that—that right there—was the worst part of this. I couldn't believe anything I felt. Wanting more, wanting to leave, wanting anything; all of it came at me like the first steep ascent on a rollercoaster. I didn't know what waited after the peak and I couldn't pry my fingers away from my face long enough to find out.

  "Good night, Jackson," I replied, lifting my gaze to his. "I'll see you around town."

  I already knew I was going to bake for him, see him, kiss him again. I knew it as well I knew my own name. Despite all the doubts and distortions in my mind, I wanted Jackson Lau.

  And he wanted me, too.

  A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. "If I don't see you first."

  * * *

  Brooke: I just watched Jackson walk you home. Then he walked back to his house.

  Brooke: Why, pray tell, was he doing that?

  Brooke: Is it my turn with him? Is that what's happening? We're going to time share his ass? Full-on sister-wife this thing?

  Brooke: If that is the case, it's in our best interest to draw up an agreement now. Terms, conditions, operational standards.

  Brooke: I'll get started on the documents.

  Brooke: Okay. Done. I had something similar sitting on my hard drive and it was easy enough to change the key details.

  Brooke: I assume you're fine with alternating weekends because I'm all about hard partying Saturday nights followed by lazy Sunday mornings and it would suck if I couldn't have him for those consecutive days.

  Annette: What the hell are you talking about?

  Brooke: Shari
ng Jackson.

  Annette: Oh my god.

  Brooke: What?!? It makes perfect sense.

  Annette: I sent him home. He wants…lots of things.

  Brooke: And by that you mean…anal?

  Annette: OH MY GOD. Brooke!

  Brooke: Am I right or wrong? I'm…I don't know how to interpret that response. It could go either way, really.

  Annette: He wants a relationship. He wants something serious and official and, I don't know, long term.

  Brooke: So…not anal?

  Annette: It didn't come up, no.

  Brooke: But you can't rule it out.

  Annette: Again—OH MY GOD.

  Brooke: Okay, settle down, Angel Cake.

  Brooke: Remind me why you have a problem with relationships? Because I distinctly recall us drinking Moscow mules in Bar Harbor two months ago and planning our weddings.

  Annette: It just seems like this thing with Jackson is too good to be true.

  Brooke: You're being stupid.

  Annette: Thanks, love.

  Brooke: Seriously. You're letting this Owen shit weigh you down. Stop it now.

  Annette: I am working on it, you know. I'm not trying to be this way.

  Brooke: But you're going to see him again, right?

  Annette: Yeah.

  Brooke: Does he know that?

  Annette: Maybe. Not sure.

  Brooke: Good. It's good to keep men guessing.

  Brooke: But since I have you here, could we talk about a time share arrangement?

  Annette: Was I not clear last weekend? I'll fucking end you if you touch him.

  Brooke: Okay, all right, fine. It's not a big deal. I'll just shred the documents I prepared.

  Brooke: We really did make a hunter out of you.

  Chapter 11

  Jackson

  Bun Wash

  n. A sugar syrup solution brushed onto yeasted buns on removal from the oven to impart a glaze or assist in the dusting of sugar.

  I stepped up to the counter at DiLorenzo's Diner and tucked my thumbs under my tactical belt. Before arriving in Talbott's Cove, where the sheriff's department sported tan uniforms right out of the seventies, I hadn't worn a tactical belt in years. Once I'd climbed a few ranks with the New York State Police, I traded in the uniform for suits, but muscle memory always took me back to my earliest days on the job.

  Waving to the diner's namesake, Joe DiLorenzo, I turned down the radio clipped at my shoulder. "What's good today?" I called.

  "Hiya, sheriff," Joe said. "It's all good. What? You think I'd serve you shabby chicken salad? This isn't New York."

  This was our back-and-forth. I asked him about business, he made a playful jab at New York. If I was lucky, I got a side-eyed question about when I was heading back there. These locals, they didn't think I'd last.

  "And thank god for that," I replied.

  "I'll have your order up in a couple of minutes. Can I get you something cold to drink while you wait?" He glanced at the coffee pots and soda fountains behind him. "I've got a fresh batch of lemonade today. Some iced tea, too. What'll it be?"

  "If it's no trouble, could you mix the tea and lemonade? Half and half?" I asked.

  "Trouble?" he muttered. "What kinda joint would I be running if I couldn't mix a drink? You think that hack Harniczek is the only one in this town with a good pour? Please."

  "I never doubted you." I stifled a laugh when Joe went on muttering about the price of an iced lemonade tea in New York. To his mind, everything outside the Cove was grossly overpriced.

  Joe slid a plastic cup and straw across the counter before ducking back into the kitchen, still muttering. This time, he was fed up with taxes. I didn't disagree with him there. His absence gave me a moment of unexpected quiet. When I visited local establishments on non-official business—namely, lunch—I often found myself bombarded with town gossip, safety concerns, and random gripes.

  Today was different. The diner's lunch counter was mostly empty and the handful of patrons seated in booths were busy with their food and newspapers. They paid little attention to me beyond a quick nod or wave, and that seemed like a milestone of sorts. Rather than peppering me with questions to ensure I was tending to the town's concerns, they ignored me. Either they were too famished to leave their turkey club sandwiches or they trusted me to do the job.

  "If you don't get your fine ass to that bookstore, I'm gonna fuck you up."

  Alarmed, I pivoted in search of the low, smoky voice and found Brooke Markham. She stood behind me, hipshot, arms crossed over her chest, and a glare sharp enough to cut glass. I blinked, quickly taking in her impossibly tight pants that cut off below the knee and the baggy tank top that demanded I buy her brunch.

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am?"

  "Get your ass to the bookstore," Brooke said, biting out each word. "It's not complicated, dude. Go to her. I don't care what bullshit she fed you. She's lying. She wants to see you." She uncrossed her arms and waved them at me. "Also, she's a terrible liar. I'm assuming you're at least minimally competent, which means I'm also assuming you're capable of recognizing when Angel Cakes Cortassi lies her ass off."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," I started, but Brooke was quick to interrupt.

  "Save your ma'am for someone who appreciates that shit," she snapped. "Perhaps the bookstore."

  It was my turn to cross my arms and level the glares. "The bookstore isn't a fan of it either," I replied.

  "The bookstore doesn't know what she's talking about," Brooke said, stepping into my space. "I know the bookstore is throttling your bandwidth. The bookstore thinks she needs time to sort through some issues." Her nostrils flared as she blew out an impatient breath. "The bookstore needs a push in the right direction because the bookstore doesn't believe she deserves a slab of prime rib like you."

  "Prime rib?" I repeated, failing to hold back a chuckle.

  "Oh, shut up," Brooke said, pulling a sour grimace. "You know you're hot as fuck. You're like six-five, two-fifty, jacked to shit, and your tan is a goddamn Coppertone commercial. Aside from all that, you have handcuffs and say things like, 'it can and will be held against you.'"

  I gestured toward her, openly laughing now. "Keep going. I thrive on positive feedback."

  She rolled her eyes but the motion wasn't isolated to her face. It seemed to ripple through her entire body. Every last inch of her hummed with annoyance.

  "If you don't turn around and go straight to the bookstore, I will fuck you right up," Brooke said, leaning closer to stab her finger against my chest.

  "Ow," I yelped, rubbing my solar plexus. "Was that a finger or a claw, Wolverine?"

  "I'd call you a pussy but those things can take a beating and keep on fighting. You need to get to that bookstore. Today. Now. Run really fast, reverse time, and save me from this blasted conversation. If you don't, I'll tell everyone you don't like shellfish. They'll run you out of town with pitchforks and fire." She caught my arched eyebrow and continued, "Try me. When it comes to protecting my people and launching disinformation campaigns, I'm your worst nightmare."

  "You play dirty," I said, careful to keep my voice low. This conversation needed to stay between us.

  "If you think this is dirty, I won't abuse your tender mind with details of my more effective tactics. But if you ever want to know what really happened to the Sheppard Stevenson investment banking house before the housing market bubble burst, I know where the bodies are buried and I keep the shovel close by."

  I studied her for a moment, taking in her white-blonde ponytail and diamond stud earrings. "The things you say, Miss Markham, they make me wonder whether I should call for a search warrant."

  She reached into her tank top and retrieved her mobile phone. I didn't know whether bras now came equipped with pockets and it didn't seem like the proper time to ask.

  "Do as you're told, sheriff," she murmured, busy typing and swiping.

  I stared at her for a moment, not sure I understood anything I'd heard in the past five mi
nutes. "What are you? Ex-CIA turned small town mafioso or something?"

  "Worse," Brooke said, her eyes widening as she smiled up at me. "Ex-sorority president turned hedge fund manager." She regarded me as I accepted my order from Joe. "Go to her. I won't tell you again."

  "Thank you for the advice, ma'am," I said. "I'll take it under advisement."

  She narrowed her eyes and returned her hands to her hips. "Never speak of this conversation again."

  From halfway out the door, I asked, "What conversation?"

  She turned her head, just enough to stare at me from the corner of her eyes. "Very good. We'll keep you. Now, go. I have egg salad to retrieve."

  Chapter 12

  Jackson

  Dissolve

  v. To stir a solid food and a liquid food together to form a mixture in which none of the solid remains.

  Despite Brooke's orders, I gave Annette space.

  She needed some more time to get her head on straight and I allowed it.

  Today, though, this was a different story.

  Instead of dodging the station and Annette's morning rituals, I turned the tables on her. Armed with coffee and donuts, I headed to her shop a few minutes before she usually arrived. I needed that time to straighten myself out. I needed to pull it together and fortify if I was going to carry on a conversation with the beautiful book mistress.

  I'd spent the past few nights reliving every moment of Annette up against the refrigerator. God damn, I needed to get her on a bed. Kitchen appliances were the wrong surface for worshipping quirky women.