by Stacy Finz
She sat down to draw and checked her voice mail instead. Two furious messages from Robert. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten the memo that she was no longer talking to him. That’s what she paid her lawyer to do, since calling him herself had accomplished nothing other than to raise her blood pressure.
She erased both messages and began to doodle on her sketch pad to see where it would take her. The other day, she’d visualized a dress that she hadn’t been able to put to paper. She tried drawing it. The first attempt she balled up and threw in the trash.
Focus, you need to focus.
Her second attempt was only slightly better. That too went in the garbage. She got up, walked to the window, and stared out at Colt’s house. His police cruiser was still parked on the easement road and his truck sat at the top of his steep driveway. She wondered what he was doing, then forced herself to go back to her drafting table, where over the next ninety minutes she drew a house and two stick figures. A shrink would have a heyday with that one.
She thumbed through a few fashion magazines, read a profile on Olivia Lowell that made her want to puke, and grabbed a bottle of water from the minifridge. For the next twenty minutes, she traced the bottom of the bottle, drawing dozens of circles like a crazy person.
Enough! You’re not leaving this room until you have at least one good design, she told herself.
Pencil to paper, she began sketching. First a woman’s body, then she gave her a flirty little dress with a fitted bodice and flared skirt. She added patterns, nipped in the waist, and embellished the flounce at the bottom. She emphasized the lines in black ink and shaded the folds using marker in a bold apricot. She filled in the pattern with colored pencils, holding her breath.
Finally, everything was working.
By the time she finished, the dress was sexy, fun, and had that indefinable special quality that put it above the rest. Perhaps Colt’s nature theory had actually unlocked her inhibitions, because the design was awesome. She’d done it.
“Will you look at that,” she said proudly, holding the drawing to the light for a closer inspection. Phenomenal ... and a complete replica of what she’d worn to the restaurant with Colt. The only difference was the color and pattern.
Crap, crap, crap!
She laid her head on the drafting table and pounded her fists on the laminate surface. What the hell was wrong with her? She turned to the window, wanting to jump out. Unfortunately, the second story wasn’t high enough to do anything besides break her legs.
Not leaving this room. One original design.
Delaney got up and paced. Just one original design, she repeated over and over again.
She sat back down and absently drew her croquis. A man with broad shoulders, wide chest, muscled arms, flat belly, and narrow hips. Hmm, I wonder who that looks like? Clearly, her thoughts were on Colt, not design. But okay, she’d go with it. She’d designed plenty of men’s clothing in the past.
For the next couple of hours, she let her mind take her wherever it wanted. She didn’t question herself or even stop to think about what she was doing. She just sketched. Half the time she didn’t even look at the drawing. Her hand moved of its own volition, sweeping across the page in bold strokes. Shading here, outlining there, and letting her pencil mark the final touches. At long last, she looked down at the pad to see what she’d accomplished.
A fairly good likeness of Colt’s face, complete with Ray-Bans, stared back at her. That, and a pair of cargo shorts. Cargo shorts. Wouldn’t her instructors at Parsons be proud? It turned out that nature hadn’t been her muse today, but Colt had.
She studied the drawing for a while and all she could do was laugh. Cargo shorts, for the love of God. She’d been designing couture since her eighteenth birthday. At least she now could officially leave her studio, having met the goal of one original design. Even if it was a dopey pair of cargo shorts.
Just about to go downstairs for a snack, she changed direction and on a lark headed to the room’s walk-in closet and sifted through her fabric samples. A cotton-synthetic blend in a navy blue cried out to her. The material would dry quicker than pure cotton and still be rugged enough to stand up to a beating. She played with it between her fingers, tugging it this way and that, liking the way the fabric gave. There was just enough yardage, too.
She tilted her head back and stared up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Tossing the fabric onto her cutting table, Delaney went to the computer. Normally, she’d send the hand sketch, a technical sketch, and a measurement chart to one of her pattern makers. But for this project she was just screwing around.
A couple of hours later, using professional software, she had what she needed. She could only guess Colt’s measurements. But having been in the business as long as she had, Delaney had a good eye. And frankly, she’d spent enough time looking at Colt to get it close to perfect.
She cut and sewed well into the night, using low lighting so Colt wouldn’t complain about the glare. It had been so long since she’d actually sat at a sewing machine that she feared she’d forgotten how to thread one. But like riding a bike, her memory took over and she got lost in the work.
By bedtime she had a pair of shorts that were light enough for wicking water, tough enough for weathering a rough rock climb, and as handsome as the man who would be wearing them. She hoped.
Chapter Nine
Colt nearly knocked Delaney down. She’d been at his door, poised to knock, when he rushed out. Due to good reflexes, he caught her before she hit the ground.
“Sorry.” He kept his hands on her arms, reluctant to take them off. Not because he thought she was still in danger of falling but because she felt good. Soft and womanly. She smelled good too.
“You have an emergency?” she asked.
“No.” He was just running late as usual. “What’s up?”
“I made you something.”
That’s when he noticed the girly gift bag she held in her right hand. “You did? Why?”
She waved her free hand in the air. “It’s a long story. Just consider it a thank-you for yesterday.... It was lovely.” She handed him the bag, then waited expectantly.
Colt presumed she wanted him to open it in front of her. He untied the ribbon, felt into the bag, and pulled out some sort of a garment. Shorts. Navy blue ones that looked similar to all his others. But newer and lighter.
The last time someone had given him a gift, besides his parents, was his secret Santa at the annual Garner Adventure Christmas party. It’d been a ten-dollar Starbucks travel mug. He wasn’t quite sure how to react to Delaney’s present. She was a world famous designer. The shorts were probably worth at least three figures.
“Try them on,” she said, and practically pushed him back inside the house.
He didn’t really have time, but under the circumstances how could he say no? Taking the shorts to his bedroom, he got out of his uniform pants and slipped them on.
Whoa! What was he thinking? These were nothing like his other shorts. These were freaking unbelievable. First off, they fit him like they’d been custom made to his body. Secondly, they were incredibly comfortable while being ... Hell, he didn’t know anything about fashion. But these seemed deluxe, plenty of pockets, and a cut that wasn’t so bulky and long that they made him look distorted.
He knew cargo shorts had a bad rap. A dozen women had told him so. Still, there was a reason why they were the uniform for adventure tour guides everywhere. How else could they store gear on a long hike or a climb or a sport fishing trip? Backpacks were great but not always easy to get to when you needed bear spray in a split second.
He checked them out in the mirror. Yeah, the shorts were unbelievable, all right.
“Well?” Delaney called. “Come out so I can see them.”
He walked out of his room. “Can you make me more?”
She zoomed in on him, made him turn a few times, and pulled a pin cushion out of her purse. “Stand still. They�
�re too long and a little too full in the hips.”
“What are you talking about? They’re perfect.”
“Not quite, but they will be when I alter them.”
“You’re going to take them?” He felt a sudden, irrational possessiveness over the shorts.
She had her hands all over his waist, hips, thighs, even his ass. If it weren’t for her jabbing the pins a little too close to his package, he would’ve gotten a hard-on.
“Only for the day. Then I’ll return them. Promise.”
“Jeez, Delaney, you could make a fortune with these shorts.”
“I’m glad you like them, but a fortune? Highly doubtful. I hate to break it to you, but cargo shorts are not so much in style.”
“These could be. You could singlehandedly bring ’em back.”
“I think I’ll pass. They do look great on you, however.”
“Yeah?” He looked down where she was putting the last pins in the hems.
When she finished and looked up, they locked eyes and he was a goner. If he stood there any longer he was going to kiss her and that would be . . . a stunningly bad idea.
“I’ve got to get to work,” he said, but didn’t want to move.
“Okay.” Was it his imagination or did her voice sound huskier than usual? “Just be careful of the pins when you take off the shorts.”
“I will.” He told his legs to move, but she was so close. Right there by his crotch. Ah, Jesus. “Uh . . . thanks ... Delaney. Best gift ever.”
“I doubt it, but I’m glad you like them. I’ll make the alterations and have them back to you by this evening.”
He wanted to ask her to dinner, which was stupid on so many levels. Ultimately, he didn’t because he couldn’t predict his hours. In the long run it was better that way. He could fall for a woman like Delaney Scott. But he’d already done that with Lisa, and look at what a train wreck that had been. Why couldn’t he just fall for a nice, safe, local girl?
He made it to work thirty minutes late.
Carrie Jo glanced at the clock on the wall as he passed by her desk. “Oversleep?”
He stopped and eyed her bowl of cottage cheese. “I thought you were on that cleanse.”
“I signed up for Weight Watchers.” She pointed at her meal. “This is only four points and the fruit is free.”
He had no idea what she was talking about. “Is that good?”
“I get forty-four a day, so yeah.”
“Did you exercise?”
“If you count walking to my car.”
He shook his head. “Well, at least that’s healthier than those vile juice drinks. Anything going on I should know about?”
“So far it’s been quiet. Haven’t heard a peep out of Pond Scum.”
“Don’t call him that, Carrie Jo.” Even though the name suited the mayor, he didn’t want his staff to use it. “I’ll be in my office.”
“Want coffee?”
“Why? You planning to get me a cup?”
“I figured if you were getting yourself one, you could get me one too. But not the swill here.” Jack made a pot every morning and it tasted like a cross between sludge and burned tires. “I was thinking you could get it at Tart Me Up. I’m slaving away here for you.”
He rolled his eyes. “Give me ten minutes to get caught up.” The fact was he wanted breakfast anyway.
In his office, Carrie Jo had already booted up his computer and he quickly scrolled through his e-mails. Nothing important. He made a few calls, then popped into Jack’s office.
“You want anything from Tart Me Up?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Jack said. “You hear anything from Pond Scum?”
Jeez, that name was going to get them all in trouble. “Not since the city council meeting. Hopefully that’ll keep him off our asses for a while.”
Jack made a face. “Doubtful, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
Colt walked the short block to Tart Me Up. The door jingled when he went inside. A good crowd—all waiting for their numbers to be called—called out a chorus of “Hi, Chief.” Rachel Johnson came out from the back, her apron covered in white powder.
“You have a fight with a flour sack?”
“Something like that.” Rachel’s eyes sparkled, and not for the first time Colt noticed how pretty she was.
She’d moved to Glory Junction three years ago from San Francisco, where she’d been a corporate lawyer. Following her dream of being a baker, she’d quit her law job, gone to culinary school, and bought the old Glory Junction Bakery, which had been floundering ever since Starbucks and Peet’s had come to town. For months after opening, she’d given away free samples of her delicious pastries, delivered her mouthwatering sandwiches to local businesses, and had been active with the Chamber of Commerce, which had paid off. Judging by the lines of people that started early in the morning and didn’t let up until well after lunch, Rachel was killing it.
A few times she’d subtly hinted to Colt that she was interested. He’d never acted on it, using his chief position as an excuse when really he’d never felt that zing. Who could say why? Rachel was smart, successful, gorgeous, a damned good skier, and here in Glory Junction for good. Maybe if he gave her half a chance something would develop. But that was the thing about being a public official—you couldn’t take every attractive single woman in town on a test drive.
She filled him a large cup of coffee. “What else can I get for you, Chief?”
His number hadn’t been called yet. “Why don’t I wait until my turn?”
“If you say so. I only figured that your time would be better spent keeping our streets safe. But I certainly enjoy your company.” She smiled at him. “How’s life treating you?”
“Not bad. You?”
“Good. We’re planning to compete this year in the End-of-Summer kayak races and to kick Garner Adventure’s butt.”
Colt scrutinized the three kids working behind the counter. One he’d known since grade school: the boy had more piercings than brains. Another looked as if she hadn’t seen sunlight in three years, and the third was having trouble operating the espresso machine. “I wouldn’t get too cocky.”
“Don’t underestimate us,” she warned good-heartedly.
“I would never do that, Rachel.” He grinned back at her, hoping that if he flirted ... tried hard enough ... he might feel the same pull of attraction he did with Delaney. But nothing. Not so much as a twitch south of his belt.
When it got to his turn, he ordered a ham and cheese croissant and two coffees to go. “See you, Rachel.”
Back at the office, he ate his sandwich and fielded calls. There was a domestic up on McClatchy Ridge. Those could get hairy, so he sent two of his most seasoned officers. Then TJ called to see if he could teach a beginning rock-climbing class on Sunday.
“Come on. I thought you were looking for more people to hire.”
“I’m working on it. But with school starting . . .” A lot of their guides were college kids who moved to Glory Junction just for the summer. Some literally camped at the state park for three months and used the showers at GA.
“I’ll look at my schedule,” he told TJ. “In the meantime, see if you can find someone else.”
“I’ll do my best, but no one teaches that class better than you.”
Colt groaned. “Nice try, but flattery will get you nowhere.” He hung up.
It turned out to be a peaceful day, despite his late start. Colt was even thinking of taking off on time for once when his private line lit up. Usually Carrie Jo intercepted those calls but she’d already gone for the day.
He picked up. “Garner.”
“Please stay on the line for Mayor Pond,” said his honor’s secretary, who then whispered, “Sorry, Colt, he makes me say that.”
Jesus Christ, you would think the guy was the POTUS. “No problem, Josephine.” Colt waited, listening to the god-awful Muzak in the background.
“Colt”—the mayor’s voice finally came over t
he line—“I wanted to talk to you about the End-of-Summer kayak races.”
“What about them?”
“I want you to head up Glory Junction PD’s team.”
“We don’t have a team.” In the past, the city had always represented all its municipal offices in the races and Colt had been on the Garner Adventure team. “We don’t even have kayaks.”
“I have one on order for you.”
The city had voted against new Kevlar vests for the department, but it could afford a kayak? Pretty shitty prioritizing if you asked Colt. But no one was.
“All right,” Colt said with reluctance. He had nothing against representing the police department. It was his department after all. It’s just that he’d always kayaked for GA and he got the distinct feeling that Pond Scum wanted to cause division between Colt and his family. A little payback, perhaps, for the Garner show of solidarity at the city council meeting.
“I expect a victory, Colt.” And with that the mayor hung up.
Colt couldn’t be sure if the mayor had just made a veiled threat: win or else. The guy was enough of a dick that Colt wouldn’t be surprised.
He packed up and headed out before the mayor called to bother him again. On his way home, Colt contemplated dinner. He didn’t have anything in his fridge. His brothers had eaten the last of his chips and bean dip. After changing out of his uniform maybe he’d go to the Indian place for some tandoori. If Delaney happened to be available, maybe they could go together.
Ah, Jesus, he was so screwed.
When he pulled onto their easement road there was a car in the coveted space. A Mercedes Roadster, not Delaney’s Tesla. His stomach sank. She probably had a date. At the top of his driveway, Colt took the time to turn the cruiser around in case he got called out, then walked down the steep grade.
Halfway to the kitchen door, he heard raised voices coming from Delaney’s house. He took a detour across the lawn to get a better look. She was on her deck with Robert and they appeared to be having an argument. It didn’t look physical and he mulled over whether to intervene or not. It was clearly a postdivorce thing, probably having to do with their business and the use of her name. Unfortunately, he’d seen domestic arguments turn to violence on a dime, not that he expected it in this case. But for Delaney’s sake, he wanted to break it up. He supposed he could say they were disrupting the peace, even though in reality the only peace they were disrupting was his.
