Courting the Cop

by Coleen Kwan

  Her eyes softened, and a little dimple appeared in her cheek. “I don’t think a woman can ever hear that enough.”

  Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pressed up against her spine. “Should I tell you again?”

  “Yes, please.” She leaned back against him, the curve of her ass rubbing against his groin.

  He breathed in her scent. She smelled of soap and parsley and woman. Intoxicating. His hands skimmed over her apron, coming to rest on her hips.

  “Let me tell you, then. You are amazing and exquisite and you drive me crazy. Especially in this sexy apron of yours.” Her body shook slightly with silent laughter. “Oh yeah, I’m not kidding. I’m gonna show you how sexy this apron is.” He shifted his hand beneath the apron to the waistband of her tights. “See, I’m gonna get you naked under this apron, and then I’m gonna help you with the housekeeping, like that Formica table over there. It looks like it needs someone bending over it and giving it a good, hard buffing, and that’s what you and me are going to do— Oh Christ, Abigail, if you grind your ass against my junk for much longer we won’t get to the buffing part—oh, yeah, that’s good. Right there. Don’t stop…”

  Chapter Eight

  “I saw that Spike jackass in the rear lane the other day,” Phyllis said as she prepared to leave following the Tuesday Knit and Natter session. “Up to no good, I’m sure.”

  “Well, if he does anything illegal, he’ll break his bail conditions,” Abigail said, “and be put back in jail.”

  Phyllis nodded as she pulled on her gloves. “I’ve noticed a few more cops on the beat. Maybe someone finally paid attention to our complaints.”

  When the old lady left the store, Abigail shut the door and spun around, making for the espresso machine where Brody was tidying up.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, running her fingers along his arm. God, she loved touching him.

  He turned to her with a tired smile. “About what?”

  “The extra uniforms on patrol. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “I had a word with the sergeant. But don’t get too excited. He can’t afford to have them out there long-term.” He stifled a yawn.

  “We’re grateful for any help we can get, so thank you.” She reached up to touch his jaw. “Brody, you look exhausted. You shouldn’t have come in today.”

  “I wanted to check in.”

  His tiredness wasn’t due to her keeping him up, since they hadn’t slept together since Sunday night. It must be his police work, but she knew by now that Brody didn’t like discussing his work with her.

  “Late night shifts?” she asked sympathetically.

  “No. Would you believe a blinking streetlight’s been keeping me up all night? It’s right outside my apartment. It started flickering a week ago, and last night it drove me completely nuts. I woke up even more tired and with a splitting headache.”

  “Don’t you have any blinds or drapes?”

  “Yeah, but the drapes are as thin as paper.”

  Her first thought was to invite him to sleep with her tonight, but that wasn’t a long-term solution. Besides, she didn’t want him thinking she was needy after just one night apart. They weren’t in a relationship, and she couldn’t expect anything from him.

  “I have spare drapes,” she said instead. “Proper ones with lining. You can have them, if you like.”

  “Yeah? Who has spare drapes?”

  “My aunt did, when she redecorated. Do you want them?”

  “That would be great.” He nodded, seeming genuinely pleased.

  “I can help you put them up. They probably need hemming, since they were made for a tall set of windows.”

  Brody palmed the back of his neck. “Well, sure.”

  The reserve in his expression pinched at her heart, just a little. “Don’t worry. I’m not planning to move in with you or anything.” She hadn’t minded that he hadn’t invited her over to his apartment, but she had to admit she was more than a little curious to see the place.

  “Huh.” He gave her a wry smile. “Guess you can read me like a book.”

  “In this case, yes.” And she was picking up his discomfort loud and clear. He needn’t worry. This wasn’t a real relationship. She had no claim over him. She pushed her facial muscles into a light smile. “Want to do the drapes after work tonight?”

  He nodded. “I’ll pick you up at six.” Bending, he pressed his lips to her cheek. “Thanks.”

  He folded his arms around her and hugged her tight, his warmth enveloping her, but deep down the pinch in her heart lingered.

  As Brody ushered Abigail into his apartment, it occurred to him that maybe he should’ve ducked home during the day to tidy up the place, but it was too late, and besides, by male standards, he didn’t think he was too much of a pig.

  Abigail’s eyes were lively as she glanced about his living-slash-kitchen area. In her presence, he became acutely aware of the differences between his apartment and hers. His was modern and functional, a no-frills approach. There was his black Naugahyde couch, wide-screen TV, a couple of bookcases. The kitchen area ran along one wall of the room. The walls were beige, and the carpet a renters-special speckled gray.

  “Well,” she said, looking around. “So this is home.”

  Brody set down the drapes and the portable sewing machine that Abigail had brought along.

  “I don’t spend a whole lot of time here.” So why did he feel vaguely uneasy about having her over? Maybe it was because he didn’t like blurring the boundaries between them. But, he realized, those boundaries had been well and truly smudged from the first moment he’d kissed her.

  “I can see.” She gestured to the bookcases. “But you read a lot.”

  “Not poetry, I’m afraid.” He gave her a wry smile. “Mostly thrillers and mysteries and true crime.”

  “Can’t get away from your job, can you?” She grinned back at him. “Well? Show me your bedroom.”

  Despite his uneasiness, his blood throbbed at her words. Abigail and a bedroom. Yeah, he could go for that.

  But there was nothing seductive about her as she followed him into his bedroom and eyed the drapes, barely sparing a glance at the large king-sized bed, which luckily he’d made this morning.

  “Oh, these are no good.” She shook her head as she fingered the thin, unlined drapes. “And that streetlight is way too bright, even if it wasn’t flickering. It’s like a nightclub in here. No wonder you can’t sleep. Here, help me get these off, will you?”

  He unhooked the drapes and handed them to Abigail, who promptly returned to the living room.

  “I’m using it to measure up the new drapes,” she explained as she spread out the old over the new.

  Brody watched in awe as Abigail worked with efficient speed. Within a few minutes she’d set up her sewing machine on his coffee table and hemmed up the new drapes. She helped him hang them up, and they both stood back to admire their handiwork.

  “Hope you don’t mind the pattern,” Abigail said, nodding at the green-and-blue paisley design on the plush fabric.

  The drapes were the kind a woman would choose and out of place in his starkly masculine bedroom, but he didn’t care because the thick lining would guarantee him a glare-free night.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  Abigail glanced up at him, a teasing smile on her lips. “I think I have some cushions to match.”

  “You really want my mom asking awkward questions about my matching drapes and cushions, don’t you?”

  “Glad to hear you let your mom visit your apartment.”

  If his mom and Abigail ever met… He shook his head. That wasn’t going to happen, not if he could help it. He had enough boundaries blurring as it was. He didn’t need that one getting muddied too.

  He looped an arm around Abigail and squeezed her to his side. “Thanks
for the drapes, Abby. Want to go out for a drink before I drive you home?”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Here? In your neighborhood?”

  “Well, sure. There’s a bar just round the block.”

  But even as he agreed, that ambiguous uneasiness welled up again. Up to now, he and Abigail hadn’t gone out anywhere, not to a bar, coffee shop, pizza joint, nothing. So by inviting her out—even if it was only a beer at his local bar—was he progressing whatever it was they had into an actual “relationship”?

  Shoot. He was so confused, so bad at this. He should’ve known giving in to Abigail’s temptation would land him in this lather. But he wanted to spend time with her, and he wanted to thank her for the drapes.

  “Okay.” Abigail’s smile was tentative. “Just a quick drink.”

  He rested his hand in the small of her back as he led her out of the apartment, and familiar desire rose. He would buy her a drink, after which he’d take her home and really show her his appreciation.

  The borders were definitely blurring, but for the moment he’d go with it.

  “So do you have to work on Thanksgiving?” Abigail asked as she toyed with her glass of wine. Brody’s offer to buy her a drink had taken her by surprise, a nice surprise, but now they were here in his local drinking spot, he shifted in his seat and fiddled with his beer. He seemed uncomfortable, as if he wasn’t sure what he was doing here with her, so she hoped her mundane question would put him at ease.

  “Nope. Got the day off. We’re going to my aunt’s place this year.”

  “We?”

  “My mom, Shannon and her family. Caitlin’s coming too. Haven’t seen her since September.”

  “Sounds nice.” Abigail hoped she didn’t sound too wistful, but she envied Brody his large, close family.

  Brody took a slug of his beer. “How about you?”

  “I’ll be having Thanksgiving dinner with Mr. Mariano and Sophia and Carlo and Gina, like always.” She kept her voice light, steady. “It’ll be strange without Aunt Edna, though.”

  Brody’s rough, warm hand descended on hers. He didn’t say anything, just comforted her with his touch while he pushed his beer glass around with his other hand. After a while he said casually, “I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s time you packed up some of your aunt’s things.”

  Her gaze flew to his as a small lump formed in her throat. “I’ve started a couple of times, but it was too hard. You know?”

  He nodded in understanding. “Yeah, it’s hard.”

  “I know I should do it.” She sighed. “Six months. It’s not healthy.”

  He squeezed her hand softly. “Want me to help?”

  “You? Honestly?”

  “Well, sure. I could come over on Thanksgiving after dinner. Might make it easier for you to have someone else there who didn’t know your aunt.”

  He’d do this for her? He didn’t know her all that well, yet he was still willing to help her in what was sure to be a depressing task. Her heart warmed. Beneath the tough-cop exterior, Brody was such a sweetheart, and his generosity was putting her heart in serious jeopardy.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, smiling her thanks at him. “I think I’d really like that.”

  And so it happened that the Thanksgiving she’d privately been dreading turned out to be better than expected. Not that she didn’t shed a tear or two in private. But Sophia and the Marianos were wonderful to her, drawing her into their loud Italian feast and never giving her a spare moment to brood.

  After she’d eaten and drunk way too much and helped to wash and pack everything away, she said goodbye and hurried home next door to wait for Brody. He was the perfect person to help her go through Aunt Edna’s things. He was unsentimental and efficient, yet he was sensitive too, knowing when she needed time to stop and reminisce. She’d clung on to Aunt Edna’s belongings because she missed her so much and had felt so lonely, but finally she was ready to let go.

  Together, they went through her aunt’s clothing. Abigail set aside a few precious outfits but the rest was bagged, ready for Goodwill. When the closet was cleared, Abigail surveyed the remaining furniture and decided it was time to call Stanley, who ran a vintage homewares store in the neighborhood. Her aunt’s furniture was well made and nicely maintained and deserved a new home.

  “You sure you don’t want to keep some of those fancy hats?” Brody asked as she picked up her aunt’s marabou hat, ready to bag it and all the others. “I mean, you are keen on that fifties stuff.”

  Abigail twirled the hat in her fingers. “Yes, it’s fun to dress up now and again, but I don’t think I want to be mired forever in the fifties.”

  “What? But what about those courting rules and letter jackets and all that other stuff you were so keen on?” Brody teased her.

  “Maybe I’ve outgrown them.” But her laugh wasn’t as light as she wished. Maybe she hadn’t outgrown them, just stopped hoping. She definitely wasn’t expecting any courting from Brody.

  She bagged her aunt’s hats in silence, wondering if Brody had ever gone out of his way to do something special for a woman he was truly, madly in love with. She doubted it, because Brody wasn’t the type to fall in love in the first place. She really had to stop wishing for the moon.

  “What about these?” Brody opened a drawer filled with Aunt Edna’s hand-knitted sweaters and scarves. “You’ll keep all these, I guess?”

  “A few of them, but I’ll give most of them away.” She picked up another black plastic garbage bag and gathered up a pile of sweaters.

  Brody raised his eyebrows. “I thought you’d hang on to them, being such a knitty enthusiast.”

  Abigail smiled. “I was never as big a knitty enthusiast as my aunt was.”

  “Oh? But why are you so hell-bent on keeping your yarn store running?”

  “I guess because it’s important to keeping the community spirit,” she said slowly. “I like knitting, but I enjoy teaching people about knitting more. That’s the teacher in me, I suppose.”

  “You’re good at that. I’ve noticed how patient you are with those women at the Knit and Natter.”

  She was surprised by her sudden flush of pleasure at his praise. Shoot, so Brody thought she made a good teacher?

  She nodded, inordinately flustered by his compliment. “Maybe I’ll run some formal classes next year, if I’m still in business.”

  “No reason why you wouldn’t be, and I bet your classes will be popular.”

  She gazed at him, appreciation welling up. “Thank you, Brody. I know this is hardly a fun thing to do on Thanksgiving, so I’m really glad you’re here.”

  Eyes warming, he stepped over a bulging bag and pressed his hand to her waist. “You’re welcome. And I can think of plenty of ways you could thank me.”

  “Oh yeah?” She grinned back at him. “How about I knit you a nice warm scarf.”

  He brushed his nose against hers. “I was thinking of something else. Something warmer and a helluva lot nicer.”

  His feathery caress triggered a sudden spurt of lust. Maybe it wasn’t exactly appropriate, getting turned on while she was going through her late aunt’s things, but she was glad of it. Her desire for Brody reassured her that she was young and alive and attractive, judging by the simmer in his gaze.

  “I can’t imagine what that is.” Dropping the pile of sweaters, she curled her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe. “Remind me again?” she murmured against his mouth.

  He crushed her to him and proceeded to remind her in great detail exactly how nice and warm he could make her feel.

  Abigail sighed as she sauntered into the living room. It was Sunday night, a time when she was usually relaxing with a book or her knitting, getting some rest before the working week started up. So far, this Sunday evening was very different from her normal routine.

  For starters, Brody
had turned up with two submarine sandwiches stuffed with roast beef. They had eaten the subs, and then they’d discussed dessert and pies, and somehow the conversation had veered from sweet things to saucy, and before she knew it they were tumbling onto her bed, pulling clothes off each other while they frantically tried to kiss every inch of bare skin.

  She couldn’t help smiling and sighing again as she traced her fingers over her neck where Brody’s stubble had left red marks. She arched her back, her body still thrumming from the fast and frantic sex, a long trail of desire flickering deep in her bloodstream. Every cell pulsed. She felt alive and vibrant, and she knew it was all because of Brody. Because of how he made her feel. When those lust-filled hazel-green eyes fixed on her, she felt special, unique, like she was the only woman in the world who could inspire that look in him.

  Chuckling, she drifted over to her aunt’s collection of records and lifted one onto the old-fashioned turntable. Brody was still in her bedroom, reviewing his surveillance tapes and keeping a lookout on Mrs. O’Brien’s house. She’d leave him in peace for a while; she knew how important his police work was to him, how eager he was to catch Michael O’Brien.

  The strains of “Tain’t What You Do” filled the living room. She moved to the center of the room and shuffled her feet in time to the music, clicking her fingers at each beat. She began to dance. Stomp-brush-step with her right foot, then with her left, hips and shoulders swaying.

  “Push it and you push it,” she murmured to herself, running the choreography through her mind. “And you…crossover…”

  She shimmied until the end of the routine and paused to run her fingers through her hair.

  “Do that again.” Brody’s voice from the doorway startled her. He leaned against the doorframe, looking tempting as sin in his low-slung jeans, barefoot, his unbuttoned shirt revealing a delicious slice of abdomen.

  “You like my Shim Sham?” She straightened, wondering how long he’d been watching her.