by Liz Isaacson
“And you haven’t come over?” Tate asked after a few heartbeats of silence.
“Do you want me to come over?” Wren wasn’t sure why the level of shock in her voice had skyrocketed.
“Maybe you’d like to see the place at a more leisurely pace than driving by.”
“I would like to know how you got that roof looking so good.”
“Oh, the roof? That was all muscle.” A flirtier man would’ve flexed for her, but he simply continued to lean against the counter like he had nowhere else to be. He straightened abruptly and knocked on the counter. “Come by tonight if you want. I’ll show you around.”
Tate backed up a couple of steps, but Wren didn’t want him to go. “Oh, and sorry about Monday. I’m sure I came off as a jerk.”
She waved her hand, though she had found him a bit off-putting. “You were fine.”
“Sully didn’t seem to think so.”
“Sully? The dog?”
“He keeps me in line most of the time.” Tate shot her a smile. “See you later, Wren.” He turned and went through the door, taking all the oxygen with him. Or at least it seemed that way to Wren, because the air was colder now that she was all alone again.
She glanced at the clock, and the few hours until she could go home—until she could casually go next door with something sweet from the bakery, if she were being honest with herself—seemed forever away.
Chapter 4
After Tate left the nearly impossible to find Jack of All Trades, which was only a block from the police department, he went to see his new boss. Well, his new boss come Monday.
“Is Chief Rasband around?” he asked Lesli, the woman who ran things in the department, probably the same way Wren managed her family’s business.
“Gone for the day,” the brunette said without looking up or putting any inflection in her voice. “He said to give you this.” She picked up a folder and extended it toward him without looking away from the paperwork on her desk.
“Oh, okay.” Tate took the folder, wondering how the chief had known to leave it for him.
“He said he thought you might stop by, and that has your first assignment.”
“My first assignment?” He flipped open the folder and found only a few sheets of paper inside. One looked like it had a map of Brush Creek on it. The one behind that had a list of…restaurants? Shops maybe. Local businesses.
The last paper simply said in blocky handwriting, old school-like in all caps: GET TO KNOW THE TOWN.
“This is my first assignment?” He turned the folder to show Lesli, who gave him the courtesy of looking at it. Quickly—barely long enough to read it—but still. She’d looked.
“Yep. Seems about right.”
“How am I going to do that?”
She sighed like he’d interrupted the most important paperwork on the planet and finally gave him her full attention. “If you’re going to be dealing with the people who live here, you should know how we do things.”
“How you do things?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice, or apparently, out of his eyebrows as they shot up. “Isn’t there a law to uphold?”
“’Course,” Lesli said. “But not everything is so black and white.”
Oh, yes it was. That was exactly what had appealed to Tate about law enforcement. That there was exactly black and white, with very little gray. It made decision-making easier. Took the emotion out of things.
Tate looked back at the folder. “So I guess I’ll go around and visit these places this weekend.” He’d made most of the repairs on his house over the past five days, but he had furniture coming in tomorrow morning, and then a meeting with a gardener so he could start to get his lawn back in shape in the afternoon.
The list of businesses on the second sheet was three columns deep, and desperation tore through Tate.
“I’d find a guide,” Lesli said, back to her bored voice.
“A guide?”
“Someone who’s lived here their whole lives,” she clarified. “It’ll make the process much faster. They’ll be able to tell you the hot spots, show you where the locals go, talk about who’s who in town, give you the lowdown on local traditions, that kind of thing.”
Tate’s synapses fired at the speed of sound. “And who would you hire, Lesli?”
She looked up at him, her dark eyes glittering now. She had to be a decade older than him, but when she smiled, it took years off her face. “Someone easy to access. Someone who knows a lot of people in town. Maybe someone who’s a small business owner themselves.”
He blinked at her, trying to make the pieces fall into place. Easy to access. Someone closeby. Someone who’d grown up here and continued to work with a lot of townspeople. Someone who owned—all at once, the pieces aligned. “Like a neighbor.”
She grinned and tapped her temple. “I knew you were a thinker, Benson. I have a sixth sense about these things.” She shook her head and moved her pen down another sheet of paper, the conversation clearly over.
Tate pinched the folder in his fingers and faced the exit. So he had his first assignment. He had no idea how long he had to complete it, and he wasn’t on the official payroll until Monday anyway.
He’d already invited Wren over that evening, but she hadn’t accepted and Tate had seen the indecision in her eyes. He’d seen a lot of things sitting there, as she wore everything she was feeling in her expression. He actually liked it. She was a refreshing and different kind of woman than Tate was used to interacting with.
Of course, he wasn’t interested in interacting with any women in Brush Creek. That wasn’t why he’d come here, and some of the wounds on his heart still bled from the sudden decline of his first marriage and then the loss of the only person who had helped him through that ordeal.
Still, as he left the police station and should’ve turned left to head back to his truck, he turned right instead—toward the building that housed Jack of All Trades. He needed a tour guide, and Wren was the perfect candidate in his opinion. Now he just needed her to agree.
He kept a prayer streaming through his mind as he made the quick walk down the block, pausing only when he reached the door to the suite where she sat. He took the time to inhale one more time, the way he’d done countless times before his missions overseas, and then he opened the door and went inside.
This time, though, the reception area was empty.
“Wren?” he called. Music lilted from behind the reception counter, and he went that way, the folder clutched in his fist. Through the doorway, he found a kitchen—but no Wren. He wasn’t sure what kind of car she drove, and with the movie theater in the building around the corner, he couldn’t be sure all the cars in the lot were here for these offices anyway.
He was just about to turn around and find a comfortable spot to sit and wait for her when she came through the back door. “Oh!” The white cake box she carried stuttered in her hands, and she teetered though she wore sneakers and not heels.
Tate lunged forward, sensing whatever the box held shouldn’t hit the floor, and threw his hands underneath hers. A groan escaped his mouth as they bobbled the box together, finally steadying it between them. Her side of the cardboard touched her chest, and his side touched his, and as he locked eyes with the beautiful Wren Fuller.
His thoughts tumbled, but he was very aware of the heat of his hands against hers. Very aware of the scent of her skin, which reminded him of sugar and oranges. Very aware of the slight way she gasped as she breathed in.
“You got it?” he asked, his voice rough around the edges.
She nodded, her tongue darting out to wet her pink lips. Tate stared at her mouth, wondering if she’d taste as good as she smelled. That thought seemed to bring him back to his senses, because he dropped his hands from under hers like she’d caught fire and moved back as quickly as he’d lunged forward.
He cleared his throat, no longer the strong, stoic Marine when it came to this woman. Which utterly baffled him. He’d only inte
racted with her a handful of times and barely knew her. But the attraction between them was powerful, magnetic, and he shook his head to try to clear it. He hadn’t been this disoriented since waking up still strapped in the car he’d been driving when they’d been sideswiped.
“Uh….” He couldn’t make his vocal chords form words, because nothing was receiving directions from his brain.
“I ran out to get a cake,” she explained, moving to the counter and setting the box down. How she had normal functions, he wasn’t sure. She opened the lid and examined the contents. “It’s fine. A little smooshed on this side, but we can still eat it.”
We launched him into motion. “We?” He took slow steps to her side and looked at the cake too. It wasn’t safe to look at Wren, he knew that. The way his heart gonged against his breastbone testified of it.
“I was going to bring it over tonight.” She shifted closer to him, and he took it as a sign that the pulse of electricity between them wasn’t only on his end of things. “You did say I could come over, right?”
“Yeah.” His voice scratched and came out too high. He cleared it again as a rush of foolishness herded through him. He was thirty-three-years-old, for crying out loud. And he’d been married before.
And it felt exactly like this, he thought.
Everything in him told him to get out of this kitchen. Leave the office. Get on out of town as fast as possible.
Tate absolutely did not want another relationship. He knew himself too well, for one. If he got involved with a woman, there was only one end goal: Marriage. He didn’t date casually—didn’t do anything casually.
Confused, and torn, and unsure of what to do, he watched as Wren swiped her finger through one of the ruined roses of frosting and lifted it to her lips.
“Mm,” she said. “It’s good.” She almost leaned into him, and Tate really wanted her to. He could almost lift his arm over her shoulders and it would be normal.
“I have a favor to ask you.” His voice was completely betraying him, as it now sounded husky and warm.
Wren settled her weight on her right leg, shifting herself further from him. “It’s not cleaning your house, is it?”
He shook his head, losing himself in the pale blue color of her eyes. They reminded him of the sky over Arizona in the winter, where he’d lived while his father received some intelligence training at Fort Huachuca.
She reached out and touched his cheek, and dang it if he couldn’t help himself from leaning into her touch. He realized in that breath, that single moment, that he craved the touch of another human being even though he’d told himself he didn’t.
He wasn’t sure what she was thinking or feeling, but her eyes blazed with intense emotion. “What’s the favor?” she whispered. Her hand fell away, and Tate mourned the loss of it.
“I got my first assignment for my new job on the police force,” he said, his strength returning with each word he spoke. “I need a tour guide for the town. I’m supposed to become familiar with it, get to know the customs and traditions, that kind of thing.”
She inched further away and dropped her gaze back to the white-frosted cake. “Oh, well, you don’t want me then.”
“Sure I do.”
Her eyes flew back to his, and he forced his lips to curve upward though he realized what he’d said and how it could be taken out of context. “Who knows the town better than you?”
“Probably no one,” she admitted.
“Exactly,” he said, almost feeling like himself again. “So you bring over that cake tonight, and I’ll show you around my house, and then you can educate me on some Brush Creek history.”
When she didn’t say sure, all right immediately, Tate wondered if her past here in town was as scarred as his had been. He’d never really had anywhere to call a hometown. In fact, this was the first place he’d moved where he didn’t have a plan to leave in six months or a year.
Inhaling a measure of bravery into his lungs, he brushed his fingers against hers. “I can see you need some time to think about it. I’ll leave my number at the front desk, and you can let me know if you’re coming.”
He moved away before he acted on his insane and swiftly morphing idea to kiss her and had his number almost written on her pad of Post-It notes at her desk before she said, “Why do you need to know if I’m coming or not?”
“Well, for one, I need to know if I’m going to get cake for dinner.” He flashed her a smile and finished the phone number. “And how much I need to clean up first. And if I should order pizza to go with the cake.” Straightening, he looked at her fully one more time. Even in that silly Batman shirt and jeans, he could appreciate the curve of her body.
“If you decide not to come, maybe you could just text me the best church to attend on Sunday. I’ve seen a few around town.” He indicated the Post-It notes, smiled in what he hoped was a charming way, and left the office.
He half-hoped she’d come crashing through the door and call out, “See you tonight!” with a gleeful wave. Wren seemed the type to do such a thing. But he made it all the way back to his truck and all the way home, where the windows that had been going in that morning were now finished, before his phone buzzed.
See you tonight.
His smile widened, and Tate realized it was the first genuine one he’d worn in a long, long time.
This is Wren, by the way.
“What…kind…of…pizza?” He spoke out loud as he typed, not ready to get out of the air conditioned car anyway. The HVAC company he’d hired out of Vernal couldn’t come for another week, and Tate had invested in the best fans the department store here in town carried. But all they did was blow the hot air around.
Order from Pieology, her text read. I like the Simplistic one, but anything there is good.
Tate liked loads of toppings on his pizza, and Simplistic didn’t sound like that. But it didn’t matter. He could order two pizzas. Or three, he thought as his stomach growled.
And I want the blood orange lemonade, she added. I can pay you back.
He frowned at the last part of her text, surprised at how forcefully he loathed the idea of her paying for any part of this…date.
Do they deliver the lemonade? He sent the text, hoping he knew how to flirt and court a woman. It had been years since he’d been in a position to have to know such things.
They’ll deliver whatever you want.
He started typing another message when one more from Wren came in.
But I’m bringing the cake.
And herself. While Tate really wanted a taste of that cake, he craved Wren’s company more than any amount of sugar, and the promise of seeing her in just a few hours was a sweet balm to his weary soul.
Chapter 5
Wren left the office an hour earlier than she normally did, giving up at least four games of solitaire on her computer so she could stand in front of her closet and obsess.
She wore cute black shorts and a pair of strappy ebony sandals already. But she couldn’t figure out which top to pair with it. If this were a date—if she and Tate were actually going to physically step inside Pieology and order there, eat there, she’d wear the multi-colored floral blouse she’d bought online a few months ago.
But she was just going to his house. Next door. Did that warrant a blouse? Was it a date if they had pizza delivered? What if she showed up looking like she’d tried too hard?
Any number of her T-shirts would be fine, and she’d be more comfortable. But maybe since she’d already confessed to Tate that she didn’t need the glasses, she could show him another side of her. One who wore frilly dresses and ribbons in her hair. If her hair was cooperating, which of course, it wasn’t.
Her phone rang before she could decide, and when she saw Berlin’s name on the screen, she practically leapt for the device lying on her dresser. “Berlin, thank the stars,” she said without bothering for hello. Her youngest sister at only nineteen, Berlin was Wren’s best friend and deepest confidante. She’d be cal
ling about something she’d seen at the market where she worked or that she’d been asked out.
Wren needed help first, so she launched right into, “So let’s say you met a handsome man and he happens to be your next-door neighbor. Let’s say you maybe flirted with him a little, and went and bought a cake in the hopes that he has a sweet tooth, and somehow despite all your blunders, it worked and you’re going over to his place tonight. He’s ordering pizza and you’re going so he can show you all the work he’s done on this super old, run-down house. Oh! And he’s asked you to be his official tour guide for all things Brush Creek.” She scanned the array of colors in her closet with a bit of dismay now.
“What would you wear?” she finished.
Berlin burst out laughing.
“What?” Wren asked. “Stop it. This is serious.” She reached out and fingered the sleeve of a fuschia T-shirt that had a ice cream cone on the front with googly-eyes and a blinding white smile. Large black letters read I SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM across the chest. Ice cream did go with cake….
“And here I was, calling you for fashion advice,” Berlin said, still chuckling. “I’ll go last. Tell me who this is again?”
“I have a new, gorgeous neighbor,” Wren said. “He moved into the Hammond house. You know the one that’s been abandoned for at least a decade?”
“You cleaned it earlier this week.”
“That’s the one.” Wren turned away from her choices, her cones and rods all seeing nothing but bright pink. “I told him I only wear the glasses to make myself look smarter.”
“Oh, wow.” Berlin exhaled and added, “All right. So you’re attracted to him, obviously, but you’re not sure if this is a date.”
“This is why you’re my favorite,” Wren said.