Can't Hurry Love

by Melinda Curtis

  The apartment was empty.

  She’d escaped? Drew spun around. Not possible. She would’ve had to call someone with a handcuff key, and that someone would’ve arrested Drew.

  Just to be sure she was gone, Drew checked the shower and under the bed.

  His pulse was racing, pounding at his temples. He needed coffee. He needed his cop sense to kick in. He needed a miracle to avoid prison.

  Drew took slow, deep breaths and surveyed the room one more time.

  The headboard hadn’t been hacksawed. The bed was still neatly made. The cop uniform was strewed on the floor but the blond wig was nowhere to be seen.

  If she’d been rescued, she wouldn’t have stopped to change. Which meant…she’d escaped?

  Drew ran a hand over his hair and back again. “She picked the lock?” It hardly seemed possible. But she had. And she also had a new theory about Randy and multiple lovers.

  He slammed the door and ran down the stairs. In no time, he was in the farmhouse. “Becky, we need to leave early for Sunday breakfast.”

  Becky sat up. She had a bad case of bedhead. “Can you braid my hair?”

  Drew bit back a groan. Braids. He hated braids. “Not today, honey.”

  She huffed. “That’s what you always say.”

  She was right. He avoided braiding her hair like his mother avoided going to the dentist. Drew went to get a brush and some hair bands. If he was going to be arrested for kidnapping, he wanted to make his baby happy one last time.

  Nearly forty minutes and what seemed like forty failed attempts at a decent braid later, Drew parked the cruiser in front of Lola’s house. “Stay in the car.”

  Becky undid her booster buckle, hopped over the seat, and reached for the radio. “Can I talk to Flo while I wait?”

  “No.”

  Becky pouted, turning to stare out the window at Lola’s house. “Who’s that in the window?”

  “It’s just a doll.” The male blow-up doll rode a mounted deer head like a horse. His plastic mistress was nowhere to be seen, but the blond wig Lola had worn last night sat on the deer’s head.

  “Can I play with her doll? It looks like fun.”

  “No.” Drew hurried up the drive, past the crisply cut grass, past Lola’s impractical Fiat, past boxes and bags of Randy’s stuff. He pounded on Lola’s door.

  “Are you finally going to do something about that hideous display?” Ramona Everly called from across the street, standing on a well-kept lawn with mower tracks on it. “Someone should be arrested!”

  “But then who would mow your lawn?” That was it. Drew had fallen victim to spring-thaw madness.

  Scowling, the older woman retreated, leaving Drew to stab Lola’s doorbell. When she didn’t answer, Drew pounded on the door again. “Lola, open up!”

  “Do you think she’s dead?” Bloodthirsty Becky called from the cruiser.

  “No.” He drew on previously uncalled-upon reserves of patience. “Lola, I know you’re in there.”

  The door swung open. Lola had bedhead to rival Becky’s, big loops of brown hair in need of a brush. Her eyes were mere slits, as if alcohol made the light hard to bear. But her lips…her lips were still full and kissable.

  Not that Drew had any right to kiss her again.

  “Sheriff, if my house isn’t on fire, I hope your pants are.” She shoved a pair of handcuffs into his chest.

  “We need to talk. Can I come in?”

  “Why? So you can handcuff me to my banister? No thanks.” She tried to close the door.

  Drew was quicker, stopping her with the flat of his palm. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep. I never meant to leave you locked up for long.”

  “You never should have locked me up in the first place.” She pushed harder on the door.

  Drew didn’t let it budge. “If you make a scene, Ramona will call Flo for backup.” That shocked Lola enough that he was able to hustle her inside. He rattled his handcuffs at her. “How did you get free? Did you go to Shaw’s? Did you accuse another woman of sleeping with Randy?”

  The questions continued in his head. Had she tugged the ears of every woman in the bar? Had there been a catfight to rival the cupcake smackdown? Had she been hurt?

  He gave Lola’s body what should have been a quick and clinical once-over. Mistake. She wore a pair of men’s boxers and a clingy tank top. His mouth went dry.

  He slapped his forehead to put his rampant thoughts on pause. “Forget all that. How did you get free?”

  “I switched your handcuffs with Randy’s when we were…” Her cheeks turned a deep shade of pink.

  “You knew I was going to cuff you?”

  “No.” She scowled and ran her fingers through her hair, only slightly taming the unruly brown locks. “I wanted you to arrest someone with fake cuffs.” Her cheeks went from pink to red, and her gaze fell to the floor. “I didn’t think you’d use them on me.”

  He hadn’t either. “So you didn’t go to Shaw’s last night?”

  Those blue eyes came firing back up at him. “Why do you always think I’m on the brink of creating an incident?”

  “Maybe because you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever known before.” Drew swallowed, trying to take it down a notch so her feelings wouldn’t be hurt. “I have no idea what you’re capable of.”

  She crossed her arms.

  “I need to apologize for last night,” he said quickly. “I never should have handcuffed you or left you afterward.” What a mess. “Are you going to press charges? I won’t talk you out of it.” But he prayed she didn’t want to. For Becky’s sake and his own.

  Lola waved her hand as if waving a wand to make the entire episode disappear from their memories. “If I pressed charges, everyone would know what happened. What I wore. That I kissed you.” A deeper color emerged on her cheeks. She stared at her bare toes. Her toenails were painted a sparkly, happy purple. “What you did was over the line.”

  “Yes.” He was quick to agree, perhaps quicker to realize his mistake had created a shift in power between them. He being the powerless one, a position he was by no means familiar with and didn’t like in the least.

  Lola sensed the gain in power too. Her mouth quirked, and she dropped her hands to her hips. “I think we should make a pact.”

  “Go on,” he said cautiously.

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “You stop locking me up and demanding I take Randy down…”

  “In exchange for your silence,” Drew guessed, relieved.

  She nodded. “Shake on it.”

  “Deal.” He didn’t have to think twice on the terms. Bullet dodged. Drew clasped Lola’s much smaller hand in his. Hers was warm and soft, a contrast to the determined look in her eyes.

  “And I want my gun back.”

  Drew dropped her hand as if it burned. “Too late. That wasn’t part of the agreement.” He headed for the door. “Apply for a permit if you want it that badly.”

  She scurried after him. “You were scared, weren’t you? When you woke up this morning?”

  Her words stopped him at the door, his hand on the knob.

  Lola looked a mess, from the crooked part in her hair to her bloodshot eyes to the faded blue boxers she wore. She didn’t seem to care how she looked. She was bringing it, challenging Drew as if she were in her man-eater armor.

  “Yeah, I was scared.” He was man enough to admit it. “But not for the reason you might think. My ex, who doesn’t know the meaning of the word mother, wants joint custody of Becky.”

  “You thought your actions last night meant you’d lost Becky.” Her gaze softened. “Over something you did in the heat of passion.”

  He glossed over the mention of passion. “I lost my focus. I made a bad choice.” Her kiss may have been the stimulus, but he’d chosen the improper response. “In law enforcement, a bad choice could be catastrophic.”

  “Deadly.” Lola’s gaze drifted to the plastic doll posed at the window.

  “I prefer the word catastrophic.”

&
nbsp; Lola’s gaze was distant but not as spacey as Wendy’s. “Randy made a series of bad choices.”

  “Randy probably didn’t see it that way.” When her eyes snapped to him, Drew held up his hands. “He didn’t strike me as a tortured man.” Not by any stretch. Randy had been happy-go-lucky with the disposition of a well-fed Labrador.

  “Randy wasn’t as content as he appeared. He was searching for something, or he wouldn’t have strayed.”

  “We’re all searching,” Drew said, more because philosophical ground seemed safer with Lola than rehashing his mistake last night.

  “I’m searching for names.” Her slender brows bent together. “But what are you searching for?”

  “The perfect sole-custody defense.” He smoothed a loop of hair over her ear, as if he touched her hair every day. “And you want answers, not names.”

  “What I want is peace.” Her features scrunched as if she was fighting tears. “Right here.” She tapped her chest, letting her gaze fall away and her voice weaken. “Why wasn’t I enough for him?”

  Drew wanted to know that too. Her kiss would keep any man at home.

  They stood without speaking, her looking pained, him feeling her anguish and wanting to do something about it.

  Becky honked the cruiser’s horn.

  “I need to go.” He didn’t move, which was stupid. Lola wasn’t the woman he needed. It was Wendy. Wendy was the plan. After a week of waiting, they had a date scheduled for tonight.

  Lola opened her eyes and stared at the floor. “You should go. Hot chocolate with mile-high whip is only served until eleven.”

  How did she know that? He’d never seen her in the Saddle Horn on a Sunday until last week. Had she been waiting to go until she had kids of her own? The sadness of it struck Drew like a blow to the gut.

  “Why don’t you come with us?” As soon as the invitation left his mouth, he regretted it.

  Predictably, Lola regretted nothing.

  She smiled and accepted.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lola had never eaten at the Saddle Horn on a Sunday. Both Randy and Avery had outgrown the whipped cream tradition and pooh-poohed it when she’d asked about it.

  To Lola, making whipped cream whiskers was theater she viewed in limited doses when she purchased coffee to go. She wanted an excuse to be able to sit in the audience. Just once. Her acceptance of Drew’s offer had nothing to do with the thrilling taste of his kiss and everything to do with the longing to experience Sunshine as one of them.

  The Saddle Horn didn’t disappoint.

  There was Clarice in the corner booth, building layers of white facial hair.

  A group of young Holly Scouts sat in the small private room, dunking, dipping, and plunging their faces without any finesse. Their joy more than made up for their amateur efforts.

  And then there was Becky, the master of the goatee, sitting next to Lola at the counter with one of the crookedest braids Lola had ever seen. According to Drew’s daughter, she had a repertoire of whipped facial hair, but mostly they looked like the same puffy beard and mustache combination.

  “Dad said when he was a kid, he could make a pointy mustache. But I think he might be ’xaggerating.” Becky babbled, which was great since it meant Drew and Lola didn’t have to speak to each other.

  What did you say to a man who’d locked you up after a hot kiss? A man you’d bested? A man who was fighting for his daughter?

  Becky’s hot-pink rainboots clashed with the burnt-orange tank top she wore over pea-green leggings. “But Dad’s never shown me, so I don’t know if it’s true.” She flashed her father an impish smile.

  Drew drank black coffee and looked straight ahead. Although he wore a tan polo instead of his tan sheriff’s shirt, he still sat with rigid authority, as if ready to spring into action when duty called. He didn’t rise to Becky’s challenge though. “Beard-making is for kids.”

  “Da-ad.”

  Lola leaned back on her stool so she could see the Widows Club in the corner booth. “Clarice seems to be having fun.” Lola envied the old woman’s indifference to what people thought of her.

  “Dad misses out on all the fun.” Becky waved to Pearl for more whip. “Were you good at Saddle Horn beards when you were little, Ms. Williams?”

  “We didn’t have a Saddle Horn in New York.”

  Becky made a horrified sound. “So you’ve never…”

  “Nope.”

  “Ooh. You have to do it.” Becky clapped her hands. “It’s fun. You’ll see.”

  Drew’s mouth might have twitched up, and his glance meandered Lola’s way but Lola knew it wasn’t her reaction he was enjoying. He was a dedicated father, unlike her own, and he’d do anything to protect and keep his daughter. He was the father every man should be. The dad she’d wished for as a child. When he’d told her about the challenge to his custody of Becky, she’d known she was right not to tell anyone he’d handcuffed her to a bed.

  Drew turned to Becky and Lola. His eyes gleamed with that rare humor that made Lola’s heart beat faster. “Lola’s fully grown.” Meaning she was too old for mile-high whips.

  Something wild and thrilling took hold of Lola, an energetic, freeing sense that she could be herself. With Drew and Becky. All she needed to make the moment complete was Avery. Her necklace was in Lola’s purse. Her apology on the tip of Lola’s tongue.

  “Lola won’t do it,” Drew teased.

  Lola raised her hand to catch Pearl’s attention. “One adult-size hot chocolate. Right here. For the woman who’s brave enough to get ’er done.”

  “Really?” Becky grinned.

  “Oh yeah, I’m doing it.” She wasn’t brave enough to grin at Drew so she beamed at Becky instead.

  Pearl set a mug in front of Lola that seemed to be a foot tall, a guaranteed messy-faced sugar high with a certain crash later.

  “It’s not for the faint of heart,” Drew murmured with that teasing glint in his eyes, egging her on.

  Had she ever thought Drew wasn’t as handsome as Randy? That he was stiff and stuffy? She’d been wrong on both counts.

  “Like this?” Lola asked Becky, and without waiting for an answer, she plunged face-first into the mountain of whipped cream. She lifted her head and swiveled in her stool to show Becky. “What does it look like?” Lola asked without moving her lips. “Why aren’t there mirrors in here?”

  And then Lola remembered she had her cell phone. She swiveled her back to Becky and took a selfie of the two of them and their bearded faces. Drew sat in the background, drinking his coffee but smiling at his daughter this time.

  “You can make a bad-guy beard.” Becky pinched the whipped cream near her little chin. “But if you try too hard, it melts.” Half of Becky’s beard plopped into her lap.

  Lola laughed.

  Drew handed Becky a napkin faster than you could say, Melted snowman.

  Becky did a good job of smearing whip across her leggings. And then she wiped her mouth clean with one big circular motion. She crumpled her napkin and tossed it on the counter. “Try again, Ms. Williams.”

  While Lola cleaned her face, Wendy Adams entered the coffee shop, holding the door for Marcia (she of the no longer blue hair), who took one look at Lola and scurried to a back booth where her daughter, Barbara, sat with a toddler. Wendy walked right to the stool on the other side of Drew and sat down.

  It seemed as though Drew went from relaxed to high alert, like an unprepared understudy who suddenly found himself on stage. He gathered his shoulders (probably to make him seem larger), put on a smile (seemingly forced but pleasant), and barely contained a sigh (possibly resigned).

  Okay, the latter assessment might have been wishful thinking on Lola’s part.

  Wendy wasn’t a discerning theater critic. She smiled at Drew as if his performance were Oscar-worthy. And then she critiqued Lola’s participation in the Saddle Horn’s tradition with the barest of frowns.

  Deep inside Lola, jealousy rumbled awake, urging her to har
den her stare, to lean forward and catch Drew’s eye, to mark her territory. That’s what Avery would do. But Avery had more confidence than Lola when it came to men.

  Lola placed her palms together and slid them between her legs. She had no more right to claim Drew than Avery did to claim Randy. That didn’t stop her from staring at the pair and wondering why Drew was dating Wendy and kissing Lola.

  Or maybe he wasn’t dating Wendy. They exchanged a greeting that was practically a handshake.

  Bitsy appeared at Lola’s shoulder and asked her to accompany the Widows Club board on Monday to pick up the clothing for their fashion show. Lola was so shocked by the Drew-Wendy thing that she agreed, although it meant she had to reschedule her retirement home appointments.

  “Hey, Ms. Williams.” Becky dipped her face in the whip and scooped it with her chin. The motion created an almost pointy beard. She thrust her chin toward Lola. “Do yours.”

  Instead of dunking her face in the whip, Lola raised her mug and drew it around her face as if it were lipstick.

  “You made whiskers like my Aunt Eileen’s pig.” Becky giggled, causing a drip, creating a chain reaction in Drew, who cleaned her face with a supply of napkins. When he was done, Becky leaned over and whispered, “Ms. Adams wants to marry my dad.”

  Lola snorted whipped cream up her nose.

  Drew’s spine stiffened, and he turned to stare at his daughter with his stern cop face. “Becky…”

  Becky shrugged. “Granny Susie says it’s true.”

  * * *

  On paper, Wendy was perfect for Drew.

  She lived at home to help care for her mother, who had multiple sclerosis. She had a solid employment record working with kids. She’d never been arrested. (Yeah, Drew had checked.) And she looked good in a pink calico dress and cowboy boots.

  But she was as boring as a glass of water on a table filled with imported beer. And in a loud, colorful Mexican restaurant, Drew could drink a lot of imported beer.

  He sat across the table from Wendy, demolishing a basket of chips and salsa and washing it down with a Corona. Stress was building in his chest like plaque in an old man’s artery.