Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for CJ Fosdick
Hot Stuff
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
“Over the years, we’ve learned some lawn décor Evan brought home belonged to that category you call a 10-99…er…some might call it this.” He finally smiled when I pulled a handful of candy hearts from my pocket and singled out the one that read Hot Stuff.
“Billington knows about all this?”
“Certainly. Our neighbors are aware of this, too. When something goes missing, they usually show up here first to see if it’s planted in his garden. If they can identify it, we simply have a custody exchange, then mollify my brother with a trip to a local garden shop for some kind of a replacement.” I popped a candy heart into my mouth and offered him one after flicking a strand of cat fur off the Kiss Me heart.
He screwed up his face, clearing his throat. “Valentine candy in July?”
“I won a six-month supply after writing new imprints for the company. The candy has a long shelf life,” I added.
He declined my offer.
“Bite Me.”
“Ma’am?”
“That was one of my slogans. The candy boss wanted something modern. You Know was another one. Kids today can’t get through a sentence without sprinkling it with ‘you know’.”
He studied me with a lopsided grin. “Why didn’t Billington tell me all this?”
“I don’t think he knows I write slogans and ads.”
He pulled on his ear. “I mean about your brother stealing yard ornaments.”
“Oh well, I suspect Evan’s fancy may be an inside joke at the precinct.”
Praise for CJ Fosdick
THE ACCIDENTAL WIFE, Ms. Fosdick’s mainstream historical time travel has reviewers exclaiming:
“part mystery, part romance…”
“written with a style of its own…”
“much more than a time-travel…”
“unique story…”
“loved the characters, ached at their dilemma…”
“every chapter is an incredible journey…”
“flows nicely…”
“couldn’t put it down, or out of mind…”
“mesmerizing…”
“characters and era so real…”
“I laughed, cried, bit my nails…”
“lots of factual details…”
“ranks with best-selling tomes…”
“Fosdick makes readers understand the transformative power of love…”
“full of sights, smells, personalities you would love to meet…”
“I highly recommend this book!…”
“absolutely cannot wait for the sequel!”
Hot Stuff
by
CJ Fosdick
A Candy Hearts Romance
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Hot Stuff
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Carol A. Fosdick
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by RJ Morris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2016
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0598-1
A Candy Hearts Romance
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To every Cinderella
waiting for that “arresting” moment
when her Prince knocks at her door to steal her heart.
Chapter One
“There’s a cop at the door,” my grandmother sang as she popped out my earplug at the bridge of my favorite song.
The bud dropped to the sleeping cat on my lap, waking him with a start. His tail whacked the can of cola perched on my computer table, spilling half the contents onto my keyboard before I could spring into action using my baggy Einstein T-shirt to sponge up rivers of pop channeling between the letters of my laptop.
“Cripes, Gran, do you have to sneak up on me!” I unplugged the keyboard, losing the file I was working on. Writing ad copy for a new brand of adult diapers was slipping into writer’s block, anyway. How did anyone come up with clever slogans to hype a personal product nobody admits to needing? Even Wisconsin’s badger mascot wore a tastefully conservative sweater in the logo…without the encumbrance of pants.
“Heartlight,” Neil Diamond crooned from the earplug before I unplugged the iPod still dangling from my neck. In a wild toss to my bed, I upset the plastic jar of conversation hearts teetering on my night stand. Like broken pearls, the candy scattered over the hardwood floor.
The cat pounced after one rolling under the bed.
I felt the pop stain seeping into the crotch of my leggings. A new use for adult diapers?
“Clean up in aisle four,” Gran chirped from the doorway, scanning the mess.
We both dropped to hands and knees, scooping up the candy.
“There’s a cop at the door,” she repeated. “You know the drill better than I.”
Right. The drill. Barring salesmen or religious proselytizers, we were used to the occasional visit from irate neighbors or the law. Depending on either complaint or warning, I would paste on an innocent smile, hawk up surprise, and then pour out a heartfelt apology with enough charm to get my brother out of a potential law jam.
Evan was autistic. Not enough to keep him from bicycling to a job cleaning floors and tables at a local diner. Certainly not enough to keep him home or even medicated. Aside from his lack of eye contact—or his obsession with TV shows like The Amazing Race—he was almost normal to Gran and me…a source of amusement that tapped into the burlesque of life. Living with Evan always kept us grounded.
Normal as anyone who collects things. Unfortunately, Evan liked to collect garden gnomes, solar lights, any kind of yard ornament with little regard to who owned them. The neighbors who still spoke to us understood. Some of them even nailed down their outside décor and hoisted their flags to a height requiring a ladder. When more than an apology was needed, we queued up a plate of Gran’s specialty—Snickerdoodles. I caught a whiff of cinnamon on Gran as I scooped a handful of candy hearts into my T-shirt pocket. We were prepared for the day.
The cop was slim and wide-shouldered, with blue eyes that almost matched his shirt. His cap had the familiar MFPD blue and gold triangular badge depicting the waterfall that gave Menomonee Falls its name in 1880. The logo repeated on his shirt sleeve. Dallas, I presumed, was his name, embroidered on the pocket of his shirt. Aside from the standard leather belt and equipment that hung from it, he wore dark jeans and cowboy boots. Not exactly below-the-belt standard dress for most uniformed cops. This one was also younger than most. Tall, dark, easy to look at. I didn’t have to fake a smile.
He looked ready to use the walky-talky in his hands when I pushed open the screen door and step
ped onto our covered porch, hiding the stains embroidering the bottom of my T-shirt by folding my arms across my waist. I hoped I didn’t look too confrontational—or too irrational with a wild-haired Einstein plastered against my chest. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Mrs. Sanders?” He placed his walky-talky in his belt and glanced at the open notepad he pulled out of his pocket. “Mrs. Marjorie Sanders?” he drawled.
I always was a sucker for a drawl…and startling blue eyes. I hugged my shirt tighter, rocking up on my toes. “I’m…I’m her granddaughter, Kate. She’s uh, indisposed right now.”
“Well, ma’am, I’ve been sent here because of a possible 10-99 in the neighborhood. I was given this address and told the Sanders widow might know something about it.”
“You must be new to the PD.”
His dark brows inched toward his nose before he nodded slowly.
“From the West?
He blinked.
I pointed, with a knowing smile. “Your cowboy boots.”
His gaze traveled from his tooled leather boots to the neon green nails on my bare feet, then migrated up my green-and-black striped leggings to my damp baggy tee. “And you must be from…a swamp?”
Wincing, I plucked at my stained shirt. Oh, Lord, why didn’t I change? “Cola. Uh, Mr. Wiggins spilled cola on me.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Our cat. Mr. Wiggins is our cat. Long tail.”
His cheek twinged ever so slightly. “Well, then, I’ve been told you may know the whereabouts of a small windmill and plaster Dutch boy?”
“A plastered Dutch boy? I shrugged and waved my hand absently. “I have a younger brother, but he’s German and doesn’t imbibe…not even ‘the beer that made Milwaukee famous’.” I tried to maintain a straight face, hoping some sophomoric humor might lighten his business tone. I knew a 10-99 was police scanner code for something lost or stolen.
Again, his dark eyebrows migrated toward the bridge of his nose. “Okay then, maybe I need to put this another way. This may be some kind of a test for rookies, but my captain told me missing gnomes could end up at this address. This is 2482 Meadow Lane.” He took a few backward steps to verify the vertical numbers on our porch post, then shot me a squinty look and set his chiseled jaw.
“Did Captain Billington send you here?” An innocent smile wasn’t working. I went for something with more voltage.
“You know my captain?”
I nodded cheerfully. “He is aware of our situation.”
“Ma’am, what situation might that be?”
“Follow me.”I slipped into the flip flops that were on the bench near the door, and then shaded my eyes against the bright sun peeking over the treetops.
The tall wooden gate between our house and garage squeaked open into our backyard. “Welcome to the stockade.” I gestured to encompass our half-acre backyard and the tall cedar fencing that truly gave it a stockade look. “This is my brother’s world—started when he was a child.”
The swing set that once amused Evan for hours was now painted a bright yellow, the glider had a new cushioned seat and a large tractor tire dangling from the top bar, instead of a narrow board swing. The yellow plastic slide was still clean, dulled only by a worn strip down the center. Evan kept the slide polished, and often enjoyed squeezing himself between the sides, arms stretched overhead, eyes closed in his version of a sun salute.
A smaller version of a yellow circus tent dominated the yard, flanked by two large elm trees. Flagstone paths snaked through a jungle of bird baths, yellow benches, assorted statuary, flags, and solar lights cluttering the yard like a maze, all leading to the entrance of the yellow tent.
“Evan likes yellow.” I grinned.
In silence, we both scanned the yard, looking for a windmill and Dutch boy among the statuary. “You can see my brother has quite a collection.”
The cop’s mouth froze open before he rubbed his bottom lip with the side of his fist. “An understatement, I’d say.”
“All bought and paid for,” I added quickly. “Captain Billington knows we see to that.”
He scratched his ear. “Just how old is your brother?”
“Old enough to hold down a bus-boy job to help pay for all this. Evan has Asperger’s, a form of autism with obsessive compulsive behavior. He wasn’t formally diagnosed until he was nine, after he upgraded his collection from smurfs to garden gnomes. Over the years, we’ve learned some lawn décor Evan brought home belonged to that category you call a 10-99…er…some might call it this.” He finally managed to smile when I pulled a handful of candy hearts out of my pocket and singled out the one that said Hot Stuff.
“Billington knows about all this?”
“Certainly. Our neighbors are aware of this, too. When something goes missing, they usually show up here first to see if Evan has it planted in his garden. If they can identify it, we simply have a custody exchange, then mollify my brother with a trip to a local garden shop for some kind of a replacement.” I popped a candy heart into my mouth and offered him one after flicking a strand of cat fur off the Kiss Me heart.
Screwing up his face, he cleared his throat. “Valentine candy in July?”
“I won a six-month supply after writing new imprints for the company. The candy has a long shelf life,” I added.
He declined my offer.
“Bite Me.”
“Ma’am?”
“That was one of my slogans. The candy boss wanted something modern. You Know was another one. Kids today can’t get through a sentence without sprinkling it with ‘you know’.”
He studied me with a lopsided grin. “Why didn’t Billington tell me all this?”
“I don’t think he knows I write slogans and ads for a living.”
Shifting on his feet, he pulled on his ear. “I mean about your brother stealing yard ornaments.”
“Oh well, I suspect Evan’s fancy may be an inside joke at the precinct.”
He shook his head and sighed. “With a rookie at the butt of the joke, I imagine. Mind if I check out the tent?”
I held open the tent flap for him to pass…so I could assess the fit of his jeans from the rear.
Confusion flattered his dark good looks from the front. His backside was just as fine. Hot Stuff could have been embroidered on the back of his shirt.
Chapter Two
Sitting in his canvas sling chair, thumbing through a garden catalog, Evan didn’t even look up when we entered his sanctuary.
“Hey, Bro, I want you to meet…” I looked at Hot Stuff’s shirt pocket to get the name right…“Officer Dallas.”
Evan flashed him a quick look. “I didn’t do it.” He resumed concentration on the catalog.
“Hey, buddy, mind if we look around?” Dallas said, flashing his baby blues at me.
I gave him a weak smile and a shrug. Social graces were almost non-existent for anyone with Asperger’s, but I could never help feeling embarrassed by the rudeness others perceived. I clamped a hand on Evan’s shoulder. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything, Evan. The officer is Captain Billington’s friend. He’s just looking for a lost Dutch boy. Have you seen anything like that lately?”
“With a windmill,” Dallas interjected. “A lawn ornament with a windmill.”
Evan shrugged off my hand and noisily thumbed through his catalog, stopping abruptly to stab his finger on a page that was filled with statuary.
Standing on either side of his chair, we both bent over the catalog, bumping heads with a dull thump. Ignoring the pain, I palmed my forehead and snorted a laugh. The rookie’s head was cushioned by a shiny black forelock with a scent of lime gel—one of my favorite whiffs next to cinnamon and lavender. After another awkward moment, I muttered something inane about hard heads.
The cop gave me a blank stare before clearing his throat and scraping back his forelock.
Heat crept up my neck.
Evan, who rarely laughed at all, must have thought our head-bashing was funny. His belly wigg
led the catalog propped on his lap—which, of course, made me giggle, and even the cop grinned wide enough to show off a white porcelain smile.
I thought of the toothpaste slogan I had worked on last winter. White as a new snowfall hadn’t flown with my boss, but I still preferred it to the white marble analogy. Hot Stuff had great teeth, Sapphire eyes, nice muscles, broad shoulders. Visually, he was topping my mental checklist of the ideal man.
White marble. As in statues. The page in Evan’s catalog had a couple of white plaster angels. There were frogs and toadstools, owls and knolls, even a happy dwarf holding an open red umbrella. But there in the middle was a boy in a blue cap and jacket, wearing yellow wooden shoes, connected to a windmill at his side.
The rookie pulled a digital print out of his shirt pocket to match it to the catalog picture. Though there were few clues in the photo—a rough lawn and a stone fence in the background—I knew immediately where the missing Dutch boy came from. The house was only a couple miles away, near a train crossing and a historic stone barn at the edge of the county.
He snapped a finger against the picture. “The owner must be quite attached to his Dutch boy. He’s offered a reward for its return.”
“A reward for that?” I gaped at the photo.
“Yes, ma’am. A hundred dollars! Down home, I know street urchins who’d gladly dress the part and decorate a lawn all summer for that kind of cash.”
“Wow!” The image of little dark-skinned boys standing all day in the Texas heat brought a lump to my throat. I sighed as I pointed to the price listed in the catalog. “Up here, the owner could buy two new statues for that amount.”
“He said it was his late wife’s favorite. Sentimental, even with the damaged shoe.”
Again, I glanced at the photo. Sure enough, one of the wooden shoes had a squared toe.
Hot Stuff wrote down something in his notebook and looked around the tent.
Evan had his cleaning supplies neatly arranged on steel shelving, folded rags along with cans of yellow spray paint, weed killer, and trimmers. Against one wall, a rope hammock hung on a tubular frame beside a large chest cooler that stored Evan’s pop and bananas. Ten years of garden catalogs filled a clear plastic crate with a cover, doubling as a table beside the sling chair, handy for his sunglasses and snacks.
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