Recharged

by Lulu Pratt

He removed his hat, set his jacket down over the back of a nearby chair, and said, “Let’s get to work.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Dylan

  We set to it quickly. I grabbed her toolkit to repair the cash register, and she took a brush and pan in hand, preparing to clean up the glass. We moved like a tactical strike team, like a pair who had been together for more than a day. It took soldiers in the military years to develop the internal wavelength communication we already possessed. Could it actually be this easy?

  “So,” I began. Even with all my grief training, I was at a loss for how to finish the sentence. Words weren’t always my strong suit. I found actions easier, more digestible. Hence, my offer of assistance with the cleaning. It said my feelings better than the English language, at least on my tongue, ever could.

  “Yup?” Zoe returned, obviously as unsure as I was of what to say next. At least we were facing struggling equally — that made me feel like slightly less of a rube.

  I paused and tried another tactic — more planning and action. “How about we spend today getting all this crap tidied, and tomorrow we can worry about financial details and all that? You need a break from the mental load.”

  “That sounds… really nice,” she said slowly. “One rule.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know you’re a cop, and that you’re my cop — er, for this case, that is — but no shoptalk today, nothing about witnesses or evidence or court dates. At least for now.” She faltered. “I just… I’m not ready to talk about it.”

  I agreed readily, happy to see that she was claiming some kind of control over the situation. Plus, I didn’t want to spend time together as cop and victim, but rather, as man and woman. Though here, again, the Tom-trained part of my brain reared up, and hissed, She’s right — you’re her cop. Keep it professional, keep it clean. Don’t ruin this case for her.

  That was true, if we got too, ah, involved, it might color any testimony I could give on her behalf. Which wouldn’t go very far in endearing her to me, obviously.

  On the hunt for lighter conversation, I began to ask Zoe about easier subjects.

  “So,” I fumbled, a little rusty. “What movies do you like?” Oh, Dylan. Very weak.

  “The classics,” she replied. “Old musicals, black and white. Singing in the Rain, An Affair to Remember, that kind of stuff. I watched Daddy Long Legs last weekend.”

  “Really?” I watched Turner Classics whenever Danny fell asleep. We fell to talking about vintage films for a while. I learned that she had a soft spot for Doris Day and Orson Welles.

  Conversation from there turned to our favorite books — she liked anything by Jane Austen and was thrilled to hear that my touchstone was To Kill a Mockingbird.

  “I love that book,” she breathed. “When did you first read it?”

  “Third grade. I’ve read it every year since.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Truthfully, I replied, “It reminds me of how a little bit of justice can bring about a whole lot of good.” I realized I’d opened up farther than anticipated, so I turned it back on Zoe. “Why Austen?”

  She giggled, and warned, “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “Never.”

  “Well,” she said hesitantly, “I guess I just like a good romance.”

  I grinned. “Nothing wrong with good romance.”

  Her cheeks burned red, and now it was her turn to change the subject. She quizzed me on all my favorites — podcasts, the best restaurant in town, hobbies. Each answer after another seemed to delight her. Was it possible that we might be suited for each other beyond the physical attraction? Because I’d never met a girl in Fallow Springs who talked like Zoe, or thought like Zoe, and I found myself liking that. A lot.

  Eventually, we fell into some harmless town gossip about the ladies of the town. Since one of them paid to wine and dine me, I was in pretty good with all of them, and had the lowdown on every development in town. Didn’t hurt that I was also a cop, which in a place like here meant nothing happened without me knowing it.

  “So,” Zoe asked with interest, “is it true that Marlin’s been stealing her recipes from Gail for all these years?”

  “Yeah, apparently she’s been paying little Dougie to filch them from Gail’s kitchen.”

  Zoe’s mouth dropped open. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “For real.”

  “That’s so wild.”

  “Hey,” I added as an afterthought, “at least the burglar didn’t steal your recipes. Those are real state secrets.”

  She laughed at my shitty joke, and replied, “Yeah, totally, because that was my valuable intellectual property.”

  “I bet any of the church ladies would kill to get their hands on your cakes.”

  “My cakes?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “Would you also, ah, ‘kill’ to ‘get your hands’ on ‘my cakes’?”

  Was she making innuendos about me grabbing her ass? Oh man, I was going to need a cold shower soon if we were to keep this up.

  Gathering my resolve, I shot back, “Yeah. I’d love to.”

  “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “I think we could possibly arrange for — Ahh! Shit!”

  I dropped my hammer at the sound of her yell and raced over to the display cabinet she was sweeping beneath. A small pool of blood had appeared beneath her hand.

  “What happened?” I asked urgently.

  “Got a piece of glass stuck in my finger,” she managed to reply, waving the bloody digit around. “Fuck, it hurts.”

  The cut was deeper than I’d expected, but I kept my composure. Besides, I’d spent plenty of time with first responders, and while the sight of blood had become something of a trigger for me since the accident, I gulped those feelings down. I knew how to handle this. I had to let my training take over. Don’t think about the blood, I instructed myself.

  “Okay,” I replied soothingly. “You’ll be fine. Do you have a first aid kit?”

  “Er, not yet.” A guilty look crossed her face.

  I rolled my eyes. “You know you’re required to have one, right?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Sighing, I tried again. “Do you have a knife?”

  “They were all stolen.”

  Of course. Right. I’d planned to rip off a piece of my shirt, but looked like I was going to have to lose it altogether. This was definitely not what Tom had in mind when he told me to keep it professional with Zoe.

  “This isn’t usually procedure,” I apologized. “But I’m making do.” With that, I tugged the black shirt over my head, and had the satisfaction of watching Zoe’s eyes go wide. The pulse in her throat visibly fluttered. I knew the effect I had on women, but it never got old, especially playing out across the face of beautiful girl.

  “Whoa,” she said quietly exhaled, more in wonderment than anything else.

  Zoe reached out a small hand, the uninjured one, and brushed it on my stomach. My abs tightened, not to impress her — though I wasn’t mad at the side effect — but rather to try to stop the blood from flowing straight to my dick. She was winding her way to my happy trail, and if I didn’t exert some serious self-control, there’d be no going back to whatever professional mirage I was endeavoring to erect.

  “Thanks,” I labored to say.

  “God,” she whispered. “These things are really, really nice. Do you know that?”

  I shrugged, pretending to be busy with ministering to her injury. I knew we were crossing lines, but fuck it. Besides, if I’m being honest, I was enjoying it as much as she.

  Zoe clocked my blushing, and added, “Don’t be humble.”

  I laughed as her fingers followed the path between each ab, until they were treacherously close to the top of my jeans. Any further and her hands would be inside my jeans, and it wouldn’t be long after that I’d be inside her.

  She seemed to realize this at the same moment I did, because she yanked her fingers back. Thank God — even using all the willpower I had at my disposal, I
wasn’t sure I’d be able to hide the increasingly hard cock that lay beneath the denim.

  “Sorry,” she apologized quickly. There was a beat, and, as if looking for a distraction, she continued, “You did fast work on my finger.”

  It was true. In no time at all, I’d used the fabric to staunch the blood flow, doused it in some water from the sink, ripped off a strip of T-shirt using my teeth. She now had a nice, neat little wrap on the shredded appendage.

  “Thanks,” I replied. “You were an excellent patient.”

  “Damn, you’re pretty good at this,” Zoe noted, holding her finger up to inspect the dressing. “How’d you know how to do all that?”

  I exhaled slowly. I replied, “My wife.”

  Zoe’s head whipped from her finger to my face, and something bubbled beneath those eyes. I looked away, unable to meet them. If I wanted to tell her the truth, at least part of it, I wouldn’t be able to look at her eyes while I did it. Because what she would see there was pure, unadulterated pain, and I wasn’t ready to watch her visage become a mask of pity. I’d seen that mask far too many times.

  “Oh?” she asked, visibly struggling to keep her emotions in check. She recoiled a little as if her touching me had been wrong.

  I knew what was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. My voice struggling to retain its normal volume. I returned, “My wife used to be a nurse.”

  She was losing the battle for control over her expressions. Anger was taking hold on those cheeks and between the brows. Why was she mad? I wondered. Where was the pity mask? I wasn’t hurt so much as I was deeply confused. I thought I’d known what to expect from encounters like these. Guess Zoe kept me on my toes, regardless of the conversation.

  At last, she asked with ill-contained feeling, “And what does your wife do now?”

  Oh. God. Of course. That’s why she was pissed.

  “My wife,” I said with a learned calm, “is dead.”

  I knew what the response would be, it was always the same, when the other person found out. But the anticipation didn’t make it any less painful — it just made the buildup longer.

  “Oh… I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” Zoe said. Yup, that was the standard line.

  “Thanks. And don’t apologize — you’re new in town. No reason for you to know.” Which was true. The tragedy had happened months before she got to town and the gossip had thankfully moved onto more mundane topics like recipe stealing. I’d been stupid to think she’d infer. Especially what with the ring and all.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Talk… about it?” I repeated with confusion.

  Nobody ever asked if I was interested in talking about it. Like everything else about Zoe Reynolds, that was a new one. Usually people pushed me for details or explained how they’d recovered after some important person in their life died. I’d unfortunately learned firsthand just how deeply folks make the deaths of others about themselves.

  But that was my callous opinion on the subject. My deeper, more empathic point of view was that they all thought if they invited me to open up, they’d find a well of hurt so deep I’d never reach the top and drag the listener down with me. I think, to be frank, they were afraid of finding an incurable illness of the heart. For some reason, Zoe wasn’t scared, or just didn’t care. She was willing to brave anything.

  “No,” I replied at last, in answer. “I don’t think so.” Maybe down the line. But as much as I admired Zoe’s courage in offering to listen, I also knew she didn’t understand what she’d be getting into. She wasn’t ready to hear the details, to carry the full weight of the story. It would be too much, too soon, and it would bow, then break her.

  I’d heard stories like this in a grief support group I attended. A grieving person would attempt to move on by telling their truth, only to be rebuffed by someone who couldn’t handle it. And I liked Zoe as I hadn’t liked anyone in a long time. As cowardly as it may seem, I wasn’t ready to risk the beautiful thing growing between us just so I could get something off my chest. In the future, perhaps.

  Returning to my senses, I added, “But thank you for asking.” And I meant it, even if it was an offer I couldn’t accept.

  “Dylan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Any time.” Her eyes held me. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I nodded, putting on a small smile to show that I appreciated her words. Inside, though, I was terrified. My heart yearned for an unattainable object of desire, for the one woman I wanted to get involved with was the one woman I couldn’t have. The force was strict about dating case victims, and my job was the best thing in my life — besides Danny, of course.

  And what about Danny? He didn’t need a random fling coming over to the house on weekends, he needed a mother, or at least a woman who was in it for the long haul. Sure, I could get on any dating app and have some girl crawling to me on her hands and knees over state lines within the hour. But that would be cruel to a little kid who deserved only the best. I couldn’t betray both my job and my son.

  No matter how badly I wanted to.

  I must have been distracted, because Zoe prodded me, saying, “Hey, did you still want to ask me questions at some point? Maybe tonight? I’m feeling better now.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  She blushed, and tacked on, “Because of you, that is.”

  I was glad, no, delighted, to hear it, but the mention of my… of the death had brought too many painful feelings to the surface. I doubted my own ability to keep it together long enough to stay suave, if I stuck around. Who knew what I might say or do. I could reveal intimate details long before they were ripe to be mentioned, or hit on the very girl I was supposed to be helping, or fuck Zoe ’til the end of time, thus leaving Danny in the weeds. All terrible options. All still violently tempting because of the woman woven through them.

  I did need to ask Zoe questions about the robbery, though. That was in my job description. Phew — finally, something I was allowed to do with Zoe that most definitely wouldn’t result in me sweeping her into a deep kiss. Police work was decidedly unsexy. Don’t believe what you see on TV.

  Thus, with renewed confidence I replied, “Would you be okay to meet me at the station later this evening? We could talk more then.” Okay, um, technically speaking I was stretching the parameters of my job, night meetings weren’t exactly de rigueur. But, in my defense, Zoe had a shop to repair and a heart to mend. So really, if you look at it under a certain light, I was just trying to be the most solicitous officer I could be.

  I was really doing a song and dance to sell myself on this one.

  She interrupted my moral toing and froing, saying, “Of course, tonight’s great, whatever is easiest for you.” Her friendly grin turned bloodthirsty. “We’re gonna catch this robbing asshole.”

  I returned the grin, and replied, “It’s a date.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Zoe

  A date?! A date. Had he really said that? I knew he didn’t mean it literally. Right? But my mind still spun with possibilities hours later.

  Needless to say, the thought of going on a date with him was, well, the best thing to happen to me in months, no, let’s be honest, years. And definitely the best thing to happen to me in the last twenty-four hours.

  Back in the bakery, when he took his top off, I almost thanked my bloody finger for orchestrating the situation. Ordinarily, we had a “no shirt no shoes no service” policy at Zoe’s, but for a body like that, I made an exception. Bandaging me up with his own shirt? How lucky that I had totally disregarded health code and failed to buy a first aid kit. Yet again, my outlaw ways were a boon.

  But there was the matter of his late wife. When he talked about her, he still spoke of her with emotion, but with the acceptance of loss, not the hurt of grief. He hadn’t given details, of course — and lest you doubt me, I had given my offer of an open ear in complete sincerity. I wanted to be of aid to him in the man
ner which he had been to me.

  The way he spoke about her, his wife, made her passing seem recent though. And I didn’t want to jump into the sack with a man who wasn’t ready for a relationship. I’d already been hurt enough by guys who weren’t serious about dating me. If I’d been so broken up over my shitty ex-lover, who was unattractive, small-dicked and an all-around bad person, what would happen if Dylan stepped on my heart? It would crunch like the glass of my shop window beneath his boot.

  Anxious to distract myself from tumultuous thoughts of Dylan, I spent the next few hours doing finishing touches on the bakery, brushing up exploded bags of flour, reorganizing the kitchen to suit my newfound lack of all real equipment. So on and so forth.

  My hand hurt, but not too badly — I bet it would’ve hurt even less if Dylan had thought to kiss it better. In any case, I was able to accomplish plenty. Things were, dare I say, kind of back to normal, though the threat of the robbery still wafted. No, I scolded my roaming thoughts. If you become scared of daily life, then the burglars have already won.

  I texted Mina, pleading for a ride to the station. I had managed to apply online for a temporary driver’s license during my lunch break with Dylan’s help. He’d done most of the research for me and I just needed to pick up the paperwork from the station. I half wondered if he flexed a few rules for me so that I could get a new license quickly, but I didn’t want to ask and seem ungrateful for all he had done. He’d left after that saying that he could have my car released back to me after he filed the paperwork.

  A walk to the station would take me thirty minutes, and I was sore from a full day of cleaning. Mina replied at once, eagerly agreeing to drive. Whether it was because she was worried about my emotional fragility, or because she wanted me to spend some more one-on-one time with Dylan, I couldn’t tell.

  No, I’m sorry, that was a bald-faced lie. I knew Mina, and I knew with every ounce of my being that she’d mostly agreed to drive so that I could, in her mind, bump uglies with Officer Robertson. I loved her, but her brain worked in predictable ways.