The delicious smells of yeasty bread and something spicy and delicious emanated from the café and Claire’s stomach rumbled. She needed lunch and right now the idea of the café’s hot chicken salad on a croissant was close to her idea of heaven.
She pushed open the door and immediately wished she could back right out again. I’m meeting someone for lunch or I’d offer to buy you a sandwich over at the café.
Riley hadn’t mentioned that someone was a young, beautiful redhead with long fingernails and a particularly grating sort of laugh.
She wanted nothing more than to hurry right back out, but she was hungry and her foot hurt and Dermot Caine, owner and operator of the café, was greeting her.
“Claire, darlin’. Haven’t seen you in here in an age!”
“Hi, Mr. Caine. Hey, can I have a chicken salad sandwich to go? I’m kind of in a rush.”
“Coming right up, doll. You sit right there and I’ll have it for you quick as a wink.”
The five minutes it took him to make her sandwich were excruciating. Even though she studiously avoided looking at Riley’s booth, she couldn’t help overhearing the redhead’s grating laugh, with a very flirtatious edge.
Finally Dermot brought out her sandwich wrapped in a white paper bag. She paid quickly and, steeling herself, finally looked toward Riley’s booth and forced a casual wave. He gave her an unreadable look but lifted a hand to return the greeting.
When she was certain she was completely out of sight of any patrons in the café, Claire sank onto a bench against the wall, one of several conveniently placed around the downtown for footsore shoppers.
She leaned her head against the sun-warmed brick and closed her eyes. She was definitely going to have to get a grip on herself. Hope’s Crossing was a small town and they were bound to run into each other on a regular basis. Riley was going to date other women, there was no question about it. Claire had no claim on him—he’d made that clear—and she certainly couldn’t fall apart every time she saw him with someone else.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
RILEY EASED HIS PATROL vehicle into the driveway of his rental house, looking forward with great anticipation to a cold beer and the last few minutes of the NBA playoff game he’d set the DVR to record when he left home going on fourteen hours ago.
It had been a hell of a day, one that must have been designed to make him question what he was doing in Hope’s Crossing. He had alienated a group of older ladies when he’d had to tell them their traveling poker game was technically illegal because Colorado didn’t allow games of chance for money, especially when their stake had grown to more than a thousand dollars. He’d been off duty an hour ago when he’d seen a speeding vehicle weaving around over on Pinenut and ended up pulling over and subsequently arresting a drunk tourist going fifty-six in a twenty-five-mile zone. The guy had tried to play the “powerful friends” card, claiming his girlfriend worked in the governor’s office. As if Riley cared. He hadn’t cared about anything except yanking the idiot off the streets—until said idiot puked on his shoes, splattering his slacks, and Riley had been forced to change into the backup jeans and T-shirt he kept in his office.
The bright spot to the whole day, he was chagrined to admit, had been those brief moments at lunchtime when he’d seen Claire.
He’d missed her these past few weeks. It had taken all his determination not to swing by several times after work. To resist temptation as much as possible, he’d ended up taking a circuitous route home most days, coming in from a completely different direction so he wouldn’t even pass her house down the street.
As he climbed out, he thought he saw a dark blur near the garbage can next to the house. Probably those blasted raccoons that could sometimes be a problem in this area. He’d already had his can’s contents spilled one night about a week earlier.
He grabbed the bag containing his disgusting slacks and decided just to chuck them rather than wash someone else’s puke out. Call him fastidious, but he had his limits.
He lifted the lid, making as much noise as he could to scare away any annoying creatures, threw in the bag and closed it again. Suddenly the shape he thought he’d seen materialized into something furry heading straight at him—familiar tail wagging and ears drooping nearly to the ground.
His trespasser howled a little greeting and waddled over to him. Not a raccoon at all, but a very familiar basset hound.
A disbelieving laugh escaped him. All his determined efforts to keep away from her, and fate just kept sending a completely different message.
“You’re not supposed to be here, bud.”
Chester gave what looked very much like a “Yeah, so?” sort of look and just continued to sniff around his darkened yard.
He was probably picking up the cat living across the street that tended to make itself at home with arrogant disregard for property lines.
“Come on. We’d better get you home before the kids start to worry.”
Chester headed into his backyard and with a sigh Riley set his beer-and-basketball fantasy on the shelf for a minute and looked inside the patrol car for something he could use as a makeshift leash, finally settling on the leather belt he’d taken from his disgusting slacks earlier.
“Here, boy. Come on, Chester.”
The dog rounded the house in answer to his name. Riley quickly clipped the belt through his collar, looping it through the buckle, and headed down the street toward Claire’s house.
The evening was lovely, the air cool but comfortable and scented with pine, lilacs and the early climbing roses bordering the house next door. This just might be one of the sixty or so frost-free nights the good people of Hope’s Crossing could count on each year.
As he neared Claire’s house, he heard her call out softly in that peculiarly pitched voice people use when they’re trying to command attention but not wake up their neighbors.
“Come on, boy. Where are you? Chester! Here, boy. Come get a treat. Come on, boy.”
Riley should have been braced for the dog to lunge when he heard his name, but with no loop to hold on to, the makeshift leash slipped from his fingers. With more speed than Riley would have ever given him credit for possessing, the dog poured on the juice and hurried to the front porch, leaving him in the dust.
“There you are,” Claire exclaimed, relief in her voice. “You scared me!”
When the dog waddled up the steps, she reached down and grabbed hold of the trailing end of the belt, frowning.
“What in the world?”
Riley sighed and stepped into the light from her porch. “Mine. Sorry. I improvised after I found him sniffing around my yard.”
“I’m sorry he bothered you,” she said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He never runs off. I think one of the children must have left the fence unlatched and I didn’t notice it in the dark when I put him out earlier. I can’t believe he went all the way down the block.”
“I think the Stimsons’ cat was on the prowl tonight.”
“That would explain it. Not a big cat lover, our Chester.”
“I’m afraid I’d have to agree.”
She bent down and struggled a moment to unhook the belt, hampered by the awkwardness of her cast.
“Hang on. Let me get that.”
He joined her on the porch, trying not to notice the scent of her, strawberries and springtime, or the way her white cotton blouse gaped open probably a button more than she realized, revealing a tiny hint of the lacy bra beneath.
The belt had seemed a good idea at the time, but removing it proved more difficult than he expected. He finally knelt to the level of the dog—and within perfect view of Claire’s legs beneath the knee-length flowered skirt she wore, one in a cast and the other bare and smooth. The toes of both feet had been painted a vivid, adorable pink.
He cleared his throat and yanked the belt free, looping it around his hand to keep from sliding his fingers up that delectable length of leg….
“Thank you,” Claire
said again. “I’m sure he would have wandered back, but I appreciate your going to the trouble to bring him home.”
He rose. “No problem. I didn’t want to risk him going into the next block and not being able to find his way.”
She studied him for a moment there and he thought he saw indecision on her features. “Want to come in for a moment?” she asked, the words tumbling over each other quickly. “Angie brought some cinnamon rolls over earlier this evening.”
“My sister Angie?”
“The Demon Seed is what I like to call her, especially when she comes bearing her cinnamon rolls. She brought a whole dozen over, but the kids are gone all weekend. If I don’t find somebody to take some of them off my hands, I’m going to eat the whole pan myself.”
“That woman knows how to hold a grudge. I couldn’t make it to Sunday dinner at her place last week and to pay me back, she makes you cinnamon rolls and conveniently forgets I live only at the end of the block.”
“Maybe she thinks you’re able to find your own pastries,” she murmured.
Something in her tone had him looking closely for any sort of double meaning, but she only smiled blandly.
“Yeah, it’s definitely a job hazard when you’re a cop. Seems like there are always doughnuts available, whether you want them or not.”
“Those, too.” She opened the door. “Angie brought me more than enough rolls. Come in and I’ll try to find a container for you to take some home.”
“I’ve always got room for Angie’s cinnamon rolls. They’ll make a great breakfast before my shift tomorrow. Thank you.”
She only limped a little as she led the way into the entry and through the hall.
He was struck again by how warm and welcoming she had made her house. It was the sort of place designed for kicking off shoes and settling in. The kitchen smelled delicious, of lemons and spice and roasting meat. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it as Chester headed straight for the water dish and Claire bustled around her kitchen, pulling out a disposable plastic container. Riley leaned against the doorjamb as she moved half of the round pan into the container.
“Something smells good in here.”
She made a face. “Dinner. I know, it’s late, but the kids are at Jeff and Holly’s, so I’ve been catching up on work. I marinated chicken all day and forgot to throw it in until I got home an hour ago. So how was your lunch?” she asked, then immediately looked as if she regretted the question, although he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.
“Good. Do you know Sharilyn Lundberg? She’s a deputy county attorney.”
“I don’t think I’ve met her, no. She seemed lovely.”
He hadn’t noticed anything about the woman other than her sharp legal mind and her annoying habit of touching his arm entirely too often whenever she made a point, as if that brush of physical contact would somehow give more credence to whatever she was saying.
“We’re working together on the charging documents against Charlie Beaumont and the other teens involved in the crime ring.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” Claire’s features suddenly seemed a little more rosy than they had a moment earlier. “Where do things stand with the charges?”
All the frustration of the meeting with Sharilyn pushed back onto his shoulders. “Not well. Small-town politics are a bitch.”
“You’re in a difficult situation, Charlie being the mayor’s son and all.”
“It’s tough.” All he wanted was to do the job he’d been hired for, to be a cop. Instead, he had to wade through this frigging minefield. “The mayor, of course, is trying for a deal, trying to plead down the charges, but that’s going to be impossible. The county attorney wants to make an example here and try Charlie as an adult because he just turned seventeen. He was drinking. Not much, true, only point-zero-four in his system, well under the legal limit for an adult. But as a minor, he’s not supposed to have any alcohol. Layla’s dead and Taryn Thorne is still in a coma and may not come out of it.”
“Katherine said there have been encouraging signs the last few weeks.”
“We can hope and pray for that. Either way, though, Charlie won’t be able to squeak out of this, no matter how many strings the mayor tries to tug.”
“My heart is sore for the whole family. Mrs. Beaumont comes into my store sometimes. So does Gen, of course. She’s very upset by the whole thing. From what I understand, her fiancé has some political aspirations. Gen worries his family will now see her as a liability.”
A timer on the stove went off before he could answer. “That’s my chicken,” she said.
He straightened. “I’ll leave you to your dinner, then.”
Again, he had the odd sense she was debating something. “Have you eaten?” she finally asked.
“I’m not going to eat your dinner.”
“I made plenty. When the kids are with Jeff, I always make a little extra for leftovers so I don’t have to cook for myself. I’ll warn you, it’s not much. Lemon-rosemary chicken and rice.”
His stomach rumbled again. Even though he knew it wasn’t smart, he was tempted—and the food was only part of it. In the past ten minutes here in her kitchen, the stress and tension of his day seemed to have seeped away. He felt more calm than he had in weeks. He wanted to say yes, to sit down and enjoy a meal and conversation with her in this quiet, peaceful kitchen. The ferocity of the desire scared the hell out of him.
“I’d better not. I’ve got about three hours of paperwork to finish tonight that I’ve been putting off all week.”
“Of course.” She hid it quickly, but he didn’t miss her disappointment. “I understand. You’re busy. Let me fix you a plate and you can take it home and eat it while you work.”
She reached into a cupboard and his throat just about closed up. She had been working hard all day, too, struggling with the frustration of double casts, and she still wanted to take care of him.
Oh, he was in deep, deep trouble.
“You know, my paperwork’s waited this long. Another half hour or so won’t hurt.”
“Great. Let me just toss a quick salad.”
He took the plates from her and set them on the dining nook table in her kitchen and quickly pulled flatware from the drawer. He found it more than a little disconcerting that he was beginning to know where to find things in her kitchen. A few moments later, Riley sat down to what looked like the best meal he’d had in weeks, even counting the always-good food at the diner.
“This is delicious, Claire,” he said after the first bite. “Much better than the cold pizza I probably would have had for dinner.”
“Thank you. Fresh rosemary makes all the difference. Alex taught me that, FYI.”
“Alex gives you cooking lessons, Angie brings you cinnamon rolls. You’re more a part of my family than I am.”
“Not true! Your mom and your sisters all adore you.”
Would they still feel the same if he decided to leave Hope’s Crossing? He quickly changed the subject. “Is it tough for you when Owen and Macy are at their father’s, being alone here in this big house?”
She took her time answering. “The house certainly seems quiet. I usually try to work late on those nights whenever I can. I’m still not crazy about the silence.”
He was so used to silence that he didn’t know any different. He’d never lived with a woman and hadn’t had a roommate since his freshman year of college.
“I miss them,” she went on, “but it’s important for them to spend time with their father and the new family he and Holly are starting. I understand that. Every time I’m tempted to just pack up and go as far away as I can, I remember this is best for the kids.”
He stared. “I thought you loved Hope’s Crossing and wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else.”
“I dream,” she said simply. “Don’t get me wrong, I do love it here. For all the occasional glitz and glam during the ski season, this is a small town at heart, full of good people who care about each other.
If I ever wonder again, I only have to remember the overwhelming support we’ve received for the Giving Hope Day.”
“So why would you even think about leaving?”
“I could come up with a few reasons. Wondering what else is out there. Feeling trapped. My mother. Do I need to go on?”
He laughed. “But you won’t leave, will you?”
“Not while the kids are young anyway.”
“Don’t you think most people in your situation would rather escape the awkwardness?”
“I’m no saint, Riley. We’ve established that. My motives are mostly selfish. I love running String Fever, and my friends and support system are here, too. I’m comfortable here.”
“You belong here.”
“So do you.”
“I’d say the jury is so far out on that one that nobody knows where they are anymore.”
She studied him for a long moment. “Why did you come home? Really? Don’t tell me it was only because the position of police chief opened up. I’m sure when you decided to leave the Bay Area, you could have found a job in a hundred places.”
“Maybe.” He sighed. “When I found out Chief Coleman had decided to retire, I had just spent months undercover as a pimp and a drug dealer. Before that, I spent nearly a year posing as a white supremacist. I needed to wash the dirt out somehow and the job here just seemed right.”
“You needed to be home,” she said softly.
“I wouldn’t have put it that way. But yeah, I guess.”
“You’re doing a good job, Riley. J. D. Nyman is an idiot and he always has been. Just give people a little time. When the wounds of the last month aren’t so raw, people will see you’re exactly right for Hope’s Crossing.”
Her staunch defense of him, the faith he knew he didn’t deserved, warmed him. He gazed at her, so earnest and lovely. He ached to kiss her, to pull her close and just hold on.
He released a slow breath and pushed away his half-eaten dinner. “This was delicious, Claire, but it’s late. I’d better go.”
She looked a little disconcerted by his abruptness but nodded. “Thank you for staying. It was nice to have company besides Chester.”
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