Hard Pressed

by Kate Canterbary

* * *

  I'm leaving you this note because I know you're very busy and I don't want to waste the town sheriff's time. Lord knows I've already wasted enough of it.

  * * *

  Thank you for taking me home last night…and everything else. I made you a basket of wild blueberry muffins for your trouble. That seemed like the appropriate baked good for getting naked in your living room.

  * * *

  I wasn't myself last night. I didn't mean to kiss you or fondle your backside or ask all those intimate questions. Thank you for pretending to enjoy it.

  * * *

  It was very noble of you to sleep on the couch while I was starfished on your bed. I couldn't help but notice it's quite large. The bed, that is. I swear I didn't notice anything else when I let myself out this morning.

  * * *

  As you know, Talbott's Cove is a ridiculously small town and there's no chance we can avoid each other. Not that I'd want to avoid you, of course, but I'm not sure I can look at you without thinking of the forty different ways I made a fool of myself.

  * * *

  Instead of avoidance, let's try to be friends. We'll forget all about last night…if that's what you want.

  * * *

  Please burn this note after you read it—

  * * *

  Annette

  * * *

  p.s. I whipped up some cinnamon buns, too. Please enjoy them. I'm not sure why, but I couldn't get buns out of my mind today.

  * * *

  I didn't allow myself the time to reread this draft, instead folding it in half and penning his name on the front. I returned inside, marched straight for the basket, and set the note right in the center. The other drafts I slipped inside the hardcover book, and left it on the counter.

  The morning sun and ocean breeze had dried my hair, and I pulled on the first sundress I found in my closet. Dresses were my favorite. One piece of clothing, no worries about matching tops and bottoms. It didn't get any better than that. Then again, dresses that required neither dry cleaning nor ironing were better. I didn't mess with either of those chores.

  I slipped into a pair of cute sandals, grabbed my spare set of shop keys, and hooked the basket around my elbow.

  I didn't allow myself any time to reconsider the muffins or the note, instead greeting other shopkeepers and neighbors as I walked down Main Street. It wasn't strange for me to come calling with an armful of goodies. Ever since I'd started watching Bake Off and teaching myself how to prepare pastries, I was always delivering something to someone.

  "Good morning," I said when I reached the station's front desk. "I made some muffins this morning and couldn't possibly keep them all to myself. I thought the new sheriff might like to try some wild blueberries."

  "Of course," Cindy, the station manager said. "He'll be in by ten. He does morning patrol first, then paperwork."

  She went to high school with my grandmother. They played bridge together every Thursday and she came into the store each week for a new stack of romance novels, the smuttier the better. That was small town life for you. It was a wonder she didn't mention how grown-up I looked these days or that she was happy my teenage acne had cleared up so nicely.

  She gestured to the corner office, and then swiveled away from her desk. She tapped a cane against a thick plastic boot on her leg. "Take that back to his office, wouldya, dear? I had bunion surgery last week and I'm slow going."

  "No problem," I said, plucking two muffins from the basket and setting them on her desk. "Let me know how these turned out."

  "I'm sure they're outstanding," she called as I walked through the station to Jackson's office.

  I didn't allow myself to think about being in his space, instead smiling and greeting officers and firefighters on my way. The door to Jackson's office was ajar and I elbowed my way through. It was sparse and tidy, not unlike his home, and it smelled like him. I didn't know how to describe the scent—woodsy? male? were there any words that didn't remind me of erections?—but I liked it.

  I liked it enough to know I had to put the damn basket down and get the hell out of his office.

  Something about this man made me want to take off my panties.

  5

  Knead

  v. To combine dough by hand on a hard surface.

  Jackson

  * * *

  I read the note once more but not for content. No, I knew what it said. I'd read it forty times if I'd read it once. This time through, I focused on the line and swoop of her letters. Her penmanship was simple, direct. No time wasted on flourishes like dotting the i.

  I wasn't going to let this note—or last night—go unaddressed. But more importantly, I wanted to see Annette again. Hell, I'd wanted to see her this morning but she foreclosed that possibility. Not that I blamed her. It grated on me and it drove me mad with worry but I understood her reaction. If the tables had been turned and I woke up after a night like that, I'd probably tuck tail and run, too.

  I didn't have to glance out the windows to know evening was settling in and it was long past quitting time for me. My inbox was as empty as I was going to get it today and my deputy was on duty for the night. By all accounts, I should've been kicked back on my patio with a beer by now.

  But I couldn't go home. Not yet. Not after Hurricane Annette left her mark all over my house. Not after suffering several heart attacks when I found her gone this morning. Not after receiving the best blueberry muffins in the world—or so I was told—and a note loaded with mixed messages.

  And I didn't have to look in the direction of Annette's shop to know the door was open and the lights were on.

  I hadn't been able to keep myself from staring across the town center all day. I'd wanted to go to her the minute I arrived at the station and found the treats she'd left for me, but I knew we required the type of time and privacy that a busy Friday morning in July couldn't deliver. So, I waited. I paced my office, gazed out the window, went on unnecessary patrols around town, always looping past her shop.

  I hated that she'd left my house before I woke up this morning. I'd barely slept on that rigid torture device of a sofa and I couldn't fathom how she'd snuck out without my notice. Discovering she was embarrassed about last night—and thinking I pretended to enjoy her—was another round of torture. We couldn't have that. It took everything in me to keep from marching across Main Street and setting her straight. It was a damn good thing I'd been due in court this afternoon. I needed every distraction I could find.

  But through it all, I was conflicted. Annette's head and her heart were all over the place. I couldn't blame her for that. As recently as twenty-four hours ago, she had romantic feelings for Owen Bartlett. Even if he'd closed the door on those possibilities, it wasn't right to assume she'd shed that skin overnight. Any advances she made toward me were a product of Owen's rejection rather than an attraction toward me.

  But I couldn't deny the way she set my pulse racing every time she smiled at me. I couldn't deny my attraction toward her, or that I'd felt it since my first day in Talbott's Cove.

  I glanced out the window around sunset and caught sight of Annette through her storefront. She was with a customer, her hands doing all the talking. With a smile, I read the note again.

  We'll forget all about last night…if that's what you want.

  I tapped the card on my desk, nodding to myself. I didn't want that.

  With that decided, I pushed away from my desk, grabbed the empty basket, and strode through the station. A wall of hot, humid air hit me when I stepped outside. Thankfully, I'd left my suit coat in the office. I wrenched my tie loose, flipped open the buttons at my collar, and rolled up the sleeves of my dress shirt. Before coming here, I'd believed coastal Maine enjoyed mild, breezy summers. That was occasionally true. It wasn't true tonight.

  As I walked toward her shop, I watched two customers exit with bags in hand. They didn't notice me as they chatted about their purchases and headed toward The Galley. I'd devoted too much time to st
aring out my window today to have that talk with JJ about overserving his patrons, but I'd make time soon.

  I pushed open the door to Harborside Books, a small bell tinkling overhead to announce my arrival.

  "Just one second," Annette called from behind the counter. She was crouched down low and I couldn't see what she was doing. "Just plugging in my phone. I forgot to charge it today—and last night, for that matter—and I just remembered that now. Actually, I just found my phone now. I guess I'd left it in the receipt tape box. Funny, I don't remember going in there yesterday. I hope the world didn't fall apart today. If it did, it couldn't have been that bad since we're fine but you never know. Anything I can help you find this evening?"

  I set the basket on the counter and planted my hands on the wooden surface. I couldn't begin to catalog the number of worries she just invented for me. Instead, I studied her dark curls as she wrestled with an overloaded power strip. That was the first thing I'd noticed about her—I was obsessed with her legs but her curls straddled the line between damn cute and fucking sexy.

  "You can help me find the woman who made the most incredible cinnamon buns I've ever tasted," I said. "I'd like to thank her for her generosity, among other things."

  "The—oh," she stammered, her head snapping up and connecting with the edge of the counter. "Oh, shit. That hurt."

  "You're a whole lot of trouble, Annette," I muttered as I joined her on the floor. I brought my hands to her face, squinting at the red mark on her forehead. "How bad is it?"

  "Not bad," she replied, her eyes cast down. "Just took me by surprise. I'm all right, sheriff."

  "Jackson. You call me Jackson," I ordered. I wanted the openness and honesty of last night. I didn't want the nice girl who said all the right things and lathered everyone in cheerful platitudes. I didn't want her at all. "Now, tell me. Where do you keep the ice around here?"

  She turned her head, silently forcing my hands away from her face, and pushed to her feet. She put several steps between us and busied her hands with a small flower pot filled with pens. I almost laughed at the idea of her being shy around me when she'd stripped down and stood naked in my kitchen last night, but this was the side of her I was getting today. Shy, and jumpier than a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.

  I hated it.

  "No need for ice. Just a little bump. It won't even bruise," she said, still focused on the pens. They had softball-sized fake flowers attached to the ends. I didn't get it but I wasn't about to ask. I knew something about sticking to my priorities. "I'm glad you liked the rolls. I made the caramel myself."

  I was a modern man. I believed in equal pay for equal work and every one of women's rights and choices. I didn't entertain any notions of women belonging in the kitchen. But something about Annette announcing she'd made the caramel herself sent a ripple of rightness down my spine. I'd kneel at her feet if it meant I'd get a taste of her fresh caramel.

  "I loved the rolls," I corrected, brushing my palms down my thighs as I stood. "The guys demolished the muffins before I could get a hand in there but I heard they were also exceptional."

  Finally, she glanced up and met my gaze, a smile pulling at her lips. "I'm happy they went over so well," she said.

  I shook my head and stepped closer to her. "Let me be clear, Annette. Grown men were shoving muffins in their face as if they hadn't eaten in weeks. A fistfight almost broke out in my bullpen over those rolls. The rookie resorted to picking crumbs out of the basket. It was mayhem. I almost turned the fire hoses on them."

  Laughing, she abandoned the pens. "I'm sorry you didn't get a muffin. The wild blueberries are amazing right now. I should've made more."

  I wagged a finger at her. "Don't say that. Don't take the blame when you haven't earned it. You had no way of knowing my staff was full of heathens."

  She lifted a shoulder and let it fall. "I saved a few muffins. I might have some stashed in the storeroom if you'd like."

  I spread my hands wide in front of her. "Would I like? I'd fuckin' love. Lead the way."

  Her pale blue dress swirled around her legs as she moved toward the back of the shop. The fabric looked soft, maybe a bit stretchy, and all I could think about was dragging it up her thighs. I'd bend her over the counter, shove that dress up to her waist, discard her panties, and then fill her with one glorious thrust. I could see her lips parting on a sigh, her eyelids drifting shut, her cheek pressed flat against the surface.

  "Jackson?"

  "Wh-yeah?" I asked, the majority of my brain busy cultivating my newest fantasy.

  I blinked twice and glanced around the storeroom. It was a compact space with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a battered kitchen table, and a small desk up against the far wall. I'd expected a mountain range of books but this was painstakingly ordered.

  She grinned and seemed to gulp down a laugh. "I asked if you wanted any coffee," she said. "I have tea and water, too."

  "Water," I croaked. "Water would be great."

  Annette gestured toward the table. "Have a seat," she said.

  I heeded her request but sitting only consumed a handful of seconds. After completing that task, I didn't know what to do with myself. I couldn't pin her to the table and claim her panties as my prize. Not yet. Not until I drew out the woman who slapped my ass like the vixen I knew she was last night.

  "Annette, I—"

  "Did you finish that basketball book? The one about the Larry Bird-Magic Johnson rivalry?" she asked, blowing right past my attempt to revisit the events of last night. "I've sold that book to a couple of people, and always heard positive things about it. The author has several other titles if you'd like me to order them for you."

  Annette set the glass of water and a plate in front of me, a fist-sized blueberry muffin in the center. Then she joined me at the table with a mug. "No muffin for you?" I asked.

  She waved off my question. "I'm good. I had one before the evening rush."

  "Okay." I shrugged as I broke the muffin in half. "I haven't finished that book yet. I'm sorry. I have it on my bedside table—"

  "I know," she interrupted. Her words were quiet and husky, just as I imagined they'd be when I pushed inside her and she told me how full she felt. "I saw it there. That's why I asked."

  I stared at Annette, my heart hammering as I stood at this crossroads. I didn't want to make the wrong move and I didn't know what she wanted.

  "I'm sorry about last night," she continued. "I'm sorry I wrecked your evening and I'm sorry I was such a mess."

  "Don't be," I replied. She started to interrupt but I held up my hand. "No, Annette. You can apologize for sneaking out of my house without saying goodbye and that's about it."

  "Then I'm sorry for sneaking out," she said, laughing. "But I know you didn't have to bring me home with you and put me to bed. You could've—I don't know—done something else. I'm sure you don't take every drunk chick in Talbott's Cove home with you after last call."

  "You're right about that," I said. "I don't take women home. You're the first woman I've had in my house. I could've sent a deputy to The Galley to pick you up and get you settled for the evening."

  "But you didn't," she said.

  I nodded. "I didn't do that. I wanted to take you home."

  "You wanted to take me home," she repeated.

  "Yes, Annette," I replied. "I wanted to take you home. I don't regret anything and it kills me that you're upset about it."

  She sat back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at me for a long, uncomfortable beat. I had no idea what was going on.

  "You're placating me," she said eventually.

  There were many things I'd expected Annette to say in response. That wasn't in the top one thousand. "I'm—I'm what?" I asked.

  "Placating me," she repeated. "You know all about my personal drama and you're using it against me."

  "I-I-I, uh…what?" I stammered. I couldn't stop shaking my head. "No, that's ridiculous. If anything, I've spent the past twenty-four hours
trying to pretend you weren't lusting over the lobsterman."

  "And why is that?" she asked.

  She had no idea. Not a fucking clue. Even after insisting I'd wanted to take her home, she still didn't get it. That I was starved for the mere sight of her. "For one, it's a waste of your time and energy," I said, spreading my hands out before me.

  Annette flinched, bringing a hand to her chest and rubbing the exposed skin above her heart. "Ouch."

  That gesture had the unfortunate consequence of directing my attention to her breasts. Her gorgeous, slightly more than a handful breasts. The ones swaying against the soft fabric of her dress as she rubbed. I wanted to reach in and stroke my thumbs over her nipples. I was damn near salivating at the thought.

  "I don't say that to add insult to injury," I continued. "I'm sorry."

  Glancing away from me, Annette said, "It's fine. What was two?"

  "Two?" I repeated.

  "You said wasting my time and energy on Owen was your first point. Surely, there's a second point that you're looking to present. If not, thank you for returning the basket and have a good evening."

  Her ankles were obscene. Her hair was soft and wild all at once. Her big, dark eyes were straight out of an animated princess movie. Her dresses launched the filthiest dreams of my life. But it was her mind—the one thing I hadn't been able to watch from my office—that had me twisted ten ways to Tuesday.

  "You're right, I do have another point," I admitted. "I don't want you lusting over the lobsterman and I don't want to forget about last night."

  Annette's lips parted as she blinked at me. "I don't want any romantic pity," she said. "I don't need it, thank you very much."