Hard Pressed

by Kate Canterbary

  I wanted the right to go to her, to be with her, to call her mine.

  "It doesn't bother me because people talk about people all the time. It's just what they do around here," she said. "It's no different from anywhere else. We all know each other so it seems like everyone is meddling in each other's lives. They're not. It's the same as everyone in a circle of friends talking about each other. I don't mind the talking. I get it. It's human nature."

  I blinked, waiting for the "but." Because it was coming. Her tone was too hesitant for any other word to follow.

  "But"—and there it was—"I don't want to give people the wrong idea. I know I can't control anyone's ideas but I don't want anyone getting carried away with some notion that we're, you know, a thing."

  I set my knife down and watched her. "And that would be a problem?"

  "Maybe not a problem," she said, a little exasperated. "But a situation."

  "And you're not ready for another situation?" I asked.

  She gave a curt shake of her head but didn't meet my eyes, instead kept her focus on the cutting board. "No. Not entirely," she said.

  I grabbed a dish towel, needing something to keep my hands occupied. "No situations," I said. I wound the fabric around my palm like a tourniquet. It was all I could do to hold back the argument burning on my tongue. "That's not a problem, Annie. I don't need any situations either."

  We ate outside on the back patio, flanked by citronella candles to keep the bugs at bay. Annette was quiet, more than I'd expected. Then again, few of my expectations panned out when it came to her. I'd wanted her to curl up in my arms and let me protect her from everything beyond us, but she didn't want that. Not yet.

  Annette pointed to a thin beam of light to the south with her fork. "That's the old Talbott's Cove lighthouse. Owen Bartlett took it over when he bought the land where it sits."

  "Is that so?" I asked. Discussing Captain Bartlett—and Annette's relationship with him—wasn't my preferred topic.

  "Yeah," she murmured, oblivious to my displeasure. "Up on the hill, overlooking the town, is the Markham house. You can see the roofline from here, and the flag pole, too. Their property extends way back into the woods. There's a dairy barn out there, a bunch of old cabins, even a cemetery. Their family has lived on that land for centuries. Judge Markham retired about five years ago and he wasn't thrilled about that. It's a complicated situation with him. His daughter Brooke—she's an only child—moved home from New York City not too long ago."

  I allowed her to ramble as if she was telling me something new. I'd made it my business to know every patch of land and resident in this town, and enough about their comings and goings to know when something wasn't right.

  I knew about Bartlett's billionaire houseguest within hours of him arriving in the Cove. I had an eye on the Nevilles' inn, too. I was still piecing together the whole story but I knew they'd survived a gruesome attack that killed Cleo Neville's immediate family years ago, and one of the perpetrators was still at large. I'd been keeping extremely close tabs on the Fitzsimmonses' property. There was no telling when their son would leave rehab and I wanted to be prepared. I was hoping for the best and rooting for the kid to kick his addiction once and for all, but I also knew the reality of the opioid epidemic. I'd seen it in Albany and I was seeing it here, and it wasn't getting any better.

  "And over there is the mouth of Dickerson Creek, which used to be part of the old Dickerson Farmstead," she continued, gesturing toward the forest. "The high school kids hike up there in the summer and drink beer after Eskimo King closes down for the night. The Creek, not the Farmstead, that is."

  "Thanks for the clarification."

  "Anytime," she replied, tipping back her beer. "I know this is a small town but there's a lot more than meets the eye."

  "Do you doubt my ability to handle the town's safety?" I asked with a chuckle.

  "What? No. Of course not," she replied. "What makes you think that?"

  I gestured toward her. "You've been schooling me on the people and places of Talbott's Cove for the past ten minutes and I have to assume you're doing that because you don't believe I know how to find my way."

  "Oh, I—I," she started, tapping her index finger against her lip. "Sometimes I lapse into tour guide mode. It helped when I first opened the bookstore and out-of-towners would ask general questions like, 'What's good around here?' and I'd just tell them everything I could think of."

  "I've heard that about you."

  Annette leaned back, stared at me for a second, then nodded slowly. "Is that what people say about me these days?"

  "They've said you're uncommonly beautiful, intelligent, and generous with your time and knowledge," I said.

  She waved away my words. "You're confused. That wasn't me. It was one of my sisters. Or all of them, blended together and averaged out," she added.

  "Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm capable of vetting my own intel," I countered. "And I'm sitting right here, in the presence of your uncommon beauty and boundless knowledge. I'd say it's a fair assessment."

  "Are you flirting with me, sheriff?"

  I tossed my hands up in the air. "Finally, she notices," I said to the night sky. "I'm telling you, when I first arrived, everyone told me you knew the nooks and crannies of this place better than anyone else. If I wanted to know what was up, they said I should get the pertinents from you."

  "Oh, really?" she asked. I nodded. "Why didn't you ever stop by to get those pertinents?"

  "I did," I said, laughing. "Several times. I discovered I couldn't talk to you for more than five minutes without wanting to touch you." I dragged my knuckles down her bare arm, not missing the slight sigh she released. "Why are you nervous right now? That's the reason for tour guide mode, isn't it?"

  The breeze rustled her hair as she shrugged. "Yeah, it looks that way," Annette replied. "I am nervous. I've never been with someone without also having plans. I don't know what this is and I don't know what to do with it. Even with random hookups or friends with benefits, I had a plan. I knew where it was going and where it wasn't."

  She glanced at me, her eyes shining bright in the near darkness. God, she was gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that hid behind homecoming queen smiles and epic blueberry muffins and the simple act of being nice to people. The kind most people missed because she distracted them with books and stories about old farms and piles of local gossip.

  "Do you need a plan?" I asked.

  Annette lifted her hands and then let them fall to her lap. "I don't trust myself to make plans right now, not after everything that's happened in the last week or so," she replied.

  At first, I assumed she was talking about us and everything from her naked confessions to this evening. Then I realized she was talking about Bartlett. I fucking hated that. I liked the guy but I couldn't deal with this unrequited love bullshit. Not even for a minute.

  Through clenched teeth, I asked, "What happened with all that?"

  She shook her head, frowning. "I don't want to get into it. It's complicated."

  I leaned forward to catch her hooded gaze. "Not complicated. Not really." She started to protest but I continued, "You're a smart chick. As you just illustrated, you know everything about everyone in this town. Of all the people in the Cove, you would've known the deal with Bartlett."

  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Clearly, I wasn't making the progress I'd intended for this evening.

  "Yes," she started, "but—"

  "Nope," I interrupted.

  "But," she continued, "Bartlett and I go way back. I've known him since forever and I wasn't really sure about—about, you know. His mom said it was a phase and—"

  "Now that's fucking obnoxious," I muttered.

  "And he took one of my friends to homecoming—"

  "A million years ago," I said. "Here's what I don't understand."

  "Oh, great," she muttered, rubbing her forehead.

  "Why do you think that was good enough? I'm serio
us," I added when I caught her eyeroll. "Like I said, you're a smart chick and you have fuck-hot ankles. Why were you willing to rubber-stamp a relationship with a man who wasn't fighting off bears for the pleasure of your company?"

  "There are no bears out here," she said, unimpressed. "Not usually. But it was good enough for—"

  "Please don't finish that sentence," I interrupted. "I beg of you. Don't tell me that you'll hold out for a guy who isn't interested in you."

  "Just rub salt in the wound," she said under her breath.

  That stopped me. I wasn't trying to be hurtful. "I'm not trying to do that. I'm only trying to understand why you'd undercut yourself like that for Bartlett."

  Annette blew out a breath and shook her head slowly. "I don't know, Jackson. I guess I need to spend some time soul-searching. Shall I leave to do that or am I allowed to finish my beer?"

  Ah. There it was. The edge of Annette's patience. Even town sweethearts had one.

  "Listen, I shouldn't have brought it up. You don't have to defend yourself to me. Whether you're making plans or not making plans, I can roll with it. It's your choice and I understand where you're coming from now."

  Annette peered at me the way I'd probably peer at someone who made several hairpin turns in a single conversation. "What about you? How do you feel about plans?"

  I reached for my beer bottle, needing something to keep my hands busy. Jerking a shoulder up, I studied the label and said, "Nah, no plans here. I should've said this the other day but I'm not looking for anything serious."

  I tipped back my beer, a futile attempt at washing away the taste of my lies. If she'd asked me a week ago, it would've been true. I hadn't been looking for anything serious, anything that diverted my attention from the job and the reputation I wanted to build here. But now I understood why she was the town sweetheart, an institution like JJ growling at patrons and Bartlett pulling in lobsters. She was one of a kind, and she deserved to be treated that way.

  By me.

  "I'll drink to that," Annette replied, holding her bottle up to mine in a toast. "Now, let's make those scones."

  10

  Sweating

  v. To heat fruits or vegetables slowly in a pan with a small amount of fat so that they cook in their own juices.

  Annette

  * * *

  Jackson had ideas.

  Big ideas. Relationship ideas. He claimed he didn't but that was a special slice of bologna.

  I couldn't tell up from down right now and everything I felt with him seemed distorted, as if I was experiencing my life through fun-house mirrors. Aside from my issues—and my constant desire to dispense with undergarments while in his presence—he wanted me in a way I didn't comprehend. I'd never been on the receiving end of attention—desire—like this and I didn't trust it. It seemed too much, too fast, too good to be true. Yeah, he brought out my inner stripper, the one who lived right beside my inner bitch, but sexual chemistry wasn't everything.

  The reality was that I felt things for Jackson. Sexual things, emotional things, connection things. But he was the first man in ages to offer me a bit of attention, some affection. As I'd already learned, I could go for actual years with little more than a few special book order conversations. This avalanche of emotions was nothing more than Jackson tuning into me and turning me on. It didn't mean anything.

  Right?

  Right. Of course. I had this under control.

  The scones, though, not as much. We had the dry ingredients measured and sifted—not without leaving plenty of floured handprints on each other—and most of the wet ingredients ready to roll. It had only taken us two hours to accomplish these initial steps. The operative ingredient here, the peaches, wasn't making things easy on us.

  "Like this," I said, bumping Jackson with my elbow to get his attention. "Peel the skin off gently so you're not bruising the fruit."

  "No bruises," he murmured, watching as I worked the skin off a peach.

  This time, I nailed it. The last two tries weren't as smooth. "Now, you try it."

  He held the fruit in the palm of his hand while he scored the skin with a paring knife, sectioning it into quadrants. From there, he worked his thick fingertips, of which I was intimately acquainted, along the knife's lines. He edged the skin away with care and precision, even when the fine flap slipped out of his grip or tore in uneven swaths.

  But the problem I'd discovered with peaches—good peaches, ripe peaches—was the juice. A peak-season peach would sop all over your hands once cut, and this crop was no different. Just when Jackson was about to tug the last bit of skin from around the stem, the fruit went flying.

  "That fucker," he muttered, grasping after the peach even as it sailed across the kitchen and landed near the back door with a sloppy thud. "That fucking fucker." Shaking his head, he turned to me, his hands coated in peach juice. "I'm the worst helper you've ever had, aren't I?"

  I snorted out a laugh. Ladylike, truly. "You're the only helper I've ever had," I said as I went on a retrieval mission. "You might be fumbling the star ingredient—"

  "Don't forget me mixing up teaspoons with tablespoons," he added.

  "And that," I agreed, "but I'm not complaining. Help is help, and I'll take it."

  Jackson tore a handful of paper towels off the roll and passed them to me. "You don't test out recipes with your family? Everyone's told me that your mom's quite the cook."

  "Nope," I replied, an entire lifetime's worth of exclusion packed into one word. "We have different kitchen philosophies. Better to keep them separate than start a holy war, you know?"

  "Let me make a deal with you," Jackson said, holding open the garbage pail while I deposited the runaway peach and the paper towels necessary to clean up its trail. "You do the baking, I'll wash the dishes."

  For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

  I didn't know why that thought burst into my mind like an annoying pop-up ad but it was there now and I couldn't force it away.

  "Sure," I said, turning back to the countertop. I couldn't look at him. I didn't trust myself to meet his gaze without agreeing to his demands and that was a bridge I couldn't cross right now. "That would be awesome. I hate washing dishes. I usually fill up the sink and leave everything soaking in there for days. It's not until I need something and there are no alternatives that I'm compelled to wash anything."

  Jackson slung a dish towel over his shoulder as he leaned against the island. "We have a deal," he said. "One last question for you, Annie."

  Still concentrating on the peach in hand, I asked, "What's that?"

  "Am I coming home with you tonight? Or would you rather I come over tomorrow to"—I swear on my life, his voice dropped a full octave and my undies fell off all by themselves—"wash you up?"

  "Hmm," I started, "let me think about that."

  The peach bobbled out of my grip, first popping into the air and then bouncing off my inner arm when I tried to reel it back in. Instead of containing the fruit, I volleyed it toward Jackson. Bless his heart for trying but he only made matters worse when it slipped out of his grasp and hit me square on the clavicle. It followed the line of my chest down, rolling to a sticky stop right between my breasts.

  Jackson and I stared at the half-bald peach sitting just beneath the neckline of my dress before glancing up at each other.

  "You're not allowed to distract me while I peel peaches," I shouted.

  At the same time, Jackson said, "Now you really need me to give you a good washing."

  I wagged a finger at him, and then reached in to retrieve the peach. "At this rate, we're not going to have any scones before three in the morning," I said, handing him the fruit for disposal. "This shit would never happen on The Great British Bake Off."

  "I don't know what that is but I think we could put this stuff in the fridge and try again tomorrow." Jackson shrugged as he tossed the peach away. "It's a tough job but I'll roll up my sleeves and lick the peach juice off you." He hooked his thumb
over his shoulder, toward his bedroom. "Just take off your clothes and I'll do all the work."

  "You're rather gallant, sheriff," I said. I was like a three-year-old—sticky, sugary, in need of a nap. "But it's late and I should go. We have a bit more time until peach season ends."

  He nodded as if he understood but I knew he didn't. To him, I was getting over a non-relationship and being ridiculously cautious with my heart. My vagina, too, but mostly my heart. He didn't understand my mind games, my mental gymnastics, my struggles to accept affection when it wasn't hard fought. But he was a nice guy, a gentleman, and he respected the boundaries I laid down.

  "I'll walk you home," Jackson said, shoving his hands into his pockets. It was as if he realized the touchy-gropey-kissy portion of the evening was over. "Don't think you can argue this point with me either. You probably know everyone on this street and the location of every crack in the sidewalk but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you walk through town by yourself at this hour. I'll see you home, Annie, whether you like it or not."

  I hummed in response, not confident in my ability to reply without overturning my plan to leave. Jackson was tricky like that. He seemed like the average good guy, all nice and polite with his ma'am-ing and charitable lawn mowing and collecting drunk girls from bars. But underneath the good guy veneer was a man who wanted to keep a woman as his own. He stewed with a desire to protect and serve that woman but he also wanted to belong to her. It traveled through his words and gestures, his stares and touches, and it was potent enough to run off with my thoughts. It made me believe that a man could want me—just me, just as I was—and that belief lodged a knot of confused emotion in my throat.

  My head couldn't keep my heart straight—or maybe it was the other way around.