by Becky Flade
“Do you want to go?”
“I . . . I don’t know. That’s part of my problem. I’m mad, and I’m hurt. I should be curled up in a ball sobbing, right? And it makes me freaking sad that I can’t shed a tear for them. I was so pissed in the moment, I went out into the woods after talking to them, and I got lost. Tala found me, led me home. By the time we got to the cabin, I was okay. I baked cookies.”
“All your training tells you that you should be emotionally crippled by their attitude, so you’re thinking . . . what? That you’re dysfunctional because you’re not?” She didn’t answer, but Carter thought that was it. “Sorry, but that’s crap. Your family has something wrong with them, if you ask me.”
“I ruin everything.” Her quiet declaration didn’t make sense. And his heart broke for her. But he said nothing. “I had a good childhood. Sure, we weren’t as demonstratively affectionate as other families, but we were happy. I was loved, and I knew it. The four of us were close. When I came out of the coma, I . . . ” She struggled with her next words. “I had a hard time. Emotionally. And a new ability that made it more difficult for me to handle my feelings because they weren’t all mine, not that I understood that. My parents didn’t understand, at all. They had me committed. The doctors gave me a lot of drugs. And that dulled the ‘touch thing,’ as you called it. But I didn’t want to be a zombie. I checked myself out. With therapy I learned important coping techniques. But how do you not touch your mother? Hug your father?
“I felt my sister’s anger and her envy. I was forced to share my father’s disgust and my mother’s sorrow. They didn’t believe me when I tried to explain. They still don’t. I get the sense from all three of them that they blame me and are embarrassed by me. My loving family isn’t loving anymore. And I worry that they never were.”
“You distanced yourself from them to protect your own heart.”
“And my sanity, yes.” She sat. “For years, I was separate. I went back to school to finish my undergrad degree, switched my major to premed. I went on to medical school, specializing in psychiatry. Later, I kept busy. I built my practice, donated my free time.”
“You tried to make them proud of you again.”
“I . . . yes. Yes, I guess I did. I hadn’t thought of it that way before. But you don’t understand where I’m going with any of this.”
“Yes, I do. You think you’re providing evidence as to why I shouldn’t pursue a relationship with you. What I don’t understand is why you think you’re at fault. You’re not responsible for the actions, decisions, and emotions of other people. And you learned how to heal yourself not once, but twice. I admire you. You underestimate your own strength.”
He reached in for another cookie. The silence was contemplative and comfortable. She inclined her head. “I didn’t notice you had music playing. Who is this?”
“You’re pulling my leg, right?”
She shook her head and grabbed a cookie.
“This is Patsy Cline.”
“Her voice is beautiful. She manages to sound both melancholy and hopeful.”
“I have eclectic taste in music. If you looked at my CD collection or my iTunes library, you’d find a range of artists from every genre of music. How about you?”
“I don’t listen to music often. My parents provided me with an appreciation for classical composers when I was young. Studies support the use of chamber music for therapeutic measures. I kept it on, in the background, in my office every day for myself as well as my patients. But I don’t have any strong attachment to it. Books are my passion.”
“I like to read Maggie’s stuff.” He ignored his twinge of embarrassment.
“I’m a big fan.”
“Dr. Elliott reads romance novels. Interesting.”
“I told you about my ability. You didn’t blink. You haven’t mentioned it to me or anyone else that I can tell. Why?” The abrupt question suggested she’d been mulling it over. The good doctor had a lot on her mind these days.
“Not in the habit of spreading people’s personal business.”
“That’s not what I mean. Do you believe me?”
“I’m good at spotting a lie. Professional byproduct. You weren’t lying when you told me about your ability.”
“So you believe that I believe what I said. Which isn’t the same as you believing it. Doesn’t it support the theory that I’m not sane?”
“I don’t think anyone is. It’s like trying to define normal. There are degrees of crazy, and everything is relative.” He shrugged and scooted closer. “And no matter what I do or don’t believe, I can’t deny something extraordinary occurs each time we touch.”
“The finger thing, at dinner a couple weeks ago, was that an experiment?”
“Of a sort.” He shifted his weight. “I’m attracted to you, Henley. You haven’t asked, but I’m not currently seeing anyone else. And you haven’t exactly turned me down. Or said you’re not interested in me, too.”
She bit her lip, which drew his attention to her mouth. On her first day as dispatcher he’d asked her what would happen if they kissed. He wanted to test the theory. Damn it, he wanted to kiss her. Carter leaned in, his eyes on hers. Henley’s eyes widened in awareness as she released the lip she held between her teeth on a tiny gasp of what he thought might be surprise, perhaps desire. But then those big, brown eyes that he thought might swallow him whole narrowed. She stood, abruptly, her body tense but with what—anger, frustration, indignation—he couldn’t guess.
“It occurs to me that we had a deal, Sheriff. I tell you mine, you tell me yours. At this point, the balance of power is greatly unbalanced. I’m not counting the story of how Dublin saved your life.” He started. “Yeah, wasn’t that hard to conclude. Trained psychiatrist, remember? Call it a professional byproduct, if you like. Regardless, it’s getting late. I’m going home.”
He jumped to his feet as she walked toward his door. “You’re forgetting your cookies.”
“Those are for you. I have more at home.” She paused with her hand on the knob and nodded decisively. “Home. I like that. Thanks for giving me a shoulder.”
After the door closed, he handed Dublin a cookie and took a bite of his own. “She’s a smart one, Dubs.”
After sitting for a couple of minutes, considering, Carter realized he hadn’t heard her car door close or her engine start. He pictured her standing outside in the gloom, debating whether she should come back. She thought a lot. He wanted to take her out of her head. Wanted to see her in the throes of a response more powerful than her intellect. With a cocky grin spread across his face and more than a little aroused, he strode to the door. She was where she’d been a few hours earlier, standing on his stoop, her hand raised to knock. His greeting died on his tongue. Her face was pale, as though she’d seen a ghost.
“My tires have been slashed.”
Chapter Nine
The entire town talked about it. Henley didn’t need to be a native of the Cove to interpret the looks she received. She hated the whispered attention. She could imagine people at the diner, their faces gleeful over a plate of meatloaf special, gossiping about how the new dispatcher was out at the sheriff’s place late Sunday evening and, as if that wasn’t scandalous enough, an unknown person slit her tires.
She felt her muscles tense the further down Main Street she walked. She regretted not asking Maggie to drop her off at the sheriff’s office. An unfamiliar internal voice accused her of overreacting. Henley scanned the immediate area. More than one person averted their eyes. Instead of the expected rush of vindication, her instincts were to lower her head and walk faster, as though she had something to hide. Thankfully, her pride wouldn’t allow that. She kept her head up and her pace even until she entered the sheriff’s office. When the door closed, she rested against the wall, closed her lids, and loosed a gusty sigh.
“Are you okay?”
Doug’s hesitant question made Henley’s eyes pop open. She’d thought she was alone. The blessed anonym
ity she had enjoyed in this quaint town was gone, and she wanted to wallow. Instead, she tucked her thoughts away and smiled reassuringly.
“Yes. I am. Thank you for asking.” He didn’t look as though he believed her. Jeez, I don’t want Deputy Doug assigning himself the role of gallant knight to my supposed damsel. She moved past him into the main room, hung up her jacket, and strode to her desk. She tucked her purse into a drawer, pretending not to notice Doug had followed her through the room. He was standing at her side; she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t.
“If someone bothered you, I need to know.” He flushed. “I have to tell the sheriff. He wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Not that I want anything to happen to you either. ’Cause I don’t. But that’s the job, my job, you know, protecting the citizens of Trappers’ Cove. I mean, that’s the sheriff’s responsibility, too, but with you, it’s personal. For him.”
“It’s not like that. Carter and I are friends. Just friends.”
“I know you were out at his place the other night. I thought—”
“It’s not like that,” she emphasized.
“Yes, it is,” Carter corrected, strolling into the room. “Hey, Doug. Morning, Doc.”
She looked around for an object to throw at him. From the wink Carter threw her way, she guessed he had a good idea of exactly what her intentions were. He wasn’t that charming. She refused to smile.
“No, it’s not,” Henley argued. Doug stood there, his expression miserable. The grin Carter wore implied he found her amusing. She eyeballed the stapler and wondered how much damage it could inflict if propelled.
“You know, Doc, hitting an officer of the law is as much a criminal act here as it is in Cleveland.” Yeah, he had her number.
“Take off that star then.” Turning up her nose, she sat with as much dignity as she could muster. She sorted through the paperwork that accumulated during her days off, the sounds of Doug and Carter discussing the day ahead muted in the background. She smelled the coffee brewing; it took all of her willpower not to salivate. Get a call, go on patrol, she chanted internally. Come on, already. Sure, life is great for the blue-eyed giant. Now go away.
She raised her head to find a steaming cup of coffee had magically appeared within her grasp. She inhaled the aroma, made a happy little noise deep in her throat, and reached for the mug. Her eyes flicked up as she took the first glorious sip. Carter lowered his hip to the corner of the desk. She reluctantly returned his grin; he’d made it the way she liked it.
“You’re not as charming as you think. But thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He drank from his mug. “Have dinner with me tonight.”
“That didn’t sound like an invitation.”
“Henley, would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight?”
“Now you’re mocking me.”
“A little bit, yeah.” He smiled and cast his eyes around the room as though getting ready to impart secret information, his gaze glancing over Doug, who was trying, and in Henley’s estimation, failing, to appear as though he wasn’t eavesdropping. “I’m nervous.”
That made her laugh without reservation. The intimidatingly attractive, confident, flirtatious Carter McAlister was nervous asking a woman out on a date?
“Bullshit.”
“Dr. Elliott, I’m shocked. I didn’t think you swore.”
“I’m not a prude.” She peered up at him from under hooded lids, pursed her lips, and blew over the surface of the coffee. Henley was pleased to see his eyes narrow and his nostrils flare.
“Please have dinner with me tonight? We can go to Mario’s right down the street, keep it casual.”
“How casual?” He laid his hand over hers, keeping her from lifting the mug. She felt his need and his curiosity. But it wasn’t overwhelming. She pulled her hand free regardless.
“I’ll wear this; you can wear that. Go to our own homes after, in our own vehicles.”
“Okay. But you’re buying.”
“Deal. Now that we’ve got that settled . . . ” He didn’t give her time to prepare because she didn’t realize his intent until his lips brushed hers. The caress was whisper-light. But Henley felt the impact like a fist to the stomach. When Carter pulled back, Doug looked away, his profile awash in a deep blush.
Carter moved a few feet beyond her desk. “I want you to consider moving into town. The second floor of this building is a functionally furnished apartment. It’s not as luxurious as Maggie’s cabin, but it’s not a dump, either. It’s included in the sheriff’s compensation package. I didn’t need it. It’s sitting empty.”
“I don’t want to move into town.” She could feel herself tensing. She didn’t want to be told how to live or where to live. Not by anyone, but least of all a man who thought one kiss and an invitation to dinner warranted that level of control over her. She should rethink dinner.
“I would appreciate it if you’d consider it. There’s no rent; you’d only be required to pay your utility bills. If it would make you more comfortable, we can put you on twenty-four-hour call for dispatch. The line already runs up there. You’d be less isolated. Safer.” He sat in his desk chair. “Think about it.”
She thought about it all day, when not plagued with anxiety about their upcoming dinner date and mixed emotions about that kiss. Though the rent Maggie had set was beyond reasonable, only having to cover utilities on a small apartment and food, coupled with the savings from having virtually no commute at all, meant Henley would be in a position to pay off her car repairs sooner rather than later. She’d owe Maggie nothing, not so much as a goodbye. Henley could leave as quietly as she wished when she wished. But if she took Carter up on his suggestion, what would that be telling him?
Someone from the garage had dropped off her car around lunchtime with four new tires she’d had to pay for outright. It had caused a serious dent in her meager savings. But with the recent repairs and now fresh tires, she could leave today, right now. Look for somewhere new or return to Cleveland and send a check or wire the money she owed when she got on her feet. She wasn’t trapped in Trappers’ Cove, and the decision was hers and hers alone. However, the idea didn’t appeal.
She had made a definitive move toward permanence. The Cove was becoming home. Perhaps it was time to move out of the Gaels’ cabin anyway. The apartment over the sheriff’s office could be a good alternative residence while she house-hunted or until struck by wanderlust. If she decided to stay, would she remain the dispatcher? She was overly educated for the position. How would the people of Trappers’ Cove react to a psychiatrist? The thought put a smile on her face.
“Penny for your thoughts, Doc.” She hadn’t heard the front door open and wasn’t prepared to deal with Carter.
“Oh. Well. To be honest, it wasn’t charitable. I was imagining the locals visiting a psychiatrist.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely an amusing image.” Carter smiled. “I’m going to make an educated guess that you’re the psychiatrist in question?” She nodded. “Doug would make a couple of appointments.”
“That’s mean.” But she was losing the war with her grin.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready?”
“Yes. Your day is done. As is mine, and we have an appointment with a big plate of Mario’s famous linguine.”
“Right. Wow. Day flew by, didn’t it?”
“Nervous?”
“Of course not.” She was a mess. And that irritated her. Why was he always confusing her? Worse, why was he always touching her? His emotions, pure and steady as they were, made her head swim and her heart race. She retrieved her purse from the drawer, and he held up her jacket, easing it up her arms and around her shoulders. “What makes Mario’s linguine famous?”
“He and Ma Stevens had an understanding.” Carter held the door open for her. “They would review menu changes to ensure little overlap. Years ago, Ma decided to offer linguine despite the fact that Mario featured the dish that month. Turned into a rid
iculous War of the Roses type battle, or so I’m told. The late judge, being a character and connoisseur of food, decided to mediate the problem. The diner is forbidden to offer linguine, and Mario’s has no choice but.”
“Doesn’t sound like a fair resolution. Sounds to me like Mario won.” Main Street consisted of only a few blocks and they’d quickly arrived at the restaurant. But Henley was pleased to find her nerves had settled during the short walk.
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?”
He smiled down at her, and Henley enjoyed the admittedly false sensation of being petite. She’d avoided being this physically close to men, let alone one who was significantly taller than she. It was . . . unique. Was it Trappers’ Cove affecting her, providing fresh perspective, daring her to try things that she would characteristically eschew? Or was it the man who currently held the door open for her?
“Hey, Tony.”
“Good evening, Sheriff. Ms. Elliott.” The older man with the hideous handlebar mustache hustled his girth from around the counter that lined an entire wall. Mario’s was one of the few restaurants in town, and the only one that offered “authentic” Italian fare, according to the delivery menu currently tucked in her desk drawer, as well having the distinction of being the Cove’s sole pizzeria. The counter was opposite a wall of ovens and tapered off into the kitchen. Booths filled the available space, except for the round wooden tables that lined the large front window overlooking Main Street. There were only two people eating in, but from the sounds of the kitchen, Mario’s had plenty of takeout business.
“Dining or ordering?” the owner asked.
“We’ll be eating in tonight, thanks,” Carter answered.
“Cool. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Tony, as Carter called him, had barely reached them before pivoting on his heel and rushing behind the counter to answer a ringing phone. “Gem, you’ve got customers.” His voice echoed throughout the establishment and then dropped to an intimate tenor when he greeted the caller.