“Damn!” he muttered. He tossed the stuff on the bed and ran to the door. Zuzu was already there, doing everything in her power to open it. That would have been fine, except that he didn’t want her opening doors when she didn’t know who was standing on the other side.
Plus she was holding a handful of crumbled cracker and smooshed cheese.
“You have to let me open the door, Zuzu. You don’t even know who’s out there.”
“It’s Ida!” she squealed.
“You still have to let me open the door.”
He’d have to remember to bolt it next time.
He moved her out of the way and opened the door himself.
“Good morning,” Ida said cheerfully, her slacks crisp and neat, her coat pristine, her shoes practical.
“You’re a little early,” he responded.
As was Ida’s way, she didn’t take offense. “Fifteen minutes.” She glanced at Zuzu and the handful of food that was spilling onto the floor. “But I can see that I’m not a moment too soon. Come on, dear, into the kitchen with your food.”
She took Zuzu’s hand and walked her into the kitchen.
She’d probably cataloged every piece of clothing, every doll, every blanket that needed to be picked up on her way there.
“I’m sorry about the mess, Ida,” he started to explain, but she raised a hand and shook her head.
“No need to apologize. Parenting is hard work. Let me tell you, when I had children this age, there were always baskets of dirty laundry and a sink full of dirty dishes. I blessed the day my husband bought me a dishwasher, I can tell you that!” She grabbed a dishcloth and wiped Zuzu’s hand. “Of course, the days when children are this age pass too quickly, so I’m glad I didn’t waste too much time trying to keep up with the mess.”
She helped Zuzu back into her seat and kissed her head. “There you are, darling. You finish at the table, and when you’re done, we’ll go over to my house.”
“Are you sure about that, Ida? Zuzu is a little . . .” He was going to say hellion, but he didn’t think his landlady would appreciate the language. “. . . bit of trouble.”
“Have you forgotten that I have several great-grandchildren? One of them is close to Zuzu’s age. I know how to keep a toddler occupied. Besides, I’m having the ladies’ auxiliary over this morning. We’re having some of Charlotte’s delicious scones. Pumpkin. Raisin. Lemon. Blueberry.” She sighed in apparent bliss.
Max didn’t sigh but he did start thinking of reasons to stop by Ida’s place after Charlotte delivered the goods. She made fantastic scones. The kind a man could eat every day and never get tired of. She also made good cookies, good meatloaf, good mashed potatoes. As a matter of fact, after last night’s kiss, he was beginning to wonder if the rumors about Charlotte’s cooking were true. Maybe there really was something magical in things she baked.
He frowned, turning his thoughts away from Charlotte, because he’d been spending way too much time thinking about her. “Sounds great, but won’t it be difficult to watch Zuzu and have a meeting?”
“Are you kidding me? The ladies are dying to meet your little girl. They’ll all help out.” She picked up a blanket and folded it into a neat little square.
“Ida, I already told you, she’s not my—”
“Hush! Do you want the poor little thing hearing you deny her paternity?” she whispered.
He didn’t suppose that he did.
“I don’t think she understands a word we’re saying.”
“She’s a very bright little girl, Max. Even if she wasn’t, it can’t be good for a child’s psychological well-being to be denied by someone.”
“I’m not denying her. I’m just saying—”
“Here’s what I think, for what it’s worth. Wait until you’ve had a paternity test. Then let everyone know the truth. One way or another.”
“That’s what I was planning to do.”
“You were planning well. You just forgot that Zuzu is perfectly capable of understanding a lot of what you’re talking about. And, really, Max, the fact is, no birth control is a hundred percent effective. Unless you and Morgan weren’t having—”
“Ida, I really don’t want to have this conversation with you.”
“Do you think I don’t know where children come from?” She laughed.
He tried to smile, but he figured it looked more like a scowl, because Ida patted his cheek. “Go to work. As mayor, I’d hate to write you up a citation for being late to your job.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shrugged into his coat, grabbed his hat, and shoved it on his head. He didn’t have to leave for another fifteen minutes, but if Ida was sending him on his way, he’d happily go.
“Bye, Daddy!” Zuzu called.
His blood ran so cold, he was surprised it didn’t solidify in his veins.
He wanted to say, I’m not your dad, but he didn’t have the heart to correct the kid. Besides, what if he was her dad?
God! Wouldn’t that be a mess?
“Bye, Zuzu,” he said.
She blew a kiss, and he had no choice but to reach out and catch it. He had to blow one back too, because kids had sensitive feelings.
The previous night’s storm had blown over, and the air was dry and still, the frigid cold slicing through his coat as he made his way to the Corvette. He’d thrown salt down on the steps, but he grabbed a bag from the garage and layered some more down. He didn’t want Ida or Zuzu to fall.
He was setting the bag in the garage when Charlotte pulled into the driveway, her station wagon chugging fitfully, white exhaust trailing along behind it.
She had the scones with her, but that wasn’t why he opened her door and offered her a hand out.
Dear heaven above, did the man have to be in Ida’s driveway just as Charlotte was pulling in? And did he have to look so refreshed and wide-awake and happy when Charlotte felt tired and crappy and all-around frumpy?
“Good morning, Charlotte,” he drawled as he tugged her out of the car, the heat of his palm searing through her skin.
Her toes curled in her boots and her insides threatened to melt.
She yanked her hand away.
“Pretty day, isn’t it?” he asked with a smile.
“If you say so,” she muttered, wishing that she’d at least taken the time to dry her hair. All the creaks and groans of the old house, the howling of the wind, the splattering ice against the windows had kept her awake way too late. She’d pressed snooze three times before she’d finally dragged herself from bed and started baking. That had been four hours ago. Which meant she’d gotten about an hour of sleep. She scowled and stalked to the back of the car.
“Not a morning person, huh?” Max followed her and took the first box of scones as she dragged it from the car.
“I can manage this, Max. If you need to go to work, go right ahead and leave.”
“In other words, you’d rather I weren’t here?”
“In other words, I’m not in the mood for conversation.”
“Tough night?”
“You could say that.” She took the second box of scones. Lemon and blueberry. Still warm from the oven. She could smell the fruit and vanilla, and her stomach growled.
“Any more slamming doors?”
“No.” But she’d imagined all sorts of other noises. Creaking floorboards. Heavy breathing. Curtains swishing when they shouldn’t have been. It seemed silly in the bright light of day, but if she hadn’t walked through every room with Max, she’d have been absolutely convinced someone was in the house with her.
“But you were scared, huh?” He touched her waist, leading her along the cobblestone path to Ida’s house.
“Not enough to call in the cavalry,” she replied.
“I’m not surprised.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you don’t seem like the kind of person who ever feels the need to call for help.”
“I called yesterday.”
�
�Because you thought you were in imminent danger.”
“Is there any other reason for calling in the cavalry?”
“Ask Zim. He calls every hour on the hour.”
“Zim is a law unto himself, but he’s a good guy. Underneath all the gruff and gristle.”
“Gristle?”
“You know . . . the chewy fatty part of the beef that no one can stomach?”
“That’s a perfect description of Zim’s personality.” He chuckled as they walked into Ida’s huge foyer.
Marble tiles, gorgeous oil paintings, and a basket of shoes left behind by Ida’s great-grandchildren. Fancy mixed with homey. Charlotte had been in the house quite a few times, and she’d always been secretly pleased at the little bits of childish clutter she found there. This was the kind of place every child should have in his life—a nice place to come for a visit or to stay for a while. No need for the marble floors, of course. Or the oil paintings. It didn’t need to be a big place or a fancy one. It just needed to be a place where children were welcome and wanted, where they could be nurtured and loved. That’s what Charlotte would have wanted for her children if she’d had any.
The dining room jutted off to the left of the foyer, and Charlotte set the scones on the cherrywood table there. She hadn’t bothered bringing anything but the scones and some plastic wrap. Ida liked to serve everything on the tiny silver plates that she kept in her antique buffet.
Charlotte opened the cupboard beneath it and took out what she needed.
“Those are some fancy plates,” Max commented as he took one from her hand and set it on the table.
“They’re family heirlooms. Ida says that her great-great-grandmother received them as a wedding gift.” She took out the silver teapot that Ida would fill with hot water and use to serve tea. The only thing Charlotte had from her family were scars, but she tried not to be bitter about it.
“These look good,” Max said as he peered into a box of scones. “They smell good, too.”
“Is that a hint?” she joked, trying to keep the conversation light and easy and free from any of the tension that had been between them the night before.
It had been late. They’d both been tired. The room had been romantic and sweet. She’d come up with plenty of reasons for that momentary lapse of judgment, but she hadn’t been able to forget it no matter how much she tried. And God knew she had tried.
“I’m not much for hinting. When I want something, I make it known.” His gaze dropped to her lips, and she could swear she felt his kiss again.
She looked away, cleared her throat. “Good to know.”
“So since I’m not much for hinting, I’m going to make it very clear that I would love to have a scone. Zuzu kept me busy this morning, and I haven’t had time to eat.”
“What kind do you want?”
“What kind do you have?” He leaned over the box, his hand flat on the table, all tan and large and masculine. Just thinking about the way that hand felt against her skin made her muscles weak with longing.
She sighed inwardly because there was no way she was going to sigh out loud.
The fact was, Max was a very attractive man, and she was a woman who’d spent too many hours working lately and not enough hours pursuing friendships and fun. She needed to loosen up a little, let her schedule go once in a while. That way her head wouldn’t be turned by handsome faces and big muscles.
A handsome face.
Max’s handsome face.
“Should I just guess at what kind of scones they are?” he pressed.
What kind of scones had she brought?
That should be easy enough to answer. She’d been up since five baking them.
“Pumpkin?” Maybe. “Lemon.”
“Ida said you were making blueberry.” He helped her along, and she nodded.
“Right. Blueberry.”
“I’ll take one of those. If you don’t mind.”
She didn’t mind.
But she’d have to figure out which scone was blueberry before she handed it to him. Usually that wasn’t a problem. She knew her scones. She’d made hundreds of them.
For some reason her brain didn’t want to work, her thoughts muddled and scattered. Not because of Max. That was for sure. She’d blame it on a sleepless night, the old creaking house, and the attic above her bed.
She looked into the box, grabbed the scone most likely to be blueberry, and handed it to Max. “Sorry I don’t have napkins. Ida is providing them.”
“Bet they’re going to be cloth and as fancy as those silver plates.” He bit into the scone and closed his eyes. “God, this is good, Charlotte.”
“Thanks.” She busied herself placing scones on silver trays she found in the hutch, because watching Max enjoy his scone felt a little too intimate.
Strange, because she watched people eat her baked goods all the time. Old, young, in between—she’d fed just about everyone in Apple Valley, and she’d never felt the need to turn away when someone was enjoying one of her products.
Until now.
She covered the trays with plastic wrap she’d brought from home. There wasn’t anything else to do. Ida was easy that way. She provided napkins, centerpieces, plates. She’d probably have provided her own scones if she hadn’t wanted to support Charlotte’s business.
She was that kind of mayor. When someone started a business, Ida did everything she could to make sure that it was successful.
“Finished?” Max asked as she grabbed the empty boxes.
“Yes. I’ve got to head out to my next delivery.”
“Who’s on your schedule?” He took the boxes.
“I can get that myself, Max.”
“I know, but why should you?”
“Because . . .” She couldn’t think of a reasonable answer. At least not one that didn’t include mention of Brett.
He waited a few seconds, eyeing her dispassionately. “Can’t think of a reason, can you?”
“I can.”
“But?”
“It’s not one I want to share.”
“You know what the problem is with telling me something like that?” he asked as he led the way out of the dining room and shouldered open the front door.
“What?”
“It makes me want to know exactly what it is you don’t want to share.”
“Nothing exciting,” she murmured, hoping that he’d drop the subject.
She should have known that he wouldn’t.
Max had a reputation for being doggedly determined when it came to getting what he wanted. That worked out well when it came to his job. She wasn’t sure how it was going to work out if he decided he wanted to know about her past. He had the means and the know-how to find out anything he wanted to.
“Nothing exciting, huh?” He walked to the car and slid the boxes into the back of the station wagon. Bright winter sunlight gleamed in his hair, turning dark blond to burnished gold. He had a clean-cut and polished look that should have been preppy and a little bland, but it came off as sexy and terribly appealing instead.
She really had to stop noticing.
If she couldn’t manage that, she had to stop spending time around him.
How hard could avoiding him be?
All she had to do was make sure she didn’t hang around Ida’s place, Main Street, Riley Park. She should probably avoid the grocery store, too. She’d run into him there a time or two. Basically, as long as she stayed home, she’d be just fine.
He closed the back hatch of the station wagon and turned to face her, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes midnight blue. “Is that another way of telling me to mind my own business?”
“Yes.”
“And you actually think I’m going to?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” She slid behind the driver’s seat, determined to end the conversation.
“Because I’m a police officer. It’s my job to be curious, to dig for answers, to figure out what people are doing, why they’re doing it,
and what kind of trouble it might cause.”
“If I were a criminal that would make sense.” She shoved the keys into the ignition and the engine roared to life. “But I’m not. I’ve been in town for a while, and I haven’t caused any trouble.”
“Except for the frenzy over your dark chocolate cupcakes,” he said with a grin. “I haven’t tasted them yet, but I heard they were great.”
“I’m surprised that one of your girlfriends didn’t try to ply you with one.”
“Actually, a lady I dated did try to feed me one a few months ago. I’d already eaten, though, so I didn’t take it.”
“That must have been before I stopped baking them.”
“Why’d you stop? From the way women were talking, you could have made a fortune off those things.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, and Charlotte wanted to be amused too. She wanted to grin and act like her double chocolate delights were a big joke.
But she just didn’t have it in her. Not so close to the twenty-seventh, and not after a very long day and night.
“I don’t believe in making money off of other people’s foolishness,” she replied.
“Foolishness? Is that what you think it is?”
“Of course. There’s no magic formula for love, and there’s no secret ingredient that can make it last.” She smoothed her still-damp hair, irritated that her hand was trembling. She hated talking about this kind of stuff. She always ended up sounding jaded and bitter.
“There’s a formula, alright,” he argued. “And several ingredients.”
“Like what?”
“Commitment plus friendship plus shared interests. Toss in some passion and admiration and you’ve got yourself a winning recipe for success in love.”
“If it were that easy, everyone would have it.”
“It isn’t easy, but it is simple. My grandparents were married for nearly seventy years. Ida was married for sixty. It’s our generation that has problems. Most people are just too selfish and self-absorbed to offer the first two things for more than a couple years.”
“I probably shouldn’t point out that you’re single, Max.”
“And yet you did,” he responded.
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