by Irene Hannon
“It happens. Everyone’s downsizing these days.”
The chief cocked her head. “You don’t seem nearly as bothered about it as I expected. You had your sights set on a law partnership as far back as I can remember.”
Meaning these two had a long history together.
Another piece of bad news . . . for reasons BJ didn’t care to examine.
“I was a lot more upset a week ago—but Hope Harbor has a way of restoring perspective.”
“No argument there.” She rested her hand on the pistol on her belt and scanned the backdrop. “Nice work—but you always did have artistic talent. I thought you might end up doing more with it.”
“I needed to pay the bills.”
“I hear you. Well, I don’t want to hold up your progress. Back to patrol for me.”
“Can’t police chiefs delegate that duty?”
“Not in a small town. Our department is lean, and if one officer is out . . . guess who fills in? But I don’t mind. Keeps me in touch with the street. Nice to meet you, BJ.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Eric watched the chief stroll out, then turned back to her. “Where were we?”
“Soda.”
“Right. Give me a minute.”
While he was gone, BJ set up two folding chairs and sank into one. No way was she going to admit she was more than ready to cave, especially after the appearance of the dynamic chief who radiated vim and vigor. Maybe the soda would give her a burst of energy.
Plus, she could use the break to ask a few questions about the ringless woman who knew Eric very well.
Yeah, yeah, she’d noticed the bare fourth finger on her left hand.
What woman wouldn’t if she was with a guy who could set off bells and whistles without trying—even if he was off-limits? It was a normal female reaction that meant nothing.
Liar, liar.
“A Diet Sprite for the lady.”
Squelching the annoying voice in her head, she reached for the ice-cold soda he held out. “Thanks.” She popped the tab and took a long swallow.
“I’m surprised you haven’t become acquainted with Lexie.”
The perfect opening.
“I don’t see her around town much when she’s off duty. And I haven’t broken any laws to attract her attention on duty . . . unlike someone I know.”
“Ha-ha.”
“It’s not too late to report your cell phone transgression to the chief . . . but I have a feeling she’d let you off.”
Smirking, he swirled his can. “She might. We have a history.”
That was what she’d been afraid of.
“I take it you’ve known her your whole life?”
“Yep. Comes with living in a small town. How come you two haven’t gotten acquainted? Don’t you see her at church?”
“No. I thought she might go to St. Francis.”
“Not when we were kids.” His expression grew pensive. “I wonder if she stopped going after she got back from the Middle East.”
BJ blinked. “She was in the Middle East?”
“Yeah. A diplomatic security job with the State Department. Apparently she had a rough stretch at the end. According to town scuttlebutt, she got married over there, only to have her husband killed a few weeks later in an attack that left her with some serious injuries. She came back here three years ago with a baby in tow.”
So Lexie was a widow with a young child and a traumatic past.
“I wonder if that’s why she keeps to herself.”
“Could be. But back in the day, she was the outgoing, life-of-the-party type. We had some happy times as kids. In fact, she was my date for the senior prom.”
Her stomach knotted.
But he didn’t go to see her after he got back, BJ. She had to look him up. That means there aren’t any lingering feelings on his part.
Or maybe he simply hadn’t gotten around to dropping by the station yet.
And there was no reason they couldn’t pick up where they’d left off. The chief appeared to be open to the idea—why else would she seek him out?—and it was obvious Eric liked her.
Her spirits nose-dived.
“. . . of their prom date, don’t you think?”
Uh-oh. She’d lost the thread of the conversation.
“Sorry. What?” She wrapped both hands around her soda.
“I said, most people have fond memories of their date for senior prom, don’t you think?”
A sore subject—and not one she wanted to discuss.
“I don’t know.” She drained the can and stood. “Ready to go back to work?”
He rose slowly, searching her with that intent, probing look of his. The one that seemed capable of delving deep into her soul.
She snatched his empty can. “I’ll get rid of these in the cafeteria.”
He grabbed her arm before she could flee. “You didn’t go to the prom, did you?”
Pressure built in her throat at his soft, sympathetic question, and her vision blurred.
Good grief! How stupid was this? She was over the prom debacle. Had been for years. Why in heaven’s name would she get weepy about some dumb dance for teenagers?
“BJ.”
At his soft summons, she lifted her lashes. His eyes were gentle . . . caring . . . encouraging.
Answer the man’s question, BJ. Just spit it out and be done with it. It’s old news.
“No.” The word came out shaky, and she swallowed. “A friend set me up with her cousin, but he called that afternoon and canceled. He said he was sick.”
“Said he was sick?” A flash of anger hardened his eyes.
“I saw him the next day in town with some buddies.” She gave a stiff shrug. “He just didn’t want to go with the fat girl. No one did. Let me ditch these and we can get back to work.” She pulled free of his grasp and dashed toward the doorway—praying he wouldn’t follow.
He didn’t.
Once she reached the privacy of the hall, she slumped against the hard, concrete-block wall, tears streaming down her cheeks. Why should a discussion about ancient history set off a deluge of tears? And why hadn’t she left her answer at a simple no instead of sharing the whole humiliating explanation?
It made no sense.
And now she had to go back in and face Eric.
Dread congealed in her stomach—but hiding in the hall wasn’t going to change reality . . . and they had a set to finish.
Straightening up, BJ lifted her chin and continued toward the cafeteria to dispose of the empty cans. She’d get her unruly emotions under control, wipe away her tears . . . and shore up her defenses.
Because after that dramatic exit, she had a feeling Eric might ask a lot more questions—and if those warm brown eyes of his could coax her to share the story of her disastrous prom date, it was very possible they could also tempt her to reveal the much more recent, and far more crushing, episode that had been the catalyst for her flight from LA.
And if a discussion about the prom could induce tears, talking about LA might trigger a complete meltdown.
On the other hand, it could be healing—and liberating.
Sighing, she tossed the cans in the recycle bin. Who knew how this might play out?
Maybe Eric would make it easy and drop the subject.
But if he didn’t, she’d just have to follow her heart—and hope for the best.
16
Great job, Nash. Making the lady cry is going to earn you a whole lot of brownie points.
Gut twisting, Eric stared at the doorway BJ had fled through moments ago. He shouldn’t have pushed about the prom. Shouldn’t have pressed her to tell him the painful, humiliating story. The whole high-school-social-event-of-the-year scene might not have been a big deal for him, but stuff like that meant a lot to most girls—especially ones who didn’t go on a lot of dates or have a steady boyfriend.
Like BJ.
Inhaling a lungful of the fresh-paint-and-sawdust-laden air, he began to pace. Could
he have been any more insensitive? She’d probably spent hours shopping for a dress. Maybe gotten her hair done, had a manicure, purchased new makeup, and spent hours practicing with it.
Then that low-life had ruined her magical night.
She must have been devastated.
And still was, based on the shimmer of tears he’d spotted while she’d relayed the sad story in a few choppy, stilted sentences before fleeing.
If only he could replay that last scene, change the ending.
But this was real life, not theater. He couldn’t rewrite the script. His only recourse was damage control—assuming he could come up with a plan.
Unfortunately, she returned before he’d gotten past the first step.
“Ready to get back to work?” She stopped several feet away, her too-bright smile at odds with the shadows lurking in her eyes.
“Yes—but first I want to apologize.” Step one accomplished. He’d have to wing the rest.
Her fake smile seemed as painted on as the images filling the backdrop behind her. “Not necessary. I overreacted. Who cares about what happened sixteen years ago?”
“You do.”
“Did.”
“I think you still do—and so do I.”
Her smile wavered. “I appreciate that. But one teenage disappointment doesn’t make or break a life.”
“It can leave scars, though.” He moved closer, halting when she tensed. “Can I say something?”
“I . . . don’t know.” A hint of panic wove through her words, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
His throat tightened at the protective move. She seemed so alone, standing there trying to be brave. So in need of a warm, comforting hug . . . a soft caress . . . a gentle touch . . . some gesture that would compensate even in a small way for the unkindness she’d endured at the hands of that high school punk—and the jerk who’d hurt her more recently.
If most of her experiences with the opposite sex had been of the same unpleasant ilk, it was no wonder she was single.
He jammed his hands in his pockets before the temptation to wrap her in his arms became too strong to resist. “I’m going to say it anyway.” He locked gazes with her. “I’m getting the impression you haven’t had the best experiences in the romance department, and I’m sorry for that. More than I can say. It sounds like you’ve crossed paths with some real losers—but not all guys are like that.”
“I know.” Her reply came out in a choked whisper. “Theoretically speaking.”
He digested her caveat . . . and came to the obvious conclusion.
BJ had never had a pleasant dating experience.
In fact, if she’d been heavy most of her life, she may have had very few dating experiences period. Based on what he’d observed, her earlier comment was true—being plump could put a serious crimp in romance. A lot of guys wouldn’t think of asking out someone who was seriously overweight . . . no matter how nice or smart or kind they might be.
Including him.
A wave of guilt washed over him. He’d never considered himself to be prejudiced—or shallow—but it appeared bigotry could take many forms.
He drew a steadying breath. “Are you telling me you’ve never dated a nice guy?”
The knuckles gripping her upper arms whitened. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“Why?”
Good question.
He took his time answering, choosing his words with care. “Because I like you . . . a lot . . . and it bothers me that no one else of my gender has recognized how special you are.”
Her eyes widened—then just as quickly shuttered. The wry twist of her lips that followed didn’t come close to qualifying as a smile. “That’s a great line.”
Line?
He clamped his jaw shut, trying to keep his anger—and hurt—in check. Didn’t she know him well enough by now to realize he wasn’t feeding her a . . .
Wait.
The left side of his brain kicked in as he weighed her comment. Why would she say that unless . . .
As he came to the heartbreaking conclusion, he swallowed past the sudden pressure in his throat, his aggravation evaporating. “That wasn’t a line, BJ. I meant every word. But someone less sincere told you the same thing once, didn’t he?”
Her nostrils flared, and she glowered at him in silence.
O-kay.
This discussion was over.
But he knew the answer—and he wanted to comfort, to reassure, to ease some of her—
“His name was Todd.”
He did a double take at the unexpected revelation—and some quick recalibrating. Her anger had been directed at the jerk, not him. Plus, she’d cracked the door to a discussion . . . and he needed to respond in exactly the right way or she’d slam it shut in his face.
Letting his instincts take over, he crossed to her in three long strides, reached for her cold hand, and twined his fingers with hers. “I’ve never been in a fistfight in my life, but if he was here right now, I’d punch him out.”
A beat passed as BJ scrutinized him. Two. Three. Then some of her stiffness dissolved. “I don’t like violence as a rule . . . but thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He motioned to the chairs. “Want to sit for a few more minutes?”
She hesitated. “What about the set?”
“It’s coming along. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”
He could read the conflict in her eyes—but pushing wouldn’t be wise. If she chose to confide in him, the decision had to be freely made, not coerced. Besides, his behavior since they’d met was a better endorsement of his character than words.
Second after eternal second dragged by . . . but in the end she nodded. “Okay.”
The knot in his stomach loosened.
Thank you, God!
Keeping a firm hold on her fingers, he led her back to the chairs, angling his toward her. Their knees were almost touching after he sat.
He waited, letting her set the pace and timing for whatever she was willing to share.
Half a minute ticked by while she picked at a speck of glue on her jeans. Swallowed. Toed some wood shavings on the floor.
“You know . . .” She peeked over at him. “Out in the hall, I was afraid this might happen.”
“What?”
“That I’d cave and spill my guts about LA.”
“Would that be bad?”
She lifted one shoulder. “Sharing confidences can create . . . bonds. I don’t want to start having feelings for a man who won’t be around long.”
He was tempted to deny her assumptions about his plans—but that would be misleading. At this point, he had no idea what his future held, and they’d promised to be honest with each other.
Better to respond with a question. “What happened to change your mind?”
“You.” She homed in on their linked hands. “You have this ability to make me feel as if you really care.”
“I do.”
“Why?” Puzzlement etched her features. “Two weeks ago, you didn’t know I existed.”
“I’ve been asking myself that same question. All I can come up with is that something clicked between us from the beginning—and I’d like to get to know you a lot better.”
She looked down again at their clasped hands. “Todd said almost the same thing on our first date.”
He grimaced. “That’s not the best news I’ve ever heard.”
“If it makes you feel any better, besides the fact you both drive BMWs and fall into the tall-dark-and-handsome camp, there aren’t a lot of other similarities.”
“That helps a little. Where did you meet this guy?”
“In LA. Not quite two years ago.”
Soon after her grandmother died, when she would have been emotionally wrung out and susceptible to a smooth talker.
A muscle twitched in his cheek. The guy was worse than a jerk. He was a . . . Eric squelched a word that would have shocked his mother—even if i
t was accurate. “I take it he wasn’t the man you thought he was?”
“That would be a kind way of putting it.” She leaned back in her chair, tugging her fingers free.
He let them go—but missed the connection at once. “How did you meet?”
“At a professional dinner. He’s an architect too—with a much larger firm than the one where I worked. I’d won a prestigious award for one of my designs, and he came over after the meal to congratulate me. When he called a few days later to ask me out, I couldn’t believe it. He was attractive, personable, suave—in other words, miles out of my league.”
“You’re selling yourself short.”
“No. Telling the truth. I’d just reached my ideal weight and was still trying to work up the courage to enter the dating scene. I had zero experience with men . . . and even less confidence . . . but the timing seemed almost like destiny. I was lonely, missing Gram, wondering if I’d ever meet anyone who might be ‘the one,’ when out of the blue he appeared. It seemed too good to be true—and as it turned out, it was.”
All at once, Eric had a feeling he knew where this was heading . . . and it wasn’t sitting well.
“Did he take advantage of you?” He forced the question past gritted teeth, the folding chair squeaking beneath him as he leaned forward.
Her mouth twisted again. “Not in the way you mean. He wasn’t after . . . that. He had far more ambitious goals.”
Not the answer he’d expected. “What do you mean?”
She laced her fingers together in her lap. “He was new in town—and new at his firm. He’d been recruited from a midsized company in the Midwest. Todd had great ambition, and with his glib tongue, he managed to grab the coveted opening. But as I later discovered, he had more charm than talent.”
“Meaning he got in over his head?”
“Big-time.” She brushed back some soft wisps of hair that had escaped her braid, distress sharpening the angles of her face. “If I hadn’t been smitten, I would have seen the red flags. After softening me up with a couple of very nice evenings out, he said he preferred quiet, private dinners to noisy restaurants and began coming over to my condo with takeout. I always brought work home, and he was very interested in my projects. His attention and questions fed my ego—and kept him supplied with the innovative design concepts he couldn’t come up with on his own.”