by Gayle Roper
He still looked unconvinced. "Your mother called me today, nearly hysterical."
Nan frowned. "Over me? There's nothing to get hysterical over, Dad. Believe me. I'm fine. I'm happy. I'm where I want to be."
Mr. Patterson looked at Rog who was still holding hands with Nan. Really, it was Nan hanging onto him, but he didn't mind in the least. Rog offered the man a pleasant smile.
Mr. Patterson frowned and looked back at his daughter. "She's worried about the way you're treating poor Brandon. I have to admit, I'm surprised after the way Tyler hurt you."
Nan blinked. "How am I treating Brandon? And what's Tyler got to do with him?"
"Oh, I know you're not engaged yet, but according to your mother, it's on the horizon. And where would she get this news but from you?"
Nan gripped Rog more tightly. "Dad, I have never even met Brandon."
"Of course you have. You both work in New York."
Frustration oozed from her. "New York City is huge, millions of people. We don't all know each other."
"I know that," Mr. Patterson began.
But Nan bulldozed on. "I have never met Brandon, never ever, and I've told Mom repeatedly I don't want to meet him."
Mr. Patterson looked baffled. "You've never met him?"
"Never. Mom invited him to the Fourth party so I could meet him."
"But you've never met him, not even once."
"And I probably never will. I'm not coming to the party."
He glanced again at Rog, his frown renewed. "She told me you've taken up with someone unsatisfactory down here, and you're throwing Brandon over."
"Untrue, Dad, on both counts."
"Then who's he?" He nodded at Rog.
"Roger Eastman, cop." Rog spoke brusquely, tired of being frowned at.
"And law school graduate," Nan added.
Something in Rog warmed as she once again defended him. "I'm a police officer, Mr. Patterson. I'm proud to be one. I don't think anyone wants to say that makes me unsatisfactory."
"No, no, of course not." Mr. Patterson backtracked quickly. He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm confused."
"Let me explain." Nan sat up straight, but she still gripped Rog's hand tightly. "I do not know Brandon. For some reason, Mom has decided he's a good man for me, but he isn't. She wants me to come for the Fourth of July party, but I can't. She thinks I should go back to Pizzazz, but I won't."
She looked at Rog. "Can you think of anything else?"
The fact that she was turning to him didn't strike him as strange—which was in itself strange. They'd only met yesterday, but it was like they'd known each other forever. "Anything else?" He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "That about sums it up."
"Then who are you dating, Nan?" Mr. Patterson asked. "Who's your mother worried about?"
Brows raised, Rog looked at Nan, who looked back with a crooked smile. Close as they'd become, they'd never dated, and now didn't seem the proper moment to ask for their first date. Maybe she'd count the dinner with Aunt Bunny.
She turned to her father. "I'm dating Rog," she said without batting an eye. "We went out to dinner last night, and he's going to be my plus one at a formal event Thursday."
Chapter Sixteen
Rog felt Mr. Patterson's dagger gaze skewer him, but he didn't return the man's look. He was too busy eyeing Nan, who was equally busy not looking at him.
A formal event Thursday night? As in the day after tomorrow? As in he would be expected to wear a tux? And he was learning about it through an announcement to her father. Would it have been too much trouble for her to actually invite him? Say, Rog, I have tickets to this formal event. Would you like to go as my date?
Then he could politely say thanks, but no. He didn't like formal events. They made him uncomfortable, like all the elegant people knew what to do and they'd forgotten to tell him. He was comfortable in his uniform, in his painting grubbies, in casual clothes. He'd managed his tux well at his brothers' weddings, but then he'd known what was expected of him. Seat the little old ladies. Smile when the groom of the day said, "I do."
But a formal event? Even the word event made him prickly all over. Not a dance where he could make believe he was shuffling around a basketball court in time with the music. Not a dinner where he would presumably get better-than-normal food, which he would enjoy eating.
An event.
Maybe it didn't really matter whether he went. Rather, it mattered that her father thought they were going, thought they were an item. If he thought they were going, then her mother would think they were going, and Brandon would become a non-problem. So would the conflict over the party.
Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe it would intensify that problem. He could imagine her mother saying, "What? You have time for an event but not my party?"
When he was growing up wondering how he could serve the Lord and mankind, being used as a buffer between a woman and her parents hadn't been remotely on his radar. And what in the world was wrong with him that going to a formal event was scarier than wearing a bulletproof vest and facing bad guys with big guns?
He waited for the resentment at being trapped into something he didn't want to do, but none surfaced. Instead he found himself thinking about Nan in a formal gown, and the thought of an evening with her seemed worth the rental price and discomfort of his monkey suit. With her at his side, he'd smile at everyone all evening, and maybe no one would realize how uncomfortable he was. Maybe, just maybe, he'd even enjoy himself.
Quickly, his duty schedule ran through his mind. He should be off duty at four on Thursday, barring any unforeseen catastrophe, always a possibility in his profession. Nan would have to learn that truth—of schedules being wrecked at a moment's notice—if they ever formed an actual relationship. But if everything at work went as usual, he would be free to go.
"There's a gala to dedicate the new hospital wing," Nan told her father.
A gala? That sounded even scarier than an event. Fancier. Classier.
"I've been asked to represent Aunt Char, who had something to do with—" She circled her hand to convey uncertainty, "—something somehow."
Mr. Patterson looked interested. "The Buchanan Children's Place?"
Nan nodded. "How do you know about that?"
"My architectural firm bid on the job at Char's request, but they selected a local group. I drove past the building on my way here. It looks good, much as I hate to admit it." He studied Nan. "So you're going to take Char's place."
Nan made a face. "I could never do that, but we're going to the evening in her name." She gave Rog an ingratiating smile, then turned back to her father as if she hadn't told another giant whopper.
What was he supposed to do with an adorable pixie he thought was cute and interesting but who led her parents to believe in a relationship that didn't exist?
He glanced at their hands clasped between them. Or did it?
#
Nan waited for Rog to say, "We're going to an event? A gala? Unh-unh. You may be going, but I'm not."
Instead she felt him running his thumb around and around the back of her hand. It was so soothing. Surely it meant he wasn't going to tell Dad that he hadn't known a thing about the gala until ten seconds ago. She began to relax a little, and the gala event she'd been dreading became something that would be fun. If Rog was with her, how could it be otherwise?
"Stop! Stop right there! Get back here!" The shouts came from downstairs and sounded like Mooch. "You take that back!"
"What in the—?" Nan surged to her feet, as did her father and Rog. While she and Dad stood frozen with surprise, uncertain what to do, Rog dropped her hand and ran across the floor, toward the stairs and the chaos.
The shouts shifted beneath them, changing location as Mooch raced from the back of the store to the front and out onto the boardwalk. Rog changed directions too and ran down the front steps.
"Unlocked?" he yelled.
"From the inside, yes," she yelled back, her paralysis broken. S
he rushed to the stairs just in time to see Rog throw the door open.
She raced down so fast, she wasn't certain her feet hit all the treads. She burst onto the boardwalk and did a quick shuffle as she dodged around the couple who just missed getting knocked flat when she threw open the door. Off to the right, Mooch chased a kid in a black T-shirt.
The kid was running for all he was worth. Nan expected him to run down the first street ramp he came to, but no. He was running on a gradual angle across the boardwalk toward the beach. Mooch was right behind him with Rog a close third.
She chased after them. Way too soon, she began gasping for air through her mouth. Apparently lugging stock around didn't help respiratory health, at least not enough to make her race-ready. Any minute now, the stitch in her side would strike.
"Stop right there!" Mooch weaved around people like a halfback on his way to the goal line. He did his own version of a quick shuffle to avoid a family of five, all eating chocolate and vanilla soft-serve ice cream cones. The little boys stared at Mooch wide-eyed, ice cream melting down their arms.
"You're under arrest!" Mooch yelled at the black-shirted kid, ruining the effect of the threat when he slowed for a moment as a curvaceous redhead with long legs grabbed his attention. He actually ran backwards for a couple of steps to keep her in view, his goofy grin in full bloom. When a guy who looked like a professional wrestler joined the redhead, Mooch made a face and returned to business.
"Mooch! Get back here!" Rog raced after his protégé, passing the redhead without a glance, Nan was glad to see. He was intent on his goal, which, she realized, was to keep Mooch from getting himself hurt. The kid was charming and funny and clever, but he was a danger to himself.
"Trip him! Trip him!" Mooch pointed at the runner. The boy glanced back over his shoulder and made a face as he saw Mooch with his long legs gaining on him in spite of the redhead.
The runner finally made it across the boardwalk a block beyond Present Perfect. He grabbed the railing and with a last quick check on Mooch, vaulted over it, disappearing into space and darkness.
Nan gave a little scream as she watched the boy jump. She pictured him lying several feet down on the sand, legs broken, body bruised. She tried to run faster, which was foolish because if he were hurt, she didn't know how to help beyond calling 911.
First aid. She had to take a first aid class so she'd know what to do in the future. Maybe in the winter when the store was closed and she had nothing to do, she could find a class. Maybe the community college had one in Seaside.
Mooch ran to the rail and looked over.
"Don't jump!" she yelled as her imagination now had Mooch writhing in pain as he hit the unforgiving sand. "Please don't jump!" Her words were lost in the conversations of the many vacationers around her, several of whom had stopped to see why all these people were racing past.
Rog pulled up beside Mooch who turned, his disgusted expression telling its own tale. Nan knew there were no broken legs or bruised bodies down there. There was no kid. He'd probably disappeared into the darkness under the boardwalk and was long gone.
Rog climbed through the railing and stood on the narrow ledge. He looked right and left, searching, then jumped.
Nan's breath caught. This time, the broken legs and bruised body belonged to Rog, which was ridiculous. The man knew what he was doing. He'd been trained to manage dangerous situations, and this one was probably as un-dangerous as they came. She slowed to a walk for the last few yards to prove to herself that she wasn't worried about his ability to handle himself.
Mooch leaned over the rail and yelled something. His lack of concern eased any anxiety hidden deep in Nan's heart. After a few moments, Rog climbed up the nearest flight of beach stairs. His expression was one of resignation, which turned to surprise when he saw her.
"Is there anybody left minding the store?" he asked as she came to his side.
"Good question." And one she hadn't considered as she'd chased him down the boardwalk. She turned and saw Ingrid standing in Present Perfect's doorway, looking their way. Nan waved to show everything was okay. Ingrid waved back and went inside.
Mooch and Rog turned back toward Present Perfect together. Rog stopped and held out a hand to her. With a happy smile, she grabbed it.
Mooch was so high on adrenaline he couldn't walk. He danced, he spun, he gesticulated wildly. "Did you see that? I chased him and I scared him! Oh, yeah, baby, I scared him."
When he passed the ice cream boys, whose mother was kneeling in front of them trying to clean them up, he ruffled their hair and high-fived them. "You can grow up to chase bad guys too, little men. Oh, yeah, you can." He growled at them.
The boys laughed and growled back, but their mother looked less than pleased at the prospect of her babies racing after criminals.
"Sorry," Nan mouthed to her.
Rog gave Mooch a gentle elbow in the side to get his attention. "'You're under arrest?' Are you nuts? You can't yell that at people."
"It seemed a good idea at the time," Mooch defended. "It sounded authoritative. Scary." He made his growling sound again.
"What if he'd taken exception to being chased by someone he thought was a cop and turned with a gun in his hand?" Rog shook his head. "Then it would have been very scary. And how would I have ever explained to Lori if you'd been shot? Geez, Mooch!" He ran his hand through his hair.
Mooch shrugged, not the least frightened by Rog's reprimand or aware that affection was the reason for his rebuke. "There was no gun, so it's a moot point. Besides, I told you I'm going to be a cop. I was just practicing." Mooch went into a fighter's crouch, punching the air. "I plan to fight for truth, justice, and the American way."
Rog raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, Superman. Just let me know when you learn to fly."
They reached Present Perfect and walked in to find customers walking the aisles like nothing unusual had happened. Dad walked toward them, face wrinkled with concern. Nan had forgotten about him in her anxiety for Rog. Before Dad reached them, she squeezed Rog's hand.
"I'm sorry he got away," she whispered, "but you're okay, and that's what counts." She blushed. She sounded like a tween groupie gushing over her favorite boy band, but she meant every word.
He smiled at her. "You didn't have to worry. I was never in danger."
"I know, but I'm still glad."
His smile deepened, crinkling his eyes and making her heart beat faster. Her skin grew hot. Suddenly the atmosphere carried enough electrical charge to make her hair curl. She could practically feel her blood fizzing through her veins as they stared at each other.
Chapter Seventeen
Mooch coughed. "In case you're interested, I'm okay too."
Nan blinked and came back to the world around her. She felt the blood rush to her face as she realized her father had seen that moment between her and Rog.
She told me you've taken up with someone unsatisfactory down here.
They didn't come more satisfactory than Rog, and she hoped Dad realized it and told Mom. She didn't want to fight them about Rog as she had about Present Perfect.
She turned to Mooch. "I'm so glad you're okay, too. After all, you're the hero here. You're the one who chased that kid, and at great potential risk to yourself."
Mooch stood straighter, and his eyes skewed to Tammy, handling a customer at the register. She kept writing information for the woman, looking up frequently with an anxious expression. She was missing all the excitement, having returned to her job like the good kid she was.
Nan decided to make a fuss over Mooch for Tammy's benefit. She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "That's for risking everything for Present Perfect."
Two customers who had seen at least some of the action patted Mooch on the back, and Ingrid gave him a big hug, earning a frown from Tammy. Nan bit back a smile.
She turned to speak to her father, but he was no longer paying attention to her. He was looking around the store with a frown, studying, evalua
ting. She swallowed hard.
"It's a great store, Nan," Rog whispered in her ear. "He's bound to be impressed, and I think he might actually admit it." As opposed to Mom, who wouldn't under any circumstances.
She watched Dad pick up a sand sculpture and turn the jar this way and that, examining it as if it were fine art. He put it down and ran a finger over a silver frame. His face gave away nothing.
Nan had to stop watching him for reactions, or she'd make herself a nervous wreck. She'd already done that this morning with her mother, and once a day was more than enough.
"Come on back to the office, Mooch, and tell me exactly what that kid did." She led the way to the back of the store. She was aware of Mooch picking up a vase on the way.
He slowed as he passed the register and Tammy. In what he must have thought was a whisper but was loud enough for the whole store to hear, he leaned toward Tammy and hissed, "Later, pretty lady."
Knowing full well he wasn't talking to her, Nan turned and gave him a huge smile. "Why, thank you, Mooch. We ladies do love to be called pretty."
Mooch stared at her, nonplussed. "Uh, you're welcome." He swallowed, then smiled broadly as if he'd been talking to her all along. Both Tammy and Rog laughed. So did Tammy's customer.
Shaking her head at the kid's chutzpah, Nan entered the office. Mooch followed and held out a beautiful vase. It was a little over a foot tall, white with stylized butterflies and blue flowers painted on it. "This is what that guy left."
Nan studied the vase, tracing the butterflies. She turned it upside down. "Wedgwood."
Dad had followed Nan, Mooch, and Rog into the office. "Are you saying he left something? He didn't try to take anything?"
"He always leaves something. This time it's that vase," Mooch said.
"So you weren't chasing a thief?"
Mooch frowned, seeing his reputation as a superhero crumbling. "He's trickier than any mere thief. He strikes any time, day or night, without regard to his personal danger or the danger to others in the vicinity."
Dad just looked at him.