In Your Dreams

by Kristan Higgins

  He realized he was staring and cleared his throat. "So what are you looking for?"

  "Signs of a trespasser." She jammed her hands in her jacket pockets. "You shouldn't have wiped down the truck, by the way. Next time a crime is committed against you, please let the professionals do their jobs."

  "Save it," he said. "Levi already lectured me."

  "Is your driveway the only way up here?" she asked, starting off toward the stone wall that bordered the woods.

  "No. You can drive up from the other side of the ridge and go through the Ellis property."

  "Think you'd wake up if someone drove up your driveway?"

  "Oh, yeah. It's gravel."

  "Then I bet Possum Person came through the back way."

  "Sounds about right."

  The snow had melted during a brief warm spell, but the temperature had dropped back to the twenties last night. Their breath fogged in the sharp, clean air. Sarge snuffled behind them, off his leash, and Lazarus brought up the rear.

  "How have you been?" Jack asked.

  "Fine," she said. "Do you have any ideas who might leave a dead possum in your truck?"

  "A couple of Josh's friends, maybe."

  She nodded. "That's my best guess, too."

  The light was fading, the sunset brilliant red on the horizon.

  Same as the day the kids went into the lake.

  The thought swelled in Jack's brain, blotting everything else out. The bottom of the car, so clear and foreign, sailing over his head. The thunk of the camera as he dropped it on the dock. The steely bite of the water over his head as he dived.

  For a second, he couldn't breathe; he was looking up at the red-and-purple sky so far away. Josh wasn't budging, and Jack was out of air, and his vision was shutting down, and Josh was already dying. He was--

  There was fur against his mouth, and a warm, wriggling body against his chest. Em had handed him the puppy.

  "His paws are a little cold. Would you mind holding him?"

  "Oh. Sure." Sarge was already joyfully licking his face and whining. "Easy, pal," Jack said. "We barely know each other." His voice was almost normal.

  The dog made a mooing noise, then put his head on Jack's shoulder.

  Emmaline was studiously not looking at them, holding the dog's toy chicken. It occurred to Jack that she'd given him the dog for a reason.

  "Where'd you get this guy, anyway?" Jack asked.

  "Bryce Campbell. He owns the animal shelter now. Hey, is that Jeremy's place over there?" She pointed to the Lyons Den, the nearest neighbor to Blue Heron, owned by Faith's former fiancee.

  "Yeah."

  "He's so nice. Maybe you could talk to him about your PTSD."

  "I don't have PTSD."

  "Were you aware that two minutes ago, you stopped in your tracks and didn't answer me till I handed you my dog?"

  Shit. "Let's finish this up, okay? The perimeter check or whatever you're doing. Then you can stay for dinner."

  She didn't answer, but as they got close to the house, she stopped at each window and looked at the ground. "Too bad there's no snow. And it's too cold for muddy prints," she said. "But maybe someone dropped a cigarette butt or something."

  Sarge was snoring gently.

  "I guess I'm done," Em said, seeming chagrined that she hadn't found anything incriminating.

  "Good. When do you get off duty?"

  "I'm on call tonight."

  Just then her phone chimed. Jack's did, too. He checked it with his free hand--Levi's taking tonight's shift, so if Emmaline's there, why don't you have her stay for dinner? xox your favorite sister.

  Em sighed.

  "Everything okay?" Jack asked.

  "Yeah."

  "So if you're not working tonight, I guess you can stay for dinner."

  She frowned. "Who says I'm not working?"

  "Your boss's wife." He smiled. "Come on, Em. Stay. I could use the company. Stop scowling. I'm a good cook. And since you're off duty, you can have a glass of wine."

  *

  JACK HOLLAND LOOKED awfully good in the kitchen, Em thought. He caught her looking, and she jerked her gaze away.

  "I visited your wife earlier," she said.

  "I have no wife," he answered calmly, pouring her a glass of white. "Our unoaked Granite Chardonnay, so named because it comes from the field next to the family cemetery, and we felt funny about naming it Cemetery Chard. Vanilla and floral bouquet, clean mineral notes, a buttery finish that lingers on the palate. Why on earth would you go see Hadley?"

  "To ask about that possum."

  "You're just stirring the crazy pot, you know," he said. "The more attention you give her, the worse she gets." His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the glass, and a current ran up her arm.

  She sat on the stool at the counter and took a sip of wine. "You like it?" he asked.

  "It's not bad."

  "Stab me in the heart, why don't you?"

  "She seemed awfully thrilled that someone's stalking you."

  Jack set down the spatula from whatever meaty, yummy thing he was stirring. "Emmaline, I don't want to talk about my ex-wife. Okay?"

  "Sure. What are you cooking?"

  "Sweet Italian sausage ragout in a creamy vodka sauce with broccoli rabe over penne. Here. Taste it." He held the wooden spoon to her mouth, and she obeyed.

  Holy food orgasm. Spicy and creamy and sweet and frickin' unbelievable.

  "You cook like this every night?" she asked.

  His eyes were on her mouth. "I could if I had a reason."

  She stopped chewing. Swallowed a bit hard.

  Men like Jack should be careful about what they said. A lot could be read into a statement like that.

  Then his cat made a sound like an old screen door, and Sarge dashed after him. "Want me to put the dog in the cellar?" she asked.

  "No, it's fine. Lazarus can take care of himself." He got a spice out of the cupboard and added it to the frying pan.

  She couldn't remember the last time a man had cooked for her. Well, cooked her a meal she actually wanted to eat. Those last few months with Kevin didn't count.

  A fire crackled and popped in the big stone fireplace in the great room. Em got up and wandered around.

  Jack had a few pictures here and there--one of Levi and Faith and Blue from last year, at their wedding. Em had gone to that one, and she remembered the photo being taken, people laughing as Blue kept nudging in between the couple. Another photo from a wedding she'd gone to, Tom and Honor's. This one was of Jack and Honor. Nice. Here was one of Jack and his father holding up a gold medal and a bottle of wine. Another Holland family portrait, but this one with Jack's mother in it. Prudence's wedding, young Jack tall and skinny and geeky-cute.

  The bookcase was filled with biographies and political thrillers, the typical man stuff when it came to reading. A couple dozen tomes on wine, as one would expect.

  The windows showcased the Holland farmland, all the way down to Keuka.

  Jack's furniture was beautiful--simple and functional, but with inlaid wood and graceful lines. "Where'd you get this?" she said, running her finger along a tall narrow table.

  "I made it," he said.

  Of course he made it. He saved children and made beautiful furniture and cooked and looked like a movie star.

  "It was my first and last project," he said. "I almost cut off my finger with the miter saw." He grinned and held up a hand. "Nineteen stitches."

  Oddly enough, it was nice to know.

  "I got my front teeth knocked out in college," Em said. "Hockey. Five stitches."

  "Oh, yeah? Are those teeth fake, then?"

  "No. The miracles of modern medicine. The dentist put them right back in. It was gross. Lots of blood. I was extremely brave, of course."

  "No scar?"

  "No, I have a scar."

  "Let me see."

  The scar was just above her upper lip, a faint white line about half an inch long, barely noticeable. "It's there. Trust me
."

  He came out of the kitchen and stood in front of her. Cupped her face in his hands and stared at her mouth.

  Emmaline could feel her heartbeat, slow, rolling thumps.

  His face was serious. Mouth perfect. She didn't even dare look at his eyes for fear that her knees would buckle.

  "Oh, yeah," he whispered. "There it is." He ran his thumb over the scar, and Em sort of forgot how to breathe. Was it in-in-out? Or...oh, wow, those eyes--oops, she'd looked--were so beautiful. All of him was so--

  Lazarus came tearing into the room, Sarge hot on his heels. The cat veered under a couch; Wonder Pup didn't steer that well and crashed into Em's legs.

  Emmaline stepped back. Cleared her throat. She was still in uniform. It was probably against some rule to kiss in uniform.

  "Sarge, go lie down," she ordered. The puppy gave her a reproachful look. "Do it," she said.

  He obeyed, giving her a mournful eyebrow as only a German shepherd could.

  A timer went off in the kitchen, and Jack went back behind the counter.

  Fat snowflakes began falling from the sky.

  It was utterly romantic here, even with the demonic sounds the cat was making from under the couch. "Is he okay?" Emmaline asked.

  "Oh, sure. That's his normal."

  Jack seemed irritatingly unaffected by her scar-touching. Men. Such mysteries. She sat back down at the counter and watched him stir and nudge and adjust the heat. Captain Seduction one minute, Chef Ramsay the next.

  Em had always had a thing for Gordon Ramsay, now that she thought of it.

  "Can I ask you a question, Jack?" she asked.

  "Sure."

  "Why me? There are a lot of women in this town who'd love to go out with you. Who fantasize about going out with you. Who'd run their grandmothers over with a tractor to go out with you. Why are you interested in me?"

  "I don't know," he said. "I'm a guy. We don't think that hard. Is 'because you're good in bed' a sufficient answer?"

  A surprised snort of laughter escaped. "Um, no."

  He poured her more wine. Such nice manners. "I have a question for you, Officer. Why won't you go out with me? And don't give me that bullshit about me still having a thing for Hadley or having PTSD."

  "You do have a thing for Hadley. And you're the poster child for PTSD."

  "I'll pretend I didn't hear that and await your answer."

  Em covered by taking a sip of her drink. It really was fantastic. She'd never paid much attention to wine descriptions--it was wine, how bad could it be?--but when Jack identified the flavors the way he did, she really could taste them. Guess it wasn't just blowing smoke after all.

  "What if Hadley wasn't in town?" he asked when she failed to answer. "And what if those kids didn't...crash? Would you go out with me then?"

  "Well, you were never interested before, so I'd have to say no."

  "Maybe I could say you were the one who was never interested, whereas I always thought of you as the hot hockey chick."

  Another snort. Must stop doing that. "You never asked me out."

  "You never gave me the time of day."

  "If you were pining for me, you hid it well."

  He gave her a tolerant look. "I wasn't pining for you, Emmaline. I did think you were the hot hockey chick. We all do."

  "Which explains why I've had two dates in three years."

  "Maybe your sweet and gentle personality has something to do with that."

  "Oh, bite me."

  "I rest my case." He smiled. "You don't have to have a sweet and gentle attitude. You do have to at least smile once in a while. You're a tiny bit guarded--has anyone ever told you that?"

  "No, as a matter of fact," she lied. She took another sip of wine. Make that a chug. "Then there are your looks." Shut it, Em, her brain advised.

  "I'm hideous?"

  "A little. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you." He smiled, and her mouth went dry. "No...you're...incredibly good-looking. It's a consideration."

  He looked at her as if she were a complicated algebra equation. "So you're not interested in me because I'm incredibly good-looking, since your ex was also good-looking and he broke your heart."

  "In addition to the other stuff. And drop that expression. It's not as dumb as it sounds."

  "Good. Because it sounds very dumb."

  "Well, it's not. It's very complicated and intelligent."

  Or not. Maybe it was dumb. Maybe she should eat something before drinking any more wine.

  She took another sip just the same. "Jack, I think you want to be with me because I'm here, because we've already done the deed and because you want a distraction from your troubles."

  "All of those things are true. I also like you."

  For some reason, those words scared the living bejesus out of her.

  He liked her. She already loved him. It wasn't like she didn't know that already.

  Crap.

  This was exactly the kind of situation that led to doom and despair, to whining to the Bitter Betrayeds, to crying in one's pillow, to that unutterably bleak knowledge that you loved someone who didn't love you back. Jack wanted a distraction. He liked her; that was it.

  "I should go," she said, clearing her throat.

  He turned off the stove and came around to her side of the soapstone counter, and Emmaline swiveled on her stool to keep him in sight. That was a mistake.

  He braced his hands on either side of her and leaned forward. Oh, he smelled good. Like laundry detergent and wine and food and smoke.

  "Don't go," he murmured.

  Then he leaned in closer, and rubbed his cheek against hers, and she felt the scrape of five o'clock shadow, the heat from his body. His lips brushed her jaw, and her legs went weak and hot, and a nearly painful throbbing began in her girl parts.

  "Jack," she managed.

  "There's chocolate cake for dessert."

  She swallowed. "Is that your idea of foreplay?"

  "Yes," he whispered, kissing the spot where her jaw met her throat, so, so softly. "Is it working?"

  She leaned back a little and looked into those clear, smiling blue eyes. "Yes," she heard herself say.

  Then his mouth was on hers, soft and smiling, and she'd been an idiot, because for two weeks now, she'd been putting him off when she could have been kissing him instead. His hand went to her head and started tugging at her bun, which of course wouldn't come out without a crowbar and a map to the seventeen bobby pins, but no, nope, he was doing it, her hair was loosening, and then his fingers were sliding through it, and a few bobby pins pinged on the floor. His mouth was on her throat, causing flashes of heat to spark through her. Without her thinking about it, Em's hands slid up his ribs and onto his chest, feeling the solid, warm muscles shift and slide.

  Then he pulled her into a standing position, holding her close, which was a good thing because she wasn't 100 percent sure her legs were working. She tugged his shirt out of his jeans, feeling the warm, velvety skin sliding over muscle.

  She took off her utility belt--oops, should've thought of that before, didn't want to accidentally shoot the guy--and draped it over the chair.

  Then Jack lifted her up (strong, really, she had to give him credit), and lay her down on the kitchen table and proceeded to unbutton her uniform shirt, brushing away her hands when she tried to help. He pulled off her boots, unbuttoned her pants and tugged them off, cleverly unhooked her bra and slid off her panties.

  And then Jack Holland did her right then and there.

  Who needed cake?

  *

  "THIS CAKE IS FANTASTIC," Em said a very pleasingly long time later.

  She was curled up on his couch, wearing a pair of rubber ducky pajama bottoms (his, a gift from his niece, he said) and a Cornell sweatshirt, eating Mrs. Johnson's famous chocolate mocha cake.

  Jack was watching her eat, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and she felt quite like a sex goddess. Oh, yes.

  Yeah, yeah, she was a tramp; sue her. Li
ke she was going to be able to resist Jack when he whispered things about how she tasted and smelled and felt, and all those things were very complimentary and she felt beautiful and strong and weak and cherished all at the same time.

  She'd taken a shower in his glorious bathroom and spent a minute looking at herself, bedraggled hair, bee-stung lips, a possible love bite on her shoulder that she rather felt like photographing and posting to her Facebook page. My hickey-with Jack Holland. Her chest was still flushed and her skin looked creamy and, hells yes, she had it going on.

  His bathroom was pretty amazing. There was a massive rectangular tub encased in a huge block of dark wood, the lip wide enough so a person could have a few plants or a glass of wine, a sandwich and a book and not have anything get wet. The shower was equally impressive, separate from the tub behind a glass brick wall. She combed her hair and put on the clothes he'd given her and padded to the kitchen, where, in case Jack wasn't already everything and a bag of chips, he'd sliced them each a huge piece of cake.

  Dessert first. Finally, a man who understood her.

  Sarge was asleep in front of the fire, and Lazarus sat on the mantel, looking very vulturelike as he gazed at the fat little puppy.

  "Will your cat eat my dog?" she asked.

  "He'll try." Jack sat next to her and took her feet onto his lap. "We're dating now, by the way."

  "Well, that's--"

  "Hush, woman. We're dating. Now finish your cake. I have plans for you. You'll need your strength."

  And for once, Em didn't object.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TURNED OUT ALL Jack needed was a woman. At least, that was what it seemed like to him.

  Granted, getting her had been as hard as catching an eel, but once he had her, he appreciated her wriggly properties. And he meant that with all the innuendo possible.

  He really liked Emmaline Neal.

  She was funny, she was smart, she was amazing in bed. Her dog was incredibly cute.

  It was nice not being alone. On Saturday, they went cross-country skiing after their hockey game, the cold air and hard, bright sky making it a perfect day for it. Sarge came along, galumphing through the snow, trying to wrestle the poles out of Jack's hand. Then they came back to Jack's house, and he went down to the cellar to get a bottle of wine.

  When he came up, it hit him.

  This was what the house was supposed to look like. When he was married, it was too much, all those pillows and signs and clouds of perfume. Alone, it was on the barren side, looking more like a magazine shoot than a place where people lived.