For the Defense

by Maggie Wells

  She rolled her eyes. “Let’s shoot straight, okay?”

  The agitation Simon tamped down came roaring back to life. “I always do, whether you choose to believe me or not.” Needing to keep busy, he moved back to the counter lined with platters and bowls and continued transferring potato salad from the deli container to the approved serving bowl. He then peeled the lid off a container of mustard potato salad. “Why were you there?” he asked as he started whacking spoonfuls into another bowl.

  “I went because my sister asked me to take her to the refuge.” She moved to stand beside him and began checking the labels on the containers stacked there. “How many people are you expecting?” she asked, clearly amused by his propensity to overshop.

  “I wasn’t sure what to get, so I bought a little of everything. Plus, I think word has spread.”

  Lori reached for one of the serving bowls. “It always does around here.”

  He watched out of the corner of his eye as she pried the lid off a container of three-bean salad and dumped it into the bowl.

  “One of Lena’s friends is into a guy who works at Coulter’s place.”

  “You mentioned something about that when we talked the other day.”

  “She was curious. Lena was, I mean. She wanted to get a look at the guy her best friend has essentially dumped her for.”

  He turned to look at her, concern furrowing his brow. “You said she was only sixteen. Is she dating the guy?”

  Lori shrugged. “It sounds more like chasing than dating, but who knows. Kids can be so secretive at that age.”

  His mouth drew into a tight line. She wasn’t wrong in that assessment. Few kids were immune to teenage rebellion. He himself had had some exploits that would have made Dell tear his expertly barbered hair out if he’d caught wind of them. “Yes. They can.”

  She went to work on the macaroni salad next, her head bent in concentration. “I didn’t go there looking for Kaylin Bowers, and I want you to hear me when I say I wasn’t looking for a reason to harass your client.”

  “I hear you, but I got a call all the same.” He grabbed two of the bowls he’d filled and made his way to the refrigerator.

  Lori took hold of hers and followed. “I’m sorry if I caused you trouble, but I was only doing my job. If I’d seen her at the Daisy or in the Piggly Wiggly, I would’ve done the exact same thing.”

  “Understood. I hope the young lady is okay,” he said tersely.

  When their gazes met, he let his shoulders sag as he breathed out some of the frustration that seemed to be part and parcel of doing business with Samuel Coulter. Then he shook himself. He definitely didn’t want to think about parcels. God, Lori’s head would probably explode if she found out he’d signed for a mystery box for Coulter.

  Shaking it off, he gave her a wan smile. “Can we...change the subject?”

  “Okay,” she agreed readily. “What’s the saying about the evils of the day being enough?”

  Simon smiled. “‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’”

  “Exactly.”

  They shared a smile, and for the first time since she’d crossed his threshold, Simon wished he’d had the time to change out of his gym shorts. “I, uh... Do you mind entertaining yourself while I change?”

  Lori’s smile widened and her cheeks colored when she gave him a quick once-over. “Oh, sure, but you look fine.” The color staining her cheeks deepened. “I mean, it’s a football game.”

  He plucked at the front of the plain charcoal T-shirt he wore. “Thanks, but I need to support the home team. Wouldn’t want people thinking I’m pulling for the other guys.”

  She laughed and moved to the counter. “The other team is gonna need all the help it can get,” she said, gathering the discarded deli containers. Walking them over to the stainless-steel trash can, she made a show of stepping on the pedal to lift the lid. “And this one time, I’ll even help you bury evidence, Counselor.”

  Chapter Seven

  Something about being left alone inside Simon Wingate’s personal space felt decadent. Lori stood in the kitchen letting her gaze travel along the veins in the marble countertops. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass-front cabinet and lifted a hand to her hair. She felt slightly undone by her surroundings. She could only dream of having a house this big and comfortable. She was both enraptured and discomfited.

  The stylish surroundings weren’t what was making her feel antsy now. Or the feeling she didn’t belong there. She was used to not quite belonging. It was Simon. She was more susceptible to the man than she wanted to be. Which meant she needed to tread carefully around him.

  She wandered down the hall to the large family room she’d spotted on her way in. An enormous, comfortable-looking sectional dominated the space. A flat-screen television that appeared to have been selected for its ability to match the size of the couch hung on the wall above a gas log fireplace. The room was filled with books, knickknacks and family photos.

  They couldn’t be Simon’s. If he had been the one to decorate this room, she would lay odds that the studio shot of the freckle-faced, mildly gap-toothed Cub Scout sitting front and center on the middle shelf would have been stashed in the deepest drawer he could find.

  She was drawn to it like a beacon.

  How could a boy who’d sworn the Scout’s oath grow up to be a man who defended a suspected man like Samuel Coulter?

  Swallowing her distaste, she studied the photo for hints of what this innocent, winsome Simon would become. His hair had darkened only a shade or two. His eyes sparkled with the same mischievous gleam he’d inherited from his grandfather.

  Annoyed, she placed the photo carefully back on the shelf and walked away. She spotted multiple shots of Simon’s father, Dell. The second Wendell Wingate, she thought to herself, was a man made for public life. He was a handsome man, but his looks skewed more toward Wendell’s affable country gentleman than Simon’s cool, urbane facade. He was clean-cut, where his son leaned toward polished.

  Lori could only conclude Simon inherited his sheen from his mother. She reached for one of the posed family photographs that showed Bettina Wingate to be the epitome of all-American blonde beauty. She had a sort of old Hollywood glamour. Like Grace Kelly dressed up as a sweet Georgia peach of a girl next door. Her smile was wide and winning, like her son’s, but she gleamed with a fine coat of gloss.

  She was startled from her reverie by the sound of Simon clearing his throat. Lori quickly set the photograph back in its spot and flashed him a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I was snooping.”

  His amused smile grew into an unabashed grin. “You’re a cop—you could probably classify your snooping as detective work, and no one would argue any different.”

  “Should I be investigating your family?” she asked, raising a challenging eyebrow.

  Simon laughed and pulled his hands from the pockets of his jeans. “Snoop away. My dad has held some form of elected office nearly my whole life. If the press hasn’t managed to unearth any dirt vile enough to damage the family reputation, I’m feeling pretty confident there isn’t any to be had.”

  “What you see is what you get?”

  She tried to make the question sound casual, but the way her heart beat a staccato when she noticed the way his damp hair curled where it brushed the collar of his red-and-black-striped polo made her feel the opposite of cool. The Georgia Bulldog embroidered over one nicely outlined pec gave her an I-see-what-you’re-doing stare, but she refused to be intimidated by a mascot.

  Lori studied him closely. “How about you? Is politics your plan too?”

  Without hesitating, he nodded. “My dad plans to run for the Senate when Senator Riley’s term is up. I may throw my hat in the ring for his seat in the Georgia General Assembly.”

  Despite herself, Lori was surprised by the bomb he’d dropped into the conversation o
h so casually. “Wait—Senator Blake Riley?”

  He nodded and her heart kicked up at the thought of it. Blake Riley had served in the Senate for longer than anyone cared to remember. He was a jerk. A camera-hamming bigot. Lori found it odd for someone who lived to draw attention to himself to head quietly into retirement, but she wasn’t about to complain.

  “Your dad is running for the US Senate?”

  Simon’s mouth curved up on one side. He held a finger to his lips. “That’s a state secret. And no one is beating down the door asking me to run for anything.”

  She noticed Simon’s self-deprecating drawl deepened when he was doling out glib bits of unvarnished truth. The knowledge did something to Lori’s insides. Something she wasn’t sure she liked. With every slow, soft-spoken syllable, her resolve to keep her distance from this man softened and stretched like taffy pulled on a hot summer day.

  “What can I get you to drink?” he asked, jerking her out of her thoughts.

  “Anything’s fine,” she replied.

  “I can offer you water or, uh, water,” he said with a shrug. “Hayes said he’d be bringing the beverages.”

  “How about water?”

  “Be right back.”

  She didn’t want to have sticky-taffy feelings for Simon Wingate. Liking him would only complicate things. He had plans for moving up and out of Pine Bluff. She had a family who needed her to stay grounded. Or get regrounded. More than anything, Lori wished she could be the woman she was two years ago. Someone strong, confident that she could hurdle any obstacle thrown at her. And she had. She’d steered her family through the loss of her father and aunt. She’d helped her mother recalibrate her life as a widow and stepped into the void her father had left as best she could.

  But then Jeff Masters killed himself, and her belief in her ability to be the person her loved ones needed was shaken to the core. He’d left no note. There’d been no hint of dissatisfaction. She’d been as shocked as the Masters family. But she wasn’t a part of the family. Most people hadn’t even known they were dating, so how could she explain how deeply she grieved his loss? The discovery that Jeff had been coerced into pulling that trigger was just one more blow to her already shaky self-assurance.

  Lori stared at the Wingate family portrait. Simon would marry a woman like his mother, composed and serene. A woman with a heaping helping of confidence and free of messy complications. If Ben Kinsella hadn’t snatched up Marlee Masters the minute she sauntered back into town, Lori would’ve laid odds that Marlee and Simon would be planning a trip down the aisle by now. Surely the thought had crossed Henry Masters’s and Wendell Wingate’s minds.

  Simon returned with two bottles of water, a bag of chips and a bowl filled with bright red salsa. “Dig in.” He paused, frowning at his offering. “I didn’t make it. They have containers of it in the refrigerated case. The cashier, Tina? She said it was locally made.”

  Lori’s smile started to unfurl. “Was it called Bonita Anita?”

  Simon set the bowl on the table in front of her. “Yes. Have you tried it? It’s so good.”

  The smile widened to a grin. “Yes, I have. My mother makes it.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m totally hooked on the stuff.”

  Lori’s limbs loosened. She beamed with familial pride. “I’ll be sure to pass your compliments along.” She inclined her head. “And thank you for your patronage.”

  He shook his head in wonder. “Your mother makes it? I’ve been eating it nonstop since I moved here. It’s the best thing about this whole town.”

  Torn between flattery and insult, Lori stared at him. “Wow. Thanks for the rousing endorsement.”

  He opened his mouth to correct himself, then gave up with a shrug. “Foodwise, I mean.”

  Tickled by his stubborn refusal to show the town any love, she unleashed the laugh she’d been holding back. “Poor city mouse, stuck out here with us country bumpkins. My aunt used to have a restaurant. This was a family recipe.”

  Rather than the smart reply she’d expected, Simon stared at her. This time, there was no derision in his gaze, only compassion. Which meant he knew about her father and her aunt. Talk about a conversation killer. She could feel the blush creeping up from her chest. Lord, if she kept blushing beet red every time he looked at her, he would think she was an actual redneck.

  “No one here but us rubes,” she whispered.

  “Wendell told me not to make you mad. He says you carry.”

  “I do.”

  “I heard you’re quite the shot.”

  “I am, but they don’t let me fire at live targets,” she replied, unable to keep her pride hidden away like the compact Glock she carried when off duty.

  “I’m torn between being impressed and terrified.”

  “Both will do.” She narrowed her eyes. “Did you want a demonstration or something?”

  A knock made them both jump, and the front door hinges squeaked a warning.

  “Hello? Simon?” Dora called out, letting herself in. “I made Rotel dip,” she announced, carrying in a slow cooker with its cord dangling right past the doorway to the foyer. “I chopped up some of those canned tamales and tossed them in. I figured if your granddad liked—” She backpedaled, craning her neck when she spotted them in the family room. “Hey, Lori.” Dora’s smile was friendly, but something sharp and speculative gleamed in her eyes. “You made it after all.”

  Simon rushed across the room to relieve Dora of her burden. “I told you I invited everyone.” He divided a look between Dora and Lori, then ducked his head. “I’ll just take this to the kitchen.”

  Dora watched him hurry down the hall, then took a giant, showy side step into the family room, where Lori sat frozen. “I’m so glad you’re here. I swear, Simon’s been living like a seventy-year-old bachelor since he came to town.”

  For some reason, Lori felt compelled to set the record straight. “Oh, no, I, uh—”

  “Hush. He needs something more pleasant than work to think about. Particularly with old Cottonmouth Coulter treating him like he’s some kind of errand boy.”

  “Errand boy?” Lori started to rise.

  “Not important,” Dora said with a dismissive wave. “I’ll go get my dip set up so it stays warm and send Simon back in here. You stay put.”

  The woman click-clacked down the hall in a pair of red leather mules with giant Gs emblazoned across the insteps.

  Rather than staying out as ordered, Lori paced. The gleam in Dora’s eye, combined with the heat in Simon’s, made her feel antsy. Like her skin was too tight. Shaking out her hands, she prowled the space while her lizard brain debated between fight or flight.

  A clatter arose from the kitchen, followed by Dora’s raised voice ordering Simon from the room. Then it struck her. She didn’t trust herself to be alone with him. If they were left alone, God only knew what she might ask him.

  Are you Coulter’s errand boy?

  What kind of errands?

  Do you like me?

  Are you planning to stay here in Pine Bluff?

  Do you want to kiss me?

  Why couldn’t I want to kiss Hayes instead of you?

  The thoughts ping-ponged around in her head. Scared she’d open her mouth and one might pop out, she decided to take the coward’s way out. Abandoning her water, she skirted the end of the sectional and headed for the hall, her sights set on the front door.

  She almost made it.

  One step into the hall and she collided with Simon so hard her bun wobbled. He grasped both of her arms to steady her.

  “Whoa, there.” He exhaled and planted his feet wide, absorbing the impact with a chuckle. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”

  Mortified, Lori tried to pretend her mouth had not almost come in contact with the Georgia Bulldog appliquéd to his shirt. A flash fire of a blush overheat
ed her face. She tipped her head back, and the weight of her hair pulled at her scalp. She wished she could say the sensation was unpleasant, but when a girl found herself wrapped up in Simon Wingate’s arms...

  Her lips parted and she scrambled for an excuse to leave. Any excuse. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth and any words she might have conjured dried to dust. He tilted his head to the side and she automatically did the same. She couldn’t help it. He was going to kiss her. And she was going to let him, because how could she not?

  He dipped his head and—

  The doorbell rang.

  The courtesy had been perfunctory at best. She’d barely had time to register the sound when the door swung wide and Marlee Masters hollered, “Go, Dawgs...”

  “Doesn’t anyone wait to come in around here?” Simon muttered.

  Lori stepped back, her gaze locked on Marlee. To her credit, her friend swapped her stunned expression with a blazing smile in the blink of an eye. “I have a peach cobbler!” she said in lieu of a response.

  Bless her heart, Marlee stood there in the doorway, trying to take up all the room a lanky blonde holding a casserole dish possibly could. Lori could see Ben coming up behind her. Thankfully, he looked to be absorbed in helping Henry Masters navigate the shallow front steps with his walker.

  Lori took another step back, plunging her hands into the pockets of her shorts. She fingered her car keys like a talisman capable of warding off hot attorneys of questionable morals.

  “I have to go,” she announced abruptly.

  “What?” Simon’s eyebrows drew together, and a deep but not unattractive furrow appeared.

  Lori sidled past him as if he were radioactive, then came face-to-face with Marlee. The other woman’s smile had frozen into place, but her eyes were sharp. “Go? The game hasn’t even started yet.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, hoping a blanket apology would suffice. “My, uh, sister called. She’s upset,” she stammered. “About today.” She stood to the side of the foyer, nodding greetings to Marlee’s parents and Ben when she slipped past them. “Don’t worry about the pot with the baked beans. Send it with Ben or I’ll get it whenever,” she told Simon, hoping she sounded far more casual than she felt.