by Pennza, Amy
Her hair fell forward as she studied the slip of paper. “It doesn’t say how much it costs…” She looked up. “I mean, thank you for cutting me some slack on the speeding. It’s just… Well, I’m visiting from out of town—”
“About that.” He tapped the Buick’s roof. “I’m sorry, but you can’t drive with expired tags.”
The same panic he’d seen before lit up her eyes. “What if I transferred the car to my name?”
Not a chance. At least not without a good deal of legal headaches. He didn’t have his brother’s Ivy League law school credentials, but he’d listened to enough of Juan’s lectures to know the DMV wouldn’t touch a deceased person’s car title without a court order. He shook his head. “I can’t give you legal advice, but I think you’ll have to go through a lawyer for that, ma’am.”
Her face fell. “Well, that’s not happening.”
“You said you’re visiting your mother here in town?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll need you to take the car home and park it. You can’t be on the road with expired tags.”
The panic flared brighter. “Can I at least finish my grocery run? Just to the store and back.”
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Rules were rules, and they existed for a reason. They set expectations. Provided stability. Over the past two years, he’d come to rely on that stability. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Please.” She put one hand on top of the door and twisted toward him. “I just flew in today. I didn’t tell my mom I was coming, and it turns out she’s out of town. The house is empty, and so is the fridge. I don’t have any other way to get to the store. I promise I’m just going to grab a few groceries and go right back home.”
Damn, but her eyes are beautiful. Even in the gathering darkness, they outshone the stars. It wouldn’t break any rules to let her finish her trip. Not really.
Besides, in this town he made the rules.
He nodded. “All right.”
“Thank you!” Her smile was dazzling. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“I’ll see you back onto the road.” He gave her a pointed look. “Drive safely.”
A faint blush stained her high cheekbones. “I will, thank you.”
Deuce gave him a doggy smile when he got back in the patrol car. Smith raised an eyebrow. “I see you haven’t forgotten about the ice cream. So much for your diet.” He tucked his citation book between the seats and started the engine.
The Buick’s rear lights flared to life. Ashley—Miss Scobel—watched him in her side mirror, obviously waiting for him to give her the signal to get back on the road.
He checked his rearview mirror, then flashed his lights. The Buick eased forward and onto the road. He pulled out behind her. The closest grocery store was just a mile ahead. It was smaller than the new Winn-Dixie on the other side of town, but he liked the quiet familiarity of the old store. It had a real butcher that still wrapped meat in white paper and hollered “have a nice day!” as he handed it over. Sure, it was a little more expensive, and the beverage aisle didn’t have seven different flavors of Coca-Cola, but there was something comforting about knowing the store had been in the same spot—and owned by the same man—for fifty years. It was the sort of thing people either loved or hated about Prattsville. Some residents were transplants from San Antonio or Laredo who craved small-town life. Others—usually young people who’d been born in the sleepy town—couldn’t wait to leave.
Ashley Ann Scobel was clearly the latter kind. She glanced at his cruiser in her rearview mirror as she turned down the road leading to the Prattsville Market.
Smith drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. Come on, Miss Scobel, you can go faster than that. He chuckled under his breath. She’d obviously taken his “drive safely” to heart because she hadn’t ventured over fifteen miles per hour since she’d started driving. She was probably worried he intended to wait in the parking lot while she did her shopping.
“How long are you staying in town?” The question floated through his mind—a ghost of something he might have said as he’d stared into her wide, blue eyes. He could have asked it, and she almost certainly would have answered. But she would have told him because she thought she had to, not because she wanted to.
Besides, it wasn’t the sort of thing he needed to know. Because he wasn’t going to see her again after tonight.
And that was better for both of them.
She pulled into the market and headed toward a parking space near the door. As her brake lights shut off, he did a U-turn and headed in the opposite direction. It was still early. He’d drive over to the Dairy Barn and fill out his report while Deuce lapped ice cream from an extra-large bowl. In the morning, he’d send the citation to the clerk’s office so they could set a trial date. Not that a trial was necessary. Miss Scobel wasn’t going to challenge the charges. She’d pay her fines, and when her visit was over, she’d return to California and sun and the man who made sure she never had to drive anywhere. Her path wouldn’t cross Smith’s again.
He drummed his fingers against his steering wheel and put her from his mind.
Yes, that was better for both of them.
4
As soon as the police cruiser turned the corner, Ashley let her head drop to the steering wheel. The hard grooves pressed against her forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut. Was there anything else that could go wrong tonight? No food, no shelter, and now, no car.
Oh, and she was the proud owner of a brand-new traffic ticket.
She sat up and slammed the heel of her hand against the wheel. Pain shot up to her elbow. “Shit!” Her voice bounced off the windshield. She slumped in her seat and cradled her smarting hand in her lap. The Prattsville Market’s sign glowed red through the windshield.
At least the cop had been nice.
Not to mention easy on the eyes.
Heat flooded her cheeks. He’d been more than that, actually. When she’d seen the cop car behind her, she’d expected a Texas good old boy with a badge, a gun, and a chip on his shoulder.
What she’d gotten had been over six feet of lean muscle, chiseled jaw, and hazel eyes. She’d been so overwhelmed by the rugged perfection of his face and his steady, blue-green eyes that she’d kept her gaze on the embroidered name tag above his badge.
Salvatierra. She rolled the name around on her tongue. It was musical…almost exotic. The man behind it had been no-nonsense, though. Kind but straight-laced. He’d been reserved—almost old-fashioned. In that respect, he fit right in around Prattsville. Although, he had to be a transplant. He didn’t look much older than she was, and she definitely would have remembered that coal-black hair and penetrating gaze.
She glanced at the pink ticket on her seat. At least she had something to remember him by. The fines were going to cost her at least two hundred dollars. She hadn’t driven in years, but Pia had gotten enough parking tickets to wallpaper a small bathroom, and they hadn’t come cheap. It had been stupid to take Grandma Winnie’s car, but she had to eat. Besides, if she stocked the fridge and settled in, it might convince the house’s owner to let her stay rather than calling the cops.
Of course, that might mean seeing a certain smoldering police officer again… She shook her head and muttered, “Hunger is making you delirious, girl.” She grabbed her purse and left the car.
As she walked to the entrance, her gaze strayed to the empty storefront attached to the grocery store. So much for her plans to refinish her grandmother’s old furniture. Where a small hardware store had once been, now there was only a bare window and a large “for sale” sign with a phone number on it. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who had left Prattsville.
“Ashley?”
The deep voice made her turn. A tall man with dark-blond hair jogged toward her. He stopped a few feet away and smiled, his light-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Dressed in suit pants and a blue polo shirt that strained across his shoulders, he l
ooked like a physically fit accountant.
“Ashley Scobel!” He said her name like he’d just discovered something surprising and rare. It was the sort of response she’d gotten when Bewitching University had been popular and random strangers had approached her on the street.
This guy wasn’t a random stranger, though. His face was so familiar… Vague memories tugged at her, but it was like trying to catch smoke in her hands. “Uh, hi…”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
She knew her smile was sheepish. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
He grinned, displaying even, white teeth. “Dean Lacy. We graduated together.”
Everything clicked into place. Her mind conjured an image of his high school yearbook picture. Now she knew why his broad shoulders had caught her attention. He’d been captain of the Varsity football team. During senior year, scouts from several colleges had come to watch him play.
At least that’s what she’d heard. Back then, she’d spent her weekends at a small theater company in San Antonio.
She returned his smile. “Of course! I’m so sorry, Dean. I’ve had a long day of traveling.”
He waved off her apology. “No worries. It’s been, what, seven years? I mean, I saw you a few years ago when you did the Strawberry Festival parade, but I doubt you saw me.”
She suppressed a groan. Another one of Rowen’s brilliant ideas. The Prattsville Strawberry Festival drew people from all over—some as far as San Antonio. For two weeks at the start of every June, traveling carnivals set up their tents and booths, and various sports teams and charity groups sold strawberry shortcake, strawberry pie, and just about anything else strawberry-flavored. Three years ago, just as her career had started to tank, Rowen had booked her as the parade’s grand marshal. “People love small-town hero stories, Ash,” he’d said. “This will play really well on TV, trust me. When you get back, we’ll have so many offers to choose from, you’ll hate me.”
Instead, she’d spent an hour on the back of a convertible in the blaring sun, and she’d returned to L.A. with nothing more than a sunburn and five jars of strawberry jam.
She shoved Rowen’s face from her mind. “I can’t believe that was three years ago.”
“I know, right?” Dean laughed, and the distinctive raspy sound triggered long-buried memories. It was the same laugh she’d heard whenever she had passed him and his friends in the lunchroom or the hallways. She’d done her best to slip by without them noticing, but one of Dean’s buddies would nudge him, and then the whole group would get her in their sights like a predator scenting prey. He’d grown a few more inches, and his face had matured from boyish good looks to a square-jawed masculinity, but that laugh was unchanged.
An awkward silence descended between them. Ashley darted a glance toward the market’s entrance. Was he here to shop, too? What if he followed her inside?
He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. “You look…well, you look amazing. My daughter loves your show, you know.”
Surprise jolted through her. “You have a daughter?”
He smiled, and his face softened. “Yeah. She just turned six.” Ashley must have looked shocked because he held up his hands. “I know, I know. Jess and I started early. Actually, Abby was a bit of an oops.”
More memories flooded Ashley’s brain. How could she have forgotten Jessica Boyd? If Dean had been the school jock, Jessica had been its prom queen. Popular, polished, and wealthy, she’d inspired both jealousy and admiration. She and Dean had been a high school power couple—the kind of teenagers who seemed to have their whole lives laid out on a red carpet.
Dean appeared to be waiting for a response, so Ashley said, “Wow…six years old. Is she in school yet?”
“She’ll start kindergarten in the spring.” He rolled his eyes. “Jess insisted on putting her in pre-K. Says it’s the thing to do now, but I dunno. I just go along with it. Abby lives with her most of the time. We divorced a little over two years ago.”
Oh. Ashley hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder. What could she say to that? His smile had faded as he’d talked. Suddenly, he wasn’t Dean the jock who’d laughed at her in high school. Now, he was a single dad with sad eyes. A surge of sympathy replaced the wariness she’d felt before, and she patted his arm. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve never gone through a divorce personally, but my mom has. Several times.”
“Yeah. I remember.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I remember hearing that.”
Nice save, Dean. She somehow managed to keep a straight face. Along with the rest of his friends, he’d referred to her mother as the “town slut” on more than one occasion. To be fair, Cheryl hadn’t done much to dispel the rumors. By fifth grade, Ashley had given up trying to keep track of her mother’s boyfriends. She’d mostly ignored Cheryl’s love life.
Of course, that tactic hadn’t worked so well when Cheryl dated the high school drama teacher…while he was still married.
Dean’s expression brightened. “Abby is a great kid, though. Things may not have worked out between me and Jess, but we do our best to make sure she knows we both love her. We’ve never fought around her. She’ll be so jealous to find out I met the great Ashley Scobel. Or, I guess it’s Ashley Ann Scobel, right?”
“Just Ashley. I had to use ‘Ashley Ann’ because there was already an Ashley Scobel when I applied for my SAG card.” At his confused expression, she waved her hand. “It’s a trade union for actors.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Actors need unions?”
It was the typical response she got from outsiders. What would Dean think if he knew the average commercial paid just a few hundred dollars up front, then maybe a couple thousand dollars over a year or two if the actor was lucky? She shrugged. “Not every job pays the big bucks.”
“Well, I’m sure you don’t need to worry about that. I bet you’re so busy, you barely have time to visit.”
“I have my ups and downs. Work is a little slow now, so it seemed like a good time for a break.” Look at me, using my acting skills.
He flashed a conspiratorial grin, and his light southern accent deepened. “Now don’t go assuming life is slow around here.” He gestured with his chin toward the empty hardware store behind her. “Old Mr. Murray had more business than he could keep up with. He only closed down because he retired.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah?”
He nodded. “I know it may not look like it, but Prattsville is really booming. ‘Gentrification’ we call it in the real estate business.” He pulled a white business card from his shirt pocket and handed it over. “This area is growing slower than the rest of town, but it’s probably just because these big houses are so expensive to fix up. The newer sections of town are doing great. I’ve closed more deals in the past year than I can count. I bought Murray’s store a few months ago, and I’ve already gotten over a dozen calls on it.”
She studied the card. Dean’s handsome face was next to a Lacy Realty logo in a scrolling font. “Really? That’s great to hear.”
“Yeah.” He put his hands back in his pockets. There was a faint clinking sound of keys jangling together. “After they put the new highway in a few years ago, the commute got a lot easier. People want the small-town atmosphere for their children, you know? Kids thrive here.”
“That makes sense.” It was easier than saying, Actually, Dean, the small-town atmosphere really sucked for me. But maybe things had changed since she’d been part of the Prattsville school system. Maybe it no longer mattered if your grandmother sewed most of your clothes or that your parents didn’t vacation in the Gulf twice a year.
He nodded toward the business card she held. “I work in commercial real estate, mostly. Jess and I had a big house in San Antonio. After the divorce, I decided to move back home. It was a good decision. Prattsville is a great place to start a business. Great place to put down roots.” He colored and let out another raspy laugh. “Sorry for the sales pitch. I promise I don’t get
any kickbacks from the mayor for selling the area to newcomers.”
Ashley smiled. “It’s good to have pride in where you come from.”
“Yeah.” His smile was approving. “Yeah, it is.”
Another prolonged silence settled over them. How did she wrap this up without sounding awkward? What was the appropriate way to end an impromptu reunion with an old high school bully? She tucked his business card in her purse, and her gaze caught on the real estate logo. Bingo. She looked up. “Hey, do you know of another place in town where I could get some furniture stain? Just basic walnut and maybe a couple paint brushes?”
He shook his head. “Not in town, unfortunately. There’s talk of putting in a Home Depot up by the high school in the fall, though.”
That might be convenient for the townspeople, but it wouldn’t help her. She swallowed a sigh.
Dean gave her a playful grin. “Got some remodeling projects in mind? I thought you said you were home for a break.”
“Oh…yeah. Just some odds and ends at my mom’s house. It’s a hobby of mine.” Before he could say anything else, she stuck out her hand. “It was really great seeing you again, Dean. I’m glad we could catch up.”
He shook her hand, his grip warm and firm. “Me too, Ashley. It was great to see you.” He held her hand for just a second too long, then released her and stepped back in a jangle of keys. “Uh…have a good night.”
“Thanks. You too.” She spun and walked to the market’s sliding doors. Just before she stepped inside, she turned. Dean stood in the same spot, hands in his pockets. She gave him a little wave. “Night!”
He returned the wave, then walked backward a few steps, turned, and headed for a silver Mercedes. With its low profile and meaty grill, it looked more like a race car than a real estate agent’s ride.
“I’m in the wrong business,” she said under her breath. Hopefully he hadn’t seen her getting out of her grandmother’s old Buick. She entered the store and grabbed a shopping basket, her mind a jumble of thoughts. At least she still had fans somewhere, even if they were the six-year-old daughters of former bullies. She’d have to call Pia and tell her people really could change after high school. Dean certainly had.