by Pennza, Amy
Could he really knock on her door tomorrow and tell her she had to leave?
He heaved himself up and made his way back to the bedroom where Deuce greeted him with a halfhearted thump of his tail. Smith unbuckled his duty belt on his way to the small walk-in closet where he kept a gun safe. He knelt in front of the safe, punched in the code, and placed the pistol and magazine inside. He shut the door, waited for the little beep to let him know it was once again locked, then stood and stripped out of his uniform.
His bed beckoned as he left the closet, but he walked to his dresser and pulled out a plain t-shirt and a pair of running pants. Weariness washed over him as he leaned against the dresser and exchanged his black work socks for white athletic ones. When he’d first accepted the chief of police job, he’d thought the long hours might be enough to tire him out. It had only taken a few nights to learn that wasn’t the case.
It took a lot more than a ten-hour shift to keep him asleep through the night.
Deuce watched with heavy eyelids as Smith walked to the treadmill and clipped the safety lead to his shirt. He dialed in ten miles and set the elevation to five degrees, then fell into a light jog. “You go ahead and sleep, boy,” he told Deuce, who was already nodding off to the soft whine of the treadmill’s motor.
As Smith let the rhythmic sound of his own footfalls fill his head, one thought emerged clear as a cool river in his mind.
He had to keep as much distance between him and Ashley Scobel as possible.
7
“Soooo, how’s it going?” Pia’s inquisitive voice buzzed over the phone.
Ashley cradled the receiver between her chin and collarbone as she rubbed more stain on the nightstand. The phone cord trailed over her shoulder and wound a long path from the enclosed porch to the kitchen, where the receiver sat on the floor. She’d placed it there after her last call with Pia, when she’d strayed too far onto the porch and the receiver had shot off the counter like a stone flying from a catapult. Thank goodness the dining room table was missing—otherwise, it would now boast a telephone-sized dent.
She used the heel of her hand to push a strand of hair out of her eyes. “So far so good. I’m almost done with this nightstand. Oh, and good news, it’s part of a set. People like buying two at a time.”
“Ash.” Pia’s tone held a hint of exasperation. “I meant how’s it going with your super sexy neighbor.”
Ashley draped her rag over the side of the old paint can she’d used to mix stain. She stood and rubbed her hands on her jeans, then looked over her shoulder at the house next door. “He’s, um…good, I guess.”
“You haven’t talked to him, have you.”
“You know, I never should have told you about him.” The morning after Smith had scared the ever-loving crap out of her in the attic, she’d found a note taped to the outside kitchen door. Two months. No need to pay rent. — SVS. Her first reaction had been to do a victory dance in the middle of the kitchen. He’d given her two months! Then she’d called Pia, whose ears had perked up at Ashley’s description of the hazel-eyed police officer who also happened to be her new landlord.
That had been a little over two weeks ago. Since then, she’d caught only glimpses of Smith—usually when he was going and coming from work. As far as she could tell, it was the only place he seemed to go.
Pia clucked her tongue. “Girl, your game is weak, you know that?”
Ashley twirled the phone cord around her finger as she drifted toward the edge of the porch, her gaze on the quiet house across the lawn. “How so?”
“You have a tall, devilishly handsome man living less than fifty feet away. A single man, I might add. And you won’t even go talk to him. Oh, and he has a dog he treats like a child. Ashley, that is some low-hanging fruit right there.”
“I don’t think he wants to be bothered.” On the few occasions Ashley had seen him, he’d been polite but distant. Once, he’d returned her wave and climbed into a newer model pickup without so much as a backward glance. Another time, he’d come up the driveway with Deuce on a leash. She’d called a greeting, hoping he might come over and see the progress she’d made on the nightstand, but he’d just nodded and kept walking. And while he hadn’t exactly hurried, he hadn’t slowed down, either.
Pia dropped her voice to a suggestive purr. “Maybe you should go bother him and see if he likes it.”
“He’d probably give me another ticket.”
“Like a sex ticket?”
“Like a normal ticket. He’s the real deal, Pia.” She let her gaze roam over his pristine house. “He seems very…morally upright.”
“A Boy Scout type? Ugh. Sorry, Ash. Instead of polishing his knob, you’re polishing table legs.”
Ashley closed her eyes. “I am genuinely shocked by the things that come out of your mouth.”
“No, you’re not.” There was a sound of a refrigerator door opening, followed by the clink of glass bottles. Ashley pictured Pia hunched over as she surveyed the contents of the fridge. “It’s a shame he’s such a stick in the mud. He sounds dreamy.”
Ashley opened her eyes and turned from the edge of the porch. “Honestly? I’m glad he’s not interested. The sooner I finish these nightstands, the sooner I can make a sale.”
“Please don’t tell me you’ve been wearing painting clothes around him.” She said “painting” like another person might say “poop shoveling.”
Ashley looked down at her painting clothes. “Okay, I won’t tell you.”
“Seriously? Ash, when a man is that hot, you need to fight fire with fire.”
“If he’s hot, shouldn’t I fight fire with, I don’t know, water?”
More bottles clinked. “In this context, it means you need to crank up your slut-o-meter.”
“Pia…”
“Don’t Pia me. You’re a twenty-first century woman, Ashley. You have every right to seize what you want.”
“I didn’t come here to seize a man.” Ashley passed through the dining room and into the kitchen, where a batch of cookies cooled on the counter. She grabbed one from the edge of the baking sheet. “Besides, you know my rules about relationships.”
“Oh yes. How could I forget.” Pia’s voice took on a droning quality, and Ashley imagined her straightening from the fridge, her fingers in a scout’s salute. “Never get serious. Never spend the night. And, last but not least, never say I love you.”
Ashley examined the cookie. Not bad. The old oven dated from the Eisenhower administration, but it was still going strong.
Pia made a huffing sound. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Of course I am. You were about to tell me how I need a man to make me happy.” She bit into the cookie. Chocolate and vanilla exploded on her tongue. “Ooh, that’s good.”
“Chocolate chip?”
“Yes,” Ashley said around the cookie.
“I really do miss your baking.” Pia sighed, and her tone turned contrite. “Listen, all I’m saying is don’t wall yourself off forever, okay?”
“I’m not—”
“Hear me out. You don’t like to admit it, but you’ve never really had a relationship because you spent your childhood watching your mom screw all of hers up. I’m not saying you should throw yourself at this guy, but what’s the harm in making friends? You’re only in Prattsville for six more weeks. Just…give people a chance, okay? Find some of your old high school acquaintances. See if they’ve changed. I mean, you have to actually sell the furniture you’re redoing, right? At some point, you’re going to need to find buyers. Men will buy just about anything if a cute blonde is selling it. And I mean that in the most salacious way possible.”
Ashley grabbed a glass from the drying rack next to the sink and filled it with water from the tap. Pia had a point. She could refinish every piece in the attic, but if she couldn’t sell it, she’d be right back where she started. She’d hoped to ask Smith if he could help spread the word—as the police chief, he had to know people—but that plan seeme
d doomed to fail.
“Ash? Am I talking nonsense here? Just tell me to shove it or lose your number or something.”
Ashley smiled and leaned against the counter. “No. You’re right. It won’t kill me to make an effort—” The sound of gravel crunching pulled her attention toward the window. “Hey, Pia, there’s a car outside. I’ll call you back, okay?”
“Sure. I have a spinning class this afternoon, but I’ll be around in the evening.”
Ashley hung up just as a knock rang out on the porch door. As she made her way through the dining room, she saw a familiar face through the screen. A rush of unexpected pleasure swept through her. “Dean!”
Dean Lacy stood on the stone steps leading up to the porch, a plastic grocery bag in one hand. His blond hair was brushed and gelled in place, and he wore a tailored navy-blue suit with a white dress shirt and a dark-blue tie. He gestured through the screen to the open paint can on the porch floor. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Ashley opened the door and motioned him onto the porch. “No, of course not. I was taking a break, actually.” The scent of his aftershave—spicy and pleasant—drifted around her. She was suddenly aware of her ripped jeans, ratty t-shirt, and paint-stained hands. A strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail drifted across her vision. She tucked it behind her ear.
He raised his eyebrows as he looked over the nightstand. “You did all that yourself? It looks fantastic.”
“Yep.” She felt a blush steal across her cheeks. “Sanding the legs took me forever.”
His gaze traveled over the delicately turned spindles. “I thought you weren’t supposed to remove the old finish on antiques.”
“That’s true most of the time. But someone had already stripped this piece.” She reached over and tipped the nightstand onto two legs. “See underneath? This is the original patina.”
“Huh.” He shrugged and gave her a lopsided smile. “I don’t know much about old furniture.”
“I didn’t either when I first started. I learned a lot by watching television. And going online.”
He gazed past her and into the house through the door she’d propped open. “Are you fixing the place up? When we talked before, you said you had a few projects in mind.”
“Kind of. I’d like to sell a few pieces. It’s sort of a side business for me.”
“Really? That’s cool.” He stared at her for a second, his smile in place, then seemed to remember he was holding a bag. He held it out. “Uh, here. This is for you.”
“Me?” She took it and peeked inside. It held two small cans of walnut stain, sponges, new rags, and several sheets of sandpaper. Her jaw dropped. “Dean…this is…”
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “I just remembered you talking about refinishing some furniture at your grandma’s place, and I knew with Mr. Murray’s store being closed, you might have a hard time finding supplies.” He pointed to the can where she’d draped her rag. “I see you found something, though.”
“Actually, that’s coffee. It makes a halfway decent stain, although it’s a little difficult to get a consistent color.”
“Seriously?”
She couldn’t control her grin. He looked like she’d just announced she was using Kool-Aid for stain. “Seriously.” She set the bag on the ground. “This stuff will be a huge help, though. Thank you.”
“No problem.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Hey, would you like to grab dinner sometime?”
Whoa. Dean was asking her out? Her throat went dry. The years peeled away, and she was once again an awkward, gangly fifteen-year-old who wore handmade sweaters and got picked last in gym class. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
He spoke in a smooth glide, his words casual and unhurried. “I thought you might be interested to see how the town has grown. There’s this little bistro up the street.”
She felt like a deer in headlights. Her chief high school tormentor was asking her on a date? The same guy who used to trip her when she walked past him in the hallway? Her expression must have looked stunned because he gave his short, raspy laugh. “You’re probably busy—”
“No, I…” She shook herself. “I’m just…I just wasn’t expecting—”
“I meant as friends. For fun. No pressure or anything.” The look he gave her from under his brows made it seem like they shared an amusing secret. “Prattsville is no Los Angeles, but I like to think we have something to offer.”
“O-of course.”
Before she could say anything else, he turned and pushed open the door. The old wooden frame squealed on rusty hinges. “I hate to run, but I have a showing at four. Like I said, no pressure on the dinner thing. You have my number.” He shot her a confident, relaxed smile. “Good luck with your project. It really does look great.”
She followed him to the door, but he was already down the steps and halfway to his car before she could yell a belated, “Thanks!”
He waved, got in his car, and pulled away from the curb.
What just happened? She let the door swing shut and walked back to the bag he’d brought. She crouched beside it and pulled out a can of stain. It was good stuff, with a polyurethane coat built in. She knew what Pia would say about this. “Men don’t buy expensive furniture stain for women they want to be friends with.” Dean had asked her on a date, then he’d bowed out gracefully when she’d stuttered and clammed up like a girl getting asked to her first dance.
She sighed and put the stain back in the bag. So much for getting out and meeting new people. Why couldn’t she have just said yes? Dean was in real estate—he probably knew tons of people who might be interested in buying antique furniture. An opportunity to make sales had dropped into her lap, and she’d blown it.
She stood and made her way back into the kitchen. The smell of chocolate was overpowering. She froze in the doorway, then turned her head toward the window. Smith’s house filled the frame. Dean wasn’t the only person with connections in town. As police chief, Smith probably knew just about everyone. Unlike Dean, he hadn’t come bearing gifts or looking for a date. If anything, he seemed to want her gone as soon as possible.
What if she told him he could help make that happen? As the gears turned in her head, her gaze fell on the still-cooling cookies.
She chewed her bottom lip for a second, then nodded, her decision made.
* * *
The plastic storage container slipped in Ashley’s sweaty grip as she climbed the steps to Smith’s house. She tucked it under one arm and wiped her palm on her pant leg, encountering a patch of dried coffee as she went. She looked down at her ripped and dirty jeans. Damn. She should have changed before coming over here. Smith would probably take one look at her and decide he wanted nothing to do with her cookies.
“This was a stupid idea,” she muttered, reversing direction.
She was halfway down the steps when frenzied barking broke out inside the house. She froze, shoulders hunched. Double damn. Deuce was better than any security alarm.
Smith’s deep, muffled voice warred with the barking, then the sound of the door’s deadbolt made her turn around. Smith appeared in the doorway. At his waist, Deuce nosed the door wider. Smith frowned at her. “Ashley?” He stuck his head out the door and looked at her grandmother’s house. “Did you need something?”
She ascended the steps. “No. Well, maybe.” She held up the container. “I thought you might like some cookies. I baked way too many.”
He glanced at her offering. “Oh…thanks.”
Silence fell between them. He was doing it again—staring with that expressionless mask. She fought the urge to shuffle from one foot to the other. “I rode my old bike to the grocery store,” she said. “To get the ingredients. I haven’t used the car since you pulled me over.” Actually, she’d cursed him under her breath as she’d pedaled over the cracked and buckled road. The weather had sliced through her oversized sweater. By the time she’d turned into her driveway, she hadn’t been able t
o feel her toes or the tip of her nose.
He nodded. Deuce nudged the door wider, revealing more of Smith’s body. He wore his police uniform, but the shirt was unbuttoned to mid-chest. Underneath, a dark-gray undershirt molded to his pecs. He was missing his thick leather police belt. Without it, the contrast between his lean hips and broad chest was more pronounced.
Ashley caught herself staring and forced her gaze to his face. “Also, I wanted to let you know I finished the first piece of furniture. I thought you might want to keep it for the house. Or, if not, maybe you know someone in town who might be interested in buying it?”
His blue-green gaze grew shuttered. He stepped deeper into the house. “I’m afraid not.”
“Oh. Well. That’s okay.” Shit, what now? He wasn’t making this easy. She took a deep breath. “Would you like to stop over later? Maybe after your shift?”
“I work late tonight.” He tugged Deuce backward.
“But—”
“Maybe another time.” He nodded again and shut the door.
She stared at the green wreath. He’d just…closed the door in her face. Heat crept up the back of her neck. She clutched the cookies to her midsection. As far as rejections went, that one was brutally to the point. The sting was different yet somehow the same as how she felt after an audition. Unwanted. She swallowed against the sudden thickness in her throat, tightened her grip on the container, and marched down the steps.
As she crossed the lawn, a cold wind whipped the air, tugging at her clothes and hair. She walked faster, her thigh muscles burning. When she reached the house, she yanked open the kitchen door, flew up the steps, and tossed the cookie container on the counter. It slid across the Formica and crashed to the floor. The lid popped off, and cookies tumbled across the linoleum, scattering crumbs and chunks of chocolate.
“Dammit!” She whirled from the mess and went to the sink. The tap squealed as she ran cold water. She scooped handfuls of water and splashed her face. After a few seconds, she shut off the tap and pressed a cold palm against the back of her neck. She took long, deep breaths in an effort to slow her pounding heart.