Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Daphne’s ankle felt better when she woke up. And, as much as she hated to admit it, Flint’s guest bed was much more comfortable than the one in her apartment. She’d slept like a dream. She hobbled out to the kitchen, where she found the sheriff sitting at the table, sipping coffee. A plate with a few crumbs was beside him.
The kitchen was as clean as the rest of his place. She hadn’t been surprised, exactly, when she’d put their leftovers away the night before. His uniform was always pressed, his jaw clean shaven, and his hair cut short and neat. Why would his house be any different?
Still, being in his space had felt like a narrow glimpse inside the man. She appreciated that he was tidy. It felt like something they had in common—an appreciation for order, for organization.
He looked up when she entered, his gaze dropping to her foot. “Morning,” he said. “How’s the ankle?”
“Better. Any coffee left?”
He pulled out a chair for her and got her a mug. “Toast?”
“Sure,” she said, and watched him drop a slice in the toaster.
Turned out Calvin Flint could be a gentleman when he really wanted to be, which also wasn’t a huge surprise if she forgot everything that she knew about him from high school. Daphne thanked him and took a sip before asking him about his night.
He gave her the rundown of what he’d seen, including the fact that there might have been a connection between the two incidents.
“So do you think the break-ins have something to do with us asking him questions?” Daphne frowned at the photos Flint showed her on his phone.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But it’s strange.”
He checked his watch and got up to get ready for the day. Daphne watched him put his mug and plate in the dishwasher before putting the toaster in the cupboard below and spraying the countertops with cleaner. He moved efficiently, like he’d done the same tasks a thousand times. He walked out of the kitchen a moment later. She looked at the gleaming countertops and wondered why the sight of him taking care of his home seemed so significant.
Was it because Pete had been a bit of a slob, and the thousands of little tasks required to take care of a home had fallen to her? Her ex-fiancé wouldn’t have even noticed crumbs on the counter. If he did, he might have brushed them onto the floor. A spray bottle would never have touched his hand. And he would have scoffed at the idea of putting a toaster away and out of sight. After all, he rolled his eyes whenever she insisted on making the bed. “You’re just going to mess it up again tonight,” he’d complain, which was true but also completely beside the point.
Watching a man clean his space without a second thought was something Daphne enjoyed, she realized. She enjoyed it a lot.
The doorbell rang, and Daphne hopped her way down the hall to open the door. Ellie stood on the other side with a small duffel bag full of Daphne’s things. Daphne had texted her sister the night before to ask her to run some clothes down to Flint’s place.
Daphne smiled. “Hey,” she said. “Thanks for bringing my things.”
“Course,” Ellie said. “Your apartment is super depressing, though.”
Daphne rolled her eyes and led Ellie to the kitchen. Ellie looked around, her eyes filled with delight as she handed the bag off to Daphne, who scowled at her.
“This is nice and cozy,” Ellie noted quietly, peeking around the corner as if to catch a glimpse of Flint down the hall.
“It’s temporary.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shut up, Ellie.”
“Hey, I’m happy for you!” Ellie laughed at the look on Daphne’s face. “I have to get to work. And I can see you and the sheriff are busy here.” At Daphne’s glare, Ellie cackled, then said her goodbyes and left.
Daphne was starting to regret the fib she’d told about being involved with Flint. Three weeks was a long time to pretend to date someone, and her family was far, far too enthusiastic about the prospect.
But—was it a fib?
She frowned at the duffel bag on the chair beside her and decided that yes, it was. Flint wasn’t as awful as she remembered. There were things about him she actually liked, such as the fact that he was a tidy person who knew how to keep his space clean. He could be funny once in a while, when he wasn’t being insufferable. And fine, in an academic sense, Daphne could appreciate that he was an attractive man.
But this thing between them—it wasn’t real . It was just until the vow renewal. Just until she could get her grandmother’s pot back. They had to play nice until then, that was all.
Satisfied, she stood up and carried the duffel bag to her bedroom. Once Daphne was showered and changed, she came out of the bathroom to find a pair of crutches leaning on the wall outside the door. She hooked them under her arms, then made her way out to the living room, where Flint was waiting.
“Thanks for these,” she said.
He glanced up from his phone, eyes doing a quick assessment of the crutches, then Daphne, as if to check that everything was as it should be. Daphne didn’t know whether to be annoyed or appreciative of his care, so she turned to the front door instead.
Ten minutes later, they were at work, and Daphne lost herself in years-old financial records. She pored over any document she could find about the renovations, but nothing made sense. Barela said he hadn’t been paid, but the accounts clearly showed funds being remitted, per the invoices. All to the same account—the one that apparently didn’t belong to Barela Contracting.
When she cross-checked the account on the original invoices with the digital records, she was able to find the name of the company to which the funds had been transferred. Realist Trade Co. had received the deposits for the renovation. Not Jerry Barela.
By the time Daphne lifted her head, she had a crick in her neck and hours had passed. She needed food. After lunch, she’d work backward; she’d start with the mysterious Realist Trade Co. account and try to find all the deposits that had been sent to it. If anything other than the renovation invoices had been paid to the account, then that would give her another angle to investigate.
The sheriff’s department had a constant drum of activity, and today was no different. Daphne wandered to the kitchen and grabbed the two slices of leftover pizza she’d brought for lunch. As she considered the microwave, she bunched her lips. Soggy crust, or cold pizza?
“I’ll show you a trick,” Shirley said, walking into the kitchen behind Daphne. She pulled the panini press away from the wall. “There’s some foil in that drawer, there. Thanks.”
Daphne watched as the other woman wrapped the slices of pizza in foil and stuck them in the panini press, not closing it enough to squish them.
“They’ll come out good as new,” Shirley said, then shot Daphne a glance. “Heard you’re bunking with Sheriff Flint.”
“He bullied me into it,” Daphne groused.
Shirley barked out a laugh. “Wouldn’t mind being bullied if it meant sharing a bed with a man like that.”
Daphne bit back her protest. If she started denying that anything was going on between them, she’d lose her chance at getting her grandmother’s pot back. “We’re taking things slow,” she said for what felt like the millionth time. “He just wanted to save me from having to hop up my apartment stairs multiple times a day.”
Shirley didn’t look convinced. “Uh-huh.”
Daphne clicked her tongue, and Shirley laughed. Hank ambled in and sniffed the air. “Pizza,” he said. “I’m jealous.”
“Back off, Hank,” Shirley warned. “Daphne needs her energy if she’s going to save this department from ruin.”
Hank threw his hands up and grabbed a container from the fridge. “Wife’s got me on salads,” he said. “If I come home smelling of pizza, she’ll throw me out.”
Shirley chuckled, then asked, “You hear about the break-ins last night?”
“Two in one night,” Hank answered. “Unusual.”
Daphne tilted her head. “You think they’re connected?”
“According to Jerry Barela, it’s someone trying to rob him.” Hank speared a piece of lettuce and shrugged. “We’re looking into it. None of his tools were stolen at Romano’s, but the perp could have been interrupted. Didn’t look like they actually made it inside.”
“Would Barela have a reason to lie?” Daphne asked, frowning.
Shirley nudged her with her elbow. “Look at you, asking relevant questions. You’ll be a deputy by the time we’re done with you.”
“No, thank you,” Daphne said, gesturing to her face, then her ankle. “I don’t think that would be good for my health.”
The two others laughed, and Daphne retrieved her leftover pizza from the press. It was warm and crisp—nearly as good as it had been the night before. She sat at the table with Hank and Shirley, talking shop, feeling like she was part of something bigger than herself.
At her old job, she’d worked in one gray cubicle amid a sea of identical gray cubicles. Her coworkers had been quiet, studious accountants who kept their headphones in and seemed horrified when someone spoke more than three words in a row. The only noise in the office was the clack of keyboards, the clicks of mice, and the hum of the air conditioner system. She’d eaten lunch at her desk almost every single day.
It was nice to eat with other people, to feel like she was part of the team. To belong.
Daphne hadn’t belonged anywhere on this island before. At eighteen, she couldn’t wait to get away. Now she wondered if she’d been running away—and what she’d been running from.
When she got back to the interview room that served as her office, there was a small container on her desk. It was a tiny container of ice cream, but it was all-white cardboard—no logo. On top of the lid, a spoon balanced. Daphne glanced over her shoulder, but no one was looking her way. She crutched her way to the other side of the desk and popped the lid.
Mint-chip ice cream. Responsible Daphne would put it away, because pizza and ice cream were not a nutritious lunch, never mind not knowing who had left it here for her. But Responsible Daphne didn’t seem to be in charge at the moment, because Daphne found herself grabbing the spoon and taking a bite. Her shoulders dropped as the ice cream hit her tongue, and she knew—she just knew —that this stuff was made by Rhonda Roberts.
Maybe the other woman wanted to apologize for spreading rumors about her, Daphne reasoned. It was an apology pint. That explanation was enough to satisfy her, so Daphne sat back in her chair and enjoyed the treat. Then she got back to work.
At five o’clock, there was a knock on her office door. Flint leaned against the frame. “Ready?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” she replied, “and I think I’ll sleep at my place tonight.”
“Oh yeah? How are you going to get there?”
She gave him a flat look. “I’ll take a cab.”
“And the stairs?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Am I really that terrifying?”
“Please,” she scoffed and leaned back, crossing her arms.
The truth was, being in his presence was confusing. They could pretend to date each other for three more weeks without bunking together. It made more sense for them to pretend to take things slow to at least try to stem the tide of gossip. But the more time she spent with him, the more she liked him. And she didn’t want to like him. She just wanted to do her job, get her feet back under her, and figure out her next steps. Dating—or fake dating—a high school rival wasn’t conducive to achieving those goals. She needed to focus, and remember who she was.
She was Good, Responsible Daphne, who did things the way they were meant to be done.
Except when she planned covert heists with her batty grandmother. And when she almost-kissed the hot sheriff she was pretending to date.
The sheriff entered the space, and suddenly there was too much of him. His presence filled the room from wall to wall to wall. His energy snapped against her skin like it had that first night when he’d pulled her over on the side of the road. He leaned his knuckles against her desk, his body angled toward hers. Daphne fought not to lean back in her chair to make space between them. It felt too much like surrender, so she set her jaw and glared at him.
When he spoke, his voice was low and soft. “Do you always struggle to accept help from people, or is it just me?”
“Maybe I don’t trust your intentions.”
His answering smile was wicked. “That might be smart of you.”
Daphne’s feet were firmly planted on the floor, but she was off balance. Knowing it was a kind of surrender, she tore her gaze away from his and dropped it to her desk. She busied herself with shuffling her papers and closing her laptop. “I don’t understand why you are so insistent on having me stay with you.”
“Under my watch, you’ve been punched, tackled, and thrown across the room. You’ve had two black eyes and a sprained ankle. I don’t like it. I don’t trust you to make it through the evening on your own.”
“And you care why?”
“I already told you, Cupcake. I don’t want to have to find another accountant. We need to finish this work and give the people of Fernley a definitive answer before the election. The fastest way to do that is to keep our team safe, including you. That, and I don’t want to find another date to my mother’s vow renewal.”
Glaring at the sheriff had precisely zero effect. He still watched her with those thick-lash-rimmed hazel eyes, challenging her.
It felt like she was seventeen again, being sent to detention for the first time in her life because of him. Infuriating, impossible man. The heat in her gut was anger, she was sure. The way her thighs clenched was a fight-or-flight response and nothing else. Though the pulse between her legs felt like white-hot lust, she knew she was mistaken about it.
“First of all, I told you not to call me Cupcake. Second of all, since when do you care about the election? I didn’t think you were planning on staying.”
“Maybe I like the job.”
“Hmm.”
“Come on, Davis. Either you’re staying at mine, or I’m staying at yours. And I’d way rather sleep in my own bed. But if we have to share yours ...”
“In your dreams, Flint.”
“My dreams are none of your business, sweetheart,” he answered, eyes alight, and Daphne’s cheeks flamed.
She should have pushed him more when they’d left the medical center. Should have insisted that he leave her alone.
But as she gathered her things, Daphne realized that she didn’t want to be alone. And more than that, she wanted to be with him . Yes, he infuriated her. He was still the arrogant, pushy jerk she’d known almost twenty years earlier, but the more time she spent with him, the less she hated him. She was playing with fire.
After spending so many years trying to do the right thing, it felt good to take a risk.
Daphne stood up, propped her crutches under her arms, and swung her way to the door. The sheriff held it open for her, flicking off the lights behind her. His hand drifted over her lower back as she wobbled over an uneven piece of ground. And when they descended the steps outside the building, the heat of his hand spilled over her lower back, sinking down lower in her gut.
If she was flushed when he opened the door to his truck for her and helped her in, it was only because of the exertion of using the crutches. Nothing else.
They drove to Flint’s house, and as he parked in the driveway outside the small home, Daphne wondered what ties he still had to Fernley. The house wasn’t a rental; she could tell by how easily he moved through it. It was an older home in need of a fresh lick of paint, surrounded by newer, larger houses on all sides.
“Where did you find this house?” she asked as he cut the engine.
Flint glanced at her, then at the house. It had off-white siding and brown trim. The rain was slicking the shingled roof, and it looked like the gutters were in need of a clean. “This is where I grew up,” he said.
Daphne started. “What? Really?”
“My dad owned it and passed it on to me. I lived in it for a year or so after high school, before I moved away. By then, my mom had married her third husband, so I was on my own. Not that that was different from what I was used to,” he added, almost like an afterthought. Giving her a tight smile, Flint slipped out of the truck and jogged around to open her door.
The rain was misting, but it felt like it’d get heavier before the evening was through. It had been raining off and on all day, with a few bouts of torrential downpour between clearer spells. As Daphne made her way up the path, one of her crutches slipped, and she teetered on her single healthy leg until Flint’s hand gripped her elbow.
“This is why stairs are a bad idea,” he growled.
Daphne tucked her chin in her chest to hide her smile. It had been a long time since someone had actually worried about her. She’d always been the one to take care of everything. The responsible one who managed schedules and kept on top of life’s duties. Having someone at her back felt better than she’d expected.
Once inside, they stripped off their jackets and took off their shoes, and Daphne used a towel to wipe down her crutches. She made it to the guest room and sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Flint told her. “We’ll figure out dinner after?”
“Sure.”
He nodded and disappeared down the hall. A door opened, and a couple of minutes later, the shower turned on. Daphne looked at the pillows on her bed, knowing that if she laid her head on top of them, lifting it up again would be almost impossible. She heaved herself to her feet, leaving her crutches in the bedroom, and hopped toward the kitchen.
On the way, she passed a door. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure the bathroom door was still closed, she pushed it open to peek inside. Yes, she was snooping. But that seemed like a fair cost after being strong-armed into staying here by the island’s sheriff.
A third bedroom lay beyond the door, filled with boxes of stuff. A junk room. She could see old clothes spilling from the tops of a few boxes, a clear plastic container filled with ancient electronics, and various old appliances and miscellaneous decor items stacked against every wall.
It was odd, since the rest of the house was militantly clean. Flint folded the throw blanket on the couch after every use, laying it over the arm of the sofa with its corners perfectly aligned. His kitchen was old but sparkling. The guest bedding had been perfectly pressed, with not a speck of dust in sight. Even the old venetian blinds had been wiped clean recently. His truck gleamed, and not just because of the constant rain.
But he had a junk room.
As Daphne made her way to the kitchen, she wondered about it. Was it a dirty secret? A room where he’d shoved all his past mistakes? She opened a couple of upper cabinets, looking for a glass. After finding one on the third try, she leaned against the sink and filled it. Her drink was halfway to her lips when she realized what that junk room really was.
It was his parents’ stuff. It had to be. Maybe it was mostly his mother’s, since he’d mentioned she was a pack rat. Was it possible she’d used this house as storage while Flint was away?
Heart thumping, Daphne turned to survey the kitchen cabinets. Did that mean Grandma Mabel’s pot could be here ? If that old pot in the corner cabinet of Eileen Yarrow’s kitchen wasn’t the pot, the only other place it could be was in this kitchen.
She could skip the vow renewal altogether. She wouldn’t have to lie and pretend to be his date. She wouldn’t have to be dragged into the old dragons’ insane schemes, because she could present her grandmother with the heirloom pot without having to perform a complicated heist.
Daphne set her glass down, then hopped to the wall. She opened the lower cabinets, because surely, that’s where heavy cookware would be stored. She found a cabinet full of mismatched Tupperware. The next cabinet had a few stainless steel pots, but nothing made of cast iron. The next one was used as a pantry, filled with spices and basics. Two cabinets remained.
She hobbled to the second-to-last one, wrenching the door open to peer inside. It was full of all types of cookware: baking sheets, cake tins, and ... a cast-iron pan! Maybe ...
Daphne pulled out a cake tin to peek behind it. Metal scraped and clattered as she snooped, pushing a pot aside to look behind it—
“What are you doing?”
Yelping, Daphne stood up so fast dizziness swept through her. Gripping the edge of the counter, she turned to face Flint on the other side of the kitchen.
“Were you looking for something?” he asked, frowning. Suspicion drenched his words.
“I was, um ...” Daphne gulped. “I was trying to figure out dinner.”
His frown deepened, and his eyes dropped to the open cabinet. “Right.”
The beating of Daphne’s heart was loud in her ears. She sucked in a long breath, mind spinning. He knew she was lying. He was angry. He didn’t like her snooping. Had he guessed that this was about the pot? Her grandmother had all but broadcast her interest in the old Dutch oven; had he put two and two together? He was a cop, after all.
If he found her out, she’d lose her chance. She wouldn’t be able to go to the vow renewal and get the pot back for her grandmother.
That thought shouldn’t have induced such panic in Daphne. But she’d lived her whole life trying to do the right thing, and now she was at a crossroads. Restoring a family heirloom to its rightful owner was the right thing. But not only that, her grandmother had seemed so proud of Daphne for wanting to do it. She felt like a little bit of a rebel for planning to take it back, and that felt good .
For once in her life, Daphne felt like a Davis. She felt like she belonged in the family in which she’d been born. Until that exact moment, when Daphne realized that she could lose that feeling as easily as she’d gained it, she hadn’t known just how desperate she was.
She wanted to belong. She wanted to come home and feel like people were happy to see her . She wanted to feel like she was a part of her family, and not just the one that people patted on the head and congratulated for being good.
She’d lost everything these past two years. She couldn’t lose them too.
So when Flint opened his mouth to say something, Daphne knew he’d question her. She knew she’d crack under the pressure, and she might even blurt out the whole sordid tale. And then he’d think she was a pathetic liar who’d used him. She’d be humiliated, and she’d probably lose her job. Again.
Daphne couldn’t let that happen.
There was a part of her—a small part—that hated the thought of Flint being disappointed in her. They’d reached a kind of truce. They were getting along. How would he treat her if he found out about her scheme?
She’d lived her whole life doing what was right. She’d gotten the grades. The scholarships. The degree. The fiancé. The mortgage. She’d planned to have a family. She’d wanted a perfect wedding.
Now what did she have?
She had a silly cast-iron pot that might not even exist. That was all she had to hold her to her family, to prove to them that she was one of them.
So, desperation nipping at her heels, Daphne played the only card she had.
Curling her fingers into the opening of her blouse, she wrenched the buttons out of their holes and let the garment slide off her arms, exposing her second-favorite bra to the man on the other side of the kitchen.
Flint’s teeth made an audible click as his mouth closed. The blouse fell to the floor beside her injured foot with a soft whisper. Daphne forced herself not to cover herself up, because Flint’s face had gone slack as his gaze had traced the shape of her demicup bra.
“Wh ...” He blinked half a dozen times, then gulped. “What are you doing?”
That was a great question, and one that Daphne didn’t quite have the answer to. “My bra is white lace,” she said, which was a ridiculous thing to say because it was pretty obvious that Flint had been staring at her bra ever since she’d stripped her shirt off in his kitchen, and he was clearly able to deduce the color and fabric. “Do you ... like it?”
His gaze snapped up to her face. “What?”
She’d never seen him this confused. He wasn’t the confident man in charge. He wasn’t the sheriff. He wasn’t even the man who’d walked up to her in Jerry Barela’s parking lot and found her holding the edges of her ripped shirt. The man looked like he’d lost all capacity to function.
They stared at each other for a second. Two. Three.
Then Calvin Flint moved .