Chapter 5
Jesse
I still get the jitters every time I start a new job!
I love it—makes you feel alive.
~ Camille Guaty
I’m blasting “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” through the cruiser; Alex is pretending not to smile, but I catch her out of the side of my eye. She’s interesting. Not like the women I’m used to around here.
The heater hums, filling the silence, and my accelerating pulse keeps time with the beat of the popular holiday song ringing around us. The closer we get to my house, the more I’m second-guessing my choice of location for dinner.
I pull into the driveway and Alex flashes me a confused look. “Where are we?”
“My place. I figured dinner here would be as good as any.” I pause, trying to read her reaction. “Actually, we can go to the diner.” I twist my key in the ignition, turning the car back on.
Alex reaches across, her fingers wrapping over my palm. “Here’s fine.” Her eyes meet mine. “Unless you prefer the diner?”
In lieu of a response, I twist the key, hop out, and walk around to open her door. She already has it open by the time I make my way over to her.
“You don’t have to open my door for me,” she says.
Her voice is brisk, but her eyes flick up, catching mine before she steps out. There’s a spark there—maybe amusement, maybe challenge—and it throws me a little off balance.
I nod. I hadn’t meant to demean her. I know women are capable of opening their own doors—obviously. So far from what I’ve seen, Alex seems capable of much more than most people.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Force of habit.” I stroll up my walkway and open my front door.
“Do you do that for other officers on the force?” Alex follows behind me.
I chuckle. “Not unless I want to get teased or hit.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Don’t treat me differently just because I’m a woman. Treat me like one of the guys.”
“Right,” I say.
Only, Alex isn’t one of the guys, obviously. She’s a woman—a fact I’m both trying to honor and ignore. But her point is taken. I’ll give her the same treatment as I do any of the guys when we partner up.
“So,” I say, taking a deep breath that does nothing to steady me.
What was I thinking by bringing her here? The place smells like morning coffee and bachelorhood—too personal, too revealing. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I want her to see the side of me that’s not Officer Heinz. Just me—Jesse.
“I have lasagna. Do you like lasagna?” I toss my keys into the bowl by the door.
Alex lingers behind me on my porch. I can’t see her face when she answers. “I love lasagna. Is it store-bought?” She pauses and then adds, “Because that’s fine. Beggars can’t be choosers.” Her accent comes out on that last line beggahs and choose-ahs.
I step inside, holding the door wide open for her. We’re here now. No backing down.
“The lasagna’s homemade,” I say, flicking the light switch. Warm yellow spills across the room, softening edges, making the space look almost inviting—even to me.
“Did someone bring it over?” she asks, eyes sweeping the room.
She notices everything—the art, the folded blanket draped over the back of the couch. Her eyes land on the stairs. I glance around, trying to imagine how my home appears through someone else’s eyes.
“You want a tour?” I ask. “And, no. I baked it.”
“You baked your own lasagna?”
“I cook,” I tell her. “I’d imagine most single men my age do.”
“You’d be surprised.” Her tone says she’s thinking of at least one person in particular. I wonder who he is—and who he is to her.
“Boyfriend?” I ask, though it wouldn’t make sense if she’s moving here and taking a job.
“Ex. But not only him.”
“Hmm,” I walk toward the kitchen, occupying myself with something other than the strange relief I feel at her confirmation that she’s single.
“So, you cook?” She leans against the counter, ankles crossed, confident in my kitchen like she’s been here before. The sight hits low and unexpected—her ease in my space shouldn’t do something to me, but it does.
I pull the lasagna pan and a bag of salad out of the fridge, grateful for the cold air on my face—it gives me a second to get it together.
“And sometimes, when I’m feeling fancy, I microwave leftovers.” I wag my brows at her and hope it looks smooth instead of convulsant.
She smiles. “Color me impressed.” Her tone’s playful, not taunting. “Let me guess—you do dishes too?”
“Only when someone’s watching,” I say, glancing over at her and smiling. Did I just wink? I think I may have.
She laughs—a real one, full and easy.
I put a plate in the microwave, followed by another. Meanwhile, I chop a few vegetables to add to the salad. When the plates are warm, I hand one to Alex.
“Want to eat here?” I tip my head toward the island. “Or … I have a table.”
“Here’s good,” she says, setting her plate down and tugging out a few drawers before she lands on my silverware. “You own two forks?” Her tone is teasing—again.
“One mouth.” I shrug. “I don’t need a bunch of extra silverware.”
She smiles, her fork hovering over her plate. “Okay, Heinz, let’s see how well you work a microwave.”
I laugh. The feeling is almost foreign. Sure, I laugh with my mom, or on the job. But Alex is drawing out a kind of laughter that feels new, but also familiar. Like laughing with a long-lost friend.
She takes her first bite, and as hungry as I am, I sit still, not even lifting my fork, waiting to see what she thinks.
“Mmmm.” She smiles. Then she closes her eyes. “Mmmm. That’s really good.”
“You like it?” I cut in and take a bite of my own.
“I love it. And I’ve had some really good lasagna in my life. I only lived twenty minutes from Bensonhurst.” My face must show my confusion because she adds, “It’s an Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn.”
“Do you miss it?” I ask. “New York?”
“So far it feels a lot like being on vacation. I do miss things. Noise. I miss noise. This town is quiet—especially at night. I think it’s too soon to tell if I’ll get homesick.”
“I can’t imagine living anywhere else,” I confess. “This is the only home I’ve known—well, not this house, but Bordeaux.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything, too intent on her lasagna to bother with conversation. A grin spreads across my face just watching her enjoy it. We eat in easy silence for a while. Then she stands and carries her plate to the sink. It’s all but licked clean.
The sharp crackle of my portable radio slices through the comfortable stillness. My fork jumps, clattering against the plate as I reach for the radio on my belt.
We don’t get much crime around Bordeaux—small town, middle of nowhere.
Columbus is forty minutes away if the roads are clear and you don’t get stuck behind an Amish cart that’s out for a ride.
Still, I can’t help hoping Jeanie’s about to send us investigating another harmless offense.
I don’t want Alex thinking she joined a snooze-fest.
I really should’ve listened to my cousin Landon’s advice and tried that dating app.
Because right now, I’m way too interested in making an impression on the woman rinsing dishes in my sink.
The sight is so domestic, I fight the urge to rub a hollow spot in my chest. The sound of someone else’s hands under the faucet, the clink of dishes, and her light humming filling the otherwise silent room—these are the kinds of ordinary noises that make a house feel like home.
Alex and I both freeze, eyes locked on the radio in my hand.
“Hey, you two,” Jeanie’s chipper voice fills the kitchen. “The Whitakers are missing some lawn decorations—sounds like holiday shenanigans to me.”
I press the button, trying to maintain my professionalism for Alex’s sake, and reply. “Thanks, Jeanie.”
“You know it. I hope you kids got to eat your dinner before this.” So much for professionalism.
“We did,” I grin at Alex.
She’s quiet, smiling back at me, but her posture is stiffer than it was before the call—all business.
“We’ll head over to the Whitakers’ now,” I tell Jeanie.
“Okay. I’m switching to the county line now, Jesse.”
“Got it,” I say, clipping the radio back onto my belt.
Alex is attempting to hide her look of confusion, so I clarify for her. “After hours, all complaints or reports are filtered through the county line. That way our local people can go home for the night.” I pause. “Probably not the way it’s done in the Big Apple.”
“I’m sure not,” she says with a soft laugh. “But I never saw behind the scenes there.”
I forgot that about her. This is her first position on any force.
She’s more subdued on the drive to the Whitakers’.
I think back to my early days as an officer.
I took a lot of heat from the old-timers.
Still do. But back then they really made a sport out of every blunder.
All I wanted was their respect. I’ll admit I went a bit overboard at times.
Still do, if my introduction to Alex is any indication.
I shake my head privately, chiding myself for overreacting.
“You take the lead on this call,” I suggest.
Alex hesitates, then squares her shoulders. Confidence looks good on her.
“Really?” she asks.
“Yeah. You’ve got this.”
She nods.
We walk to the front door side by side and she knocks. When Bill and Dori answer the door, Alex introduces herself. Her pad is out, ready to take notes on everything they say.
Bill grabs his coat off the hook and joins us on the porch. “See those reindeer over there?”
Alex and I follow the direction he’s pointing and nod.
“We had five. Now there are four.” He walks across the lawn and points to the four divots in the snow from the reindeer’s paws.
Alex takes her phone out and snaps a picture. She walks along the snow where a trail of footprints and disturbed snow leads off the yard and through the neighbor’s driveway, snapping pictures as she goes.
Then she turns back to Bill. “When was the last time you noticed the reindeer?”
The questions we have to ask as cops. I stifle a chuckle.