Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
“There’s an ice dam on Mr. Kang’s roof. I sent Murphy over to check it before it brought down half his gutters. Mrs. Wasinski swore someone was rattling her back door last night—Wendell made a report. Looked like maybe a stray cat looking to get warm.”
Deputy Ben Tanner leaned against Rush’s office door, grinning and flexing his biceps. “Oh, and the bunco club called again to ask if you’d reconsider being their ‘special guest.’ They said all you have to do is take your shirt off. Pants optional.”
Rush scrubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, not again.”
At his feet, Riggs cracked open one eye, as if to check if he needed backup.
Rush gave the dog’s head a quick stroke, earning a grumbly sigh before Riggs settled back down.
He had a perfectly good bed in the corner, but when Rush was in the office, Riggs always planted himself next to him like a shadow.
“They claim it’s perfectly legal. Gets real warm in Mrs. Solano’s living room.”
Laughter drifted in from the squad room.
Rush grimaced. Judy Solano and her blue-haired crew had been asking him to come to their Bunco night for weeks.
If she didn’t remind him so much of his Gram, he would’ve shut it down harder, but that mischievous twinkle in her eyes made it impossible to be more than mildly irritated that she wanted to see him naked in her living room.
“Don’t worry. I told them I’d step in.” Ben spread his arms, puffed his chest, and gave his badge an exaggerated shimmy.
Riggs lifted his head again, a low rumble building in his throat when Ben stepped closer. Ben froze, his hands half raised. “Whoa, Riggs. I thought we were friends.”
Rush didn’t glance up from the paperwork. How it kept piling up when he took time every morning to work through it was a mystery. “He’s protective,” he said flatly. “You should take the hint.”
Ben just grinned, unabashed. “Times are tough. I’d even give them a discount.”
“There’s a reason they don’t want you,” Rush muttered back, neatly stacking the reports on his desk. His deputies ribbed him often enough, but only Ben was brave—or stupid—enough to keep pushing this particular joke.
“Pretty sure Judy Solano would tip extra if you flexed those sheriff muscles. I heard bunco ladies go wild for authority.”
Rush leveled him a glare. “Shift’s over, Tanner. Get the hell out,” he barked.
Ben just grinned, tapping the doorframe before sauntering off to clock out. Cocky little bastard, but the kid had a good heart.
With his office quiet again, Rush stared down at the pile of paperwork.
He loved his job—most of it, anyway. Enough patrol work to keep him moving, enough people problems to keep him useful, and the community, while sometimes testing the limits of his patience, consisted of the kind of people who looked out for one another.
He liked everything except the damn reports.
Boston wouldn’t be better. Grant had been up-front about that when Rush had first asked about the job. Working in private security sounded active only on the TV shows. In reality, it was long hours standing outside penthouses and venues, checking badges, and waiting for people.
His phone buzzed on the corner of his desk, Grant’s name lighting up the screen. Rush let it ring until it went dark. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about Boston.
But at least he’d never have to hear the word canal come over the radio again.
Rush dropped the pen, automatically looking at the clock. Eleven forty-five. Almost lunch.
The squad room carried the scent of burnt coffee and stale doughnuts, which he never touched. He leaned back in his chair and glanced out the window. From where he sat, he had a clear view of Lily’s studio, Pure Bliss Wellness.
The picture windows across Main Street glowed with Christmas lights, and Lily had hung festive garlands over the blue door like all the other shops and buildings in the village.
Rush told himself he was just surveying the town, keeping an eye on things, but the truth was he’d glanced in that direction too many times to count already this morning, knowing he was looking for a glimpse of red hair twisted into the bun she wore when she was teaching.
Last night, she’d worn her hair down. The copper shimmer of it in his kitchen played in his mind, along with her shy agreement to explore the arrangement he’d half talked himself out of before it even left his mouth.
He hadn’t expected her to say yes, but as soon as the words were out, he’d found himself praying she would.
Lily Hart hadn’t been far from his mind since the night she’d jumped into his truck, leaving behind a man who didn’t have the first clue how to take care of a woman. Rush meant to make damn sure she felt every bit of his attention. She deserved that and more.
He forced his eyes back to the reports, but his focus was a lost cause. She was the most dangerous mix of woman he’d ever known—soft innocence wrapped around a sensuality that got under his skin faster than any bottle of whiskey he’d ever seen the bottom of.
Then there was the way she flushed whenever she had a naughty thought.
Christ. She didn’t even realize he could read her thoughts in the rosy pink blooming up her throat.
His body reacted instantly at just the thought of his mouth following that trail of all the heat under her pale skin, tracing the path to her breasts and burying his face in all that lushness.
That was the problem. She made him want.
While he watched like some lovesick teen with his first crush, a scraggly group of kids in what looked like angel wings and maybe a sheep costume tumbled out the studio door. Lily’s Christmas rehearsal must have finished.
Fuck it. He pushed to his feet, grabbed his jacket, and jammed his tan Stetson low on his forehead.
Maybe he’d see if she wanted to grab lunch.
Did she even have a lunch break? Hell, she needed to eat.
He would just check on her. Make sure she had an inhaler with her and offer to grab a sandwich at the diner.
Make sure she didn’t have any regrets about last night in his kitchen. He sure as hell didn’t.
“Going out,” he said to Myrna Bryne, at the front desk.
She looked up from her crossword, wearing the same long-suffering expression she gave anyone trying to sweet-talk their way out of a ticket.
Myrna had been holding down the front desk longer than half his deputies had been wearing a badge, and she didn’t take shit from anyone.
He liked her no-nonsense approach, and he made it a point to grab her favorite cinnamon-sugar doughnuts from Morning Glory whenever he stopped in for the crew.
“Should’ve just moved your desk across the street,” she said, eyeing him knowingly. “Save yourself the neck strain.”
Rush grunted, shoving into his jacket.
Myrna smirked and went back to the crossword.
Never mind doughnuts. Next time, she was getting a bagel.
Outside, the sidewalks were shoveled, but an inch of fresh powder cushioned his footsteps as he walked, and deep slush piles lined the road when he crossed. The newscasters were crowing about this being the snowiest winter on record in the last twenty years.
He didn’t mind the snow itself. It was peaceful, even pretty, especially on the early-morning drive into work when it was still fresh and made the world look quiet.
What he hated was the jolt of dread every time the radio crackled with another accident.
Fender benders were fine. He could handle those, but the calls that came for anything near the Canal made cold sweat break out on his forehead.
Those were rare, and so far minor enough he’d been able to send Tanner or Wendell to the scene.
He tugged the collar of his sheepskin jacket higher and nodded to the people he passed. They smiled and waved. The best thing about Northfield was also the worst thing: There was no chance of anonymity here. Everyone knew one another and looked out for one another, for the most part.
He was the only person who hadn’t done that, and walking up and down the streets day in and day out, he knew they all deserved a better sheriff. Someone who didn’t break out in a cold sweat when he went near water. Someone who wasn’t still carrying ghosts he couldn’t manage to put down.
Movement caught his eye—an older woman stepping onto the curb in front of the studio from a sleek black Mercedes. A second later, her feet slipped, and she went down hard on her knees.
Rush’s adrenaline spiked as it always did in that split second, and his boots were moving before he had time to think.
“Ouch,” the woman said, bundled up in a scarf and some sort of fur-lined hat against the cold.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” he asked, dropping to his knees.
“Oh yes,” she said, laughing.
Automatically, Rush clocked the details—expensive hat, soft brown leather gloves, pearl earrings. “I think so.”
Rush’s next words froze, unspoken, as he stared into the woman’s eyes—Caroline Whitmore’s cool blue eyes stared back at him from her mother’s face.
Then she looked at him fully. “Sheriff Callahan,” she said, uncertainty flickering across her face. She hesitated then extended her gloved hand. “If you’d be so kind as to give me your arm.”
His arm moved automatically, steadying her as she rose and brushed the snow off her fine wool coat.
“Are you injured anywhere?” he asked briskly, schooling his features into the impassive mask he wore on duty. He scanned her, running through an assessment of potential injuries. “Anything hurt? Did you hit your head?”
“No, I don’t think so. Except maybe my pride.” She smiled ruefully. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
“No thanks needed, ma’am. Just doing my job,” he said formally, everything within him completely shut down and locked away behind a mask of professionalism.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Mrs. Whitmore said gently, her hand still on his arm when he tried to pull away.