Читать книгу The Sheriff's Nine-Month Surprise - Brenda Harlen - Страница 13
ОглавлениеKate’s mind was reeling. Not just because she was once again in close proximity to the sheriff, with whom she’d had the Best. Sex. Ever. a few weeks earlier, but because she now had to accept that the father of her baby wasn’t fifteen hundred miles away but living in the same town.
“Dinner?” she echoed, and realized it could be the perfect opportunity to share her big—and growing—news.
“Traditionally the third and biggest meal of the day,” he explained, amusement dancing in those hazel eyes.
“I understand the term,” she assured him. “I was just...surprised...by your invitation.”
“Surprised is okay,” he decided. “But are you hungry?”
She realized that she was. The queasiness that left her feeling unsettled through most of the morning usually disappeared by lunch, and lunch had been a long time ago.
“I could eat,” she finally responded to his question, determined not to allow the sexy sheriff’s nearness stir other appetites.
“Good,” he said. “I’d like to buy you dinner, but I’m going to ask you to decide where since I’m still finding my way around town.”
“There are only three places in this town where you can get a decent meal,” she told him. “The Sunnyside Diner, which does a great all-day breakfast but isn’t so great with other menu options, Jo’s Pizza, which makes the best thin crust pizza I’ve ever had—and their wings are pretty good, too—but eating in means nabbing one of only half a dozen tables crammed into a tiny space and no hope of a private conversation, and Diggers’.”
“I’ve been to Diggers’,” he told her. “The food was great.”
“It is,” she confirmed. “But we can’t go there.”
“Why not?”
“Because Diggers’ is second only to The Daily Grind for gossip in Haven.”
“You’re worried people will talk about us sharing a meal?”
“I don’t want to have to answer questions about how I’m acquainted with the new sheriff,” she admitted.
“What’s wrong with the truth?”
She shook her head. Now more than ever, she didn’t want anyone to know that she’d met Reid in Boulder City, because when her pregnancy became apparent and people started counting backward, they’d suspect the baby had been conceived while she was out of town and she’d rather they didn’t know that Haven’s new sheriff had been there, too.
“Actually, I was referring to the other truth,” he said. “That our paths crossed when you came to my office.”
Which was a perfectly reasonable explanation. As an attorney, it made sense that she’d want to cultivate a good relationship with the new sheriff. But she also knew that if she was seen in public with him, it would be all the excuse anyone else wanted or needed to interrupt their conversation to wrangle their own introductions.
“Except that it’s Friday.”
“And?” he prompted, obviously seeking clarification.
“And my sister, Skylar, works at Diggers’ on the weekend,” she admitted.
“We could pick up pizza and take it back to my place,” he suggested as an alternative.
She hesitated. “Look, Sheriff, despite what happened between us in Boulder City, I’m really not that kind of girl.”
“You’re not the kind of girl who likes pizza?”
She managed a smile. “I’m not the kind of girl who goes back to a guy’s place—or invites him back to hers.”
“I wasn’t expecting to share anything more than pizza,” he said, then shrugged. “Hoping, maybe, but not expecting.”
The honest response undermined her resolve. “Why don’t I make something for dinner instead?” she impulsively offered.
“I’d never say no to a home-cooked meal.”
“I’m not promising anything fancy,” she warned. “But you’ll be able to eat and we’ll be able to talk without a thousand interruptions.”
“That works for me,” he agreed.
She glanced at her watch, then mentally calculated the time she needed to make a quick trip to The Trading Post before she could start cooking. “Seven o’clock?”
“Sure,” he agreed.
“Okay, I’ll see you then.”
He caught her arm as she started to turn away. “Only if you give me your address.”
“Do you know where my office is?”
“You live at your office?”
“Above the office. Apartment 2B.”
“I’ll see you at seven.”
* * *
Inviting Reid to have dinner at her place seemed like a good idea at the time—or, if not a good idea, at least a necessary compromise. They needed to talk and she didn’t want to have the conversation where anyone might overhear it. But now that he was here, Kate realized she’d made a tactical error.
She loved her apartment—the ultramodern kitchen and open-concept living area with tall windows looking down on Main Street, two spacious bedrooms and a luxurious bathroom. Certainly, it had never seemed small—until Reid Davidson stepped inside. He wasn’t a man whose presence was in any way, shape or form subtle, and it was as if he filled every square inch of space with his potent masculinity.
Being near him had her hormones clamoring so loudly she could barely hear herself think. And while her mind was desperately trying to focus on certain facts that needed to be discussed, her body was stirring, aching, wanting.
She took the bottle of wine he offered, and as her fingertips brushed against his, she was suddenly reminded of the way those fingers had touched her—the bold confidence of his hands as they stroked over her body, taking her to heights of pleasure she’d never even imagined.
He’d changed out of his sheriff’s uniform and into a navy polo shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. The hem of the shirt was tucked into a pair of softly faded jeans that hugged his lean hips and strong thighs, as her legs had hugged those hips and thighs, their naked limbs tangled and their bodies moving together.
She set the bottle of wine on the counter and turned to dump the pasta in the pot of boiling water on the stove, hoping the steam would explain the sudden flush in her cheeks.
“Did you want wine or beer or something else?”
“I’d love a beer if you’ve got one handy,” he said.
She stirred the pasta, then moved to the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of Icky IPA. “Bottle or glass?” she asked as she pried off the cap.
“Bottle’s fine.”
Instead of taking the bottle she offered, he wrapped his hand around hers.
“What are you doing?” she asked warily.
“Trying to figure out why you invited me to dinner but haven’t made eye contact since I walked through the door.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I’m just trying to get dinner finished up.”
“Tell me what I can do to help,” he suggested.
Go back to Echo Ridge.
The response immediately sprang to mind, but of course, she couldn’t say the words aloud without then explaining why his sudden and unexpected appearance in Haven complicated her life.
Instead, she only said, “For starters, you could give me back my hand.”
He loosened his grip so that she could pull her hand away without dropping the bottle. “What else?”
She gestured to the living area. “Go sit down.”
“You don’t trust me to help?”
“There’s really nothing you can do,” she told him.
“Do you want me to open the wine?”
She shook her head. “I’m going to stick with water—I’ve got work to do tonight.” Which was true, if not the whole truth.
He took his beer and moved around to the other side of the island. But instead of retreating to the living area and relaxing on the sofa, he chose one of the stools at the counter.
“So what do you think of Haven so far?” she asked, resigned to making small talk for eight minutes while the pasta cooked.
“I like it,” he said. “It’s a little smaller than Echo Ridge, but there’s a strong sense of community here.”
“There is,” she confirmed, lowering the heat on the burner beneath the sauce. “Even when I was away at school, I knew I’d come back here after graduation.”
“Summa cum laude from UCLA Law.”
She frowned. “How’d you know that?”
“I met your grandmother,” he confided.
“How? When?”
“Last weekend. I was walking down Main Street, trying to get a feel for the town, and our paths crossed. We had coffee together.”
“You had coffee with my grandmother?”
He nodded. “She introduced me to Donna Bradley at The Daily Grind.”
“You had coffee with my grandmother,” she said again.
He studied her as he tipped his bottle to his lips, swallowed. “Why does that bother you?”
“It doesn’t bother me,” she denied. “But it’s a little weird.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s my grandmother and you’re...”
“The guy you had lots of naked sweaty sex with?”
“Okay, yes,” she allowed.
“I didn’t tell her about the naked sweaty sex,” he promised.
“Thank you for that,” she said drily.
He just grinned.
And that smile did strange things to her pulse...or maybe it was the heat from standing so close to the stove.
“But I haven’t stopped thinking about it—or you,” he continued. “I applied for the job before I met you, but you were definitely a factor in my decision to accept it.”
“We weren’t ever supposed to see one another again,” she reminded him of the agreement they’d made in Boulder City.
“And yet, you went to Echo Ridge last weekend.” The surprise must have shown on her face because he explained, “You left a message with Deputy Ryker.”
She nodded. “A friend of mine from law school lives in Texas. Since I was there, I thought I’d stop by to say hi.”
“Texas is a pretty big state.”
“Chloe lives just outside of Dallas, so a side-trip to Echo Ridge wasn’t really out of my way.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed. “I was kind of hoping you’d made the trip to see me.”
The timer on the stove buzzed, granting her a temporary reprieve from the increasingly awkward conversation.
“Dinner’s ready.”
* * *
There was something on her mind.
Something more than concern about the client who’d brought her into his office a few hours earlier. When Luke Ryker told him that she’d shown up at the Sheriff’s Office, he’d hoped it was memories of the nights they’d spent together that inspired Katelyn to track him down. But she certainly wasn’t giving the impression of a woman motivated by carnal desires.
And though she kept up her end of the conversation while they ate, her thoughts were obviously elsewhere.
“Is it convenient or tiresome to live above your office?” he asked, attempting to engage her attention.
Katelyn twirled her fork in her pasta. “It’s convenient,” she said. “Certainly a lot more convenient than driving twenty miles into town from the Circle G Ranch every day.”
He’d heard of the Circle G—reputedly the biggest and most prosperous cattle ranch in all of Haven County. It was also, if he remembered the story correctly, half of the property that was the original source of friction between the Gilmore and Blake families when they settled in the area more than one hundred and fifty years before.
According to local folklore, back in the spring of 1855, a developer sold a 100,000-acre parcel of land in Nevada to Everett Gilmore, a struggling farmer from Plattsmouth, Nebraska. The same developer also sold 100,000 acres to Samuel Blake, a down-on-his-luck businessman from Omaha. Both men subsequently packed up their families and their worldly possessions and headed west for a fresh start.
Everett Gilmore arrived first, and it was only when Samuel Blake showed up with his deed in hand that the two men realized they’d been sold the exact same parcel of land. Since both title deeds were stamped with the same date, there was no way of knowing who was the legitimate owner of the land. Distrustful of the local magistrate’s ability to resolve the situation to anyone’s satisfaction—and not wanting to publicly admit that they’d been duped—the two men agreed to share the property between them, using the natural divide of Eighteen-Mile Creek as the boundary between their lands.
Because the Gilmores had already started to build their home in the valley—on the west side of the creek—the Blakes were relegated to the higher elevation on the east, where the land was mostly comprised of rocky hills and ridges. The Gilmores’ cattle immediately benefitted from grazing on more hospitable terrain, while the Blakes struggled for a lot of years to keep their herd viable—until silver and gold were found in the hills on their side of the creek and they gave up ranching in favor of mining.
“Is there any truth to that story about the ancestors of the Gilmore and Blake families coming to Nevada to settle the same piece of land?” he asked her now.
“It’s all true,” she assured him. “The Gilmores still own the fifty thousand acres on the west side of the creek and the Blakes own the fifty thousand acres, including all the gold and silver, on the east.”
She put her fork down and picked up her glass of water. “You were going to tell me why Trent was given a court date and Aiden was locked up,” she reminded him.
“Because Trent was a passenger in the car that Aiden was driving.”
“Where’d they find the car?” she asked.
“Parked, with the key in the cup holder, in the driveway of the owner’s house on Mountainview Road.”
Katelyn shook her head. “Anyone who leaves, in plain view, the key to a fancy car deserves to have it stolen.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that.”
“How mad was Rebecca Blake when she realized her car had been taken?”
“Beyond mad,” he admitted. “And more than a little embarrassed, because she knew that she’d left the key in it.”
“She was at Elsie Hampton’s funeral—and she’s known Aiden since he was in diapers,” Katelyn told him. “As mad and embarrassed as she was, I’m a little surprised that she wanted to press charges.”
“It wasn’t her choice,” he said.
“You do know you’ll never get a conviction on grand larceny, don’t you? It would be a waste of time and resources to even take it to trial.”
“That’s an argument better saved for your discussions with the prosecutor,” he suggested.
“Maybe it’s different in Echo Ridge, but here the prosecutor doesn’t usually make decisions about the disposition of charges without first consulting the Sheriff’s Office.”
“I investigated the complaint of a stolen vehicle and made the appropriate arrests,” he said. “Now it’s up to your pal in the ADA’s office to decide what to do with the defendants.”
“Dustin Perry’s not my pal,” she told him.
“I saw the two of you chatting while waiting for the judge. He seemed...favorably inclined toward you.”
“You know, for a guy who was quick to point out that he’s not a lawyer, you sound an awful lot like one at times.”
He frowned. “Are you trying to spoil my appetite?”
She looked at his almost empty plate. “Not much chance of that.”
“What can I say? This is great pasta,” he said.
And it was. The red sauce had chunks of tomato, pepper and onion and was just a little bit spicy. But while he’d been mopping up sauce with a second slice of crusty bread, he noticed that she’d hardly touched her meal. She had her fork in hand and was pushing the pasta around on her plate, but she’d rarely lifted the utensil to her mouth.
“I didn’t make anything for dessert, but I do have ice cream,” she told him.
“What kind?”
She pushed her chair away from the table and went to open the freezer drawer below the refrigerator. Her appliances were all top of the line—as was everything else that he could see. Whoever had renovated the building had spared no expense in the dark walnut cupboards, natural granite countertops, marble tile and hardwood floors.
“Chocolate, chocolate ’n’ peanut butter or chocolate chip cookie dough,” she offered.
“Nothing with chocolate?” he asked drily.
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Do you have cones?”
“No, but I have waffle bowls,” she told him.
“Even better,” he decided.
“What kind do you want?”
“Cookie dough.”
She took the container out of the freezer and set it on the counter, then opened the cupboard and stood on her toes. “If they were more easily accessible, I’d indulge all the time,” she explained, as she stretched toward the top shelf.
“If you didn’t want to indulge, you wouldn’t buy them,” he commented, easily reaching over her head for the box.
She pulled open a drawer to retrieve an ice-cream scoop. “That’s just the kind of logic I’d expect from a man.”
He set the box on the corner, then lifted his hand to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertip slowly tracing the outer shell.
The scoop slipped from her grasp, bounced on the counter.
“I don’t remember you being skittish,” he said.
She swallowed. “I’m not usually.”
“So what has you strung so tight now?” he wondered aloud. “Are you worried that I’m going to make a move?” He stepped closer, so that she was trapped between the counter at her back and him at her front. “Or that I’m not?”
The pulse at the base of her jaw was racing, and her slightly parted lips—so tempting and soft—were mere inches from his own. Her gaze went to his mouth, lingered, as if she wanted his kiss as much as he wanted to kiss her.
Then she turned her head away and shifted to the left, sidestepping both him and his question.
“What’s going on, Katelyn?” he pressed, because it was obvious that something was.
She nibbled on her bottom lip as she pried the lid off the ice-cream container.
“Katelyn?” he prompted, ignoring the caution lights that were flashing in his head.
Finally, she looked at him, her big blue eyes filled with wariness and worry. “I’m pregnant.”
