Every Little Kiss (3 page)

No jerks. No loose cannons. And definitely no heroes.

“It’s not a big deal. Nobody’s perfect,” he said, drawing her out of her unpleasant thoughts. Emma could see he really believed that platitude. He obviously hadn’t been in the Cove very long.

I’m supposed to be perfect. It’s all I’ve got. But that’s not something I’m going to stand here explaining to you.

“Hmm,” was the best reply she could manage. She wanted a shower. She wanted her coffee. . . . Well, maybe weak tea would be better this morning. What she really wanted was the Hot Arm of the Law here to clear out and pretend they’d never met. To his credit, he finally
seemed to get that. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, set Boof gently on the floor, and began to put on the shoes he’d set neatly beside her coffee table.

As she watched her cat flop onto his back and demand belly rubs as a plot to keep the cop’s attention, all sorts of questions occurred to her, most of which she wasn’t all that sure she wanted the answers to right now. But with a little effort, she finally remembered one important thing.

“Seth,” she said, and he looked up at her while he tied his shoe. “Your name is Seth. I’m sorry I don’t remember the rest of it.”

“It’s okay,” he said, flashing that killer smile again as he reached over to give Boof’s belly a quick rub. “You never really got the hang of it last night. Andersen. New guy in town. I know you’re Emma Henry, though.”

“Yeah,” she said, a silly smile curving her lips before she banished it. Totally inappropriate to be smiling at a guy you wanted out of your life ASAP. It would help if he didn’t seem like he was enjoying her company. And that had to be an act, because guys didn’t tend to enjoy her company even when she had her shit together. And that was always.

Make that
almost
always.

“Well,” she said as he finished tying his shoes and stood. She hated being at a loss for words, but she couldn’t blame Seth for it. This miserably awkward situation was all on her. With luck, this would be the end of it. “Thanks,” she said, “for, you know, everything. I appreciate the help.”
And let’s just pretend we’ve never met each other from here on out, okay?

“Not a problem,” he replied. He picked up his duty belt from the coffee table and put it on, then grabbed his keys. A small inscrutable smile crossed his lips before
Seth turned to go to the door. God knew what he was thinking.

Emma watched him walk away, hating herself a little for taking a second to admire the way his pants hugged one very nice butt. She had to stop herself from offering a more tangible form of thanks—dinner, a bottle of wine, something more than just a lame “see you around” for having put up with her at her most pathetic. But though her instinct toward politeness was strong, her sense of self-preservation was stronger. Seth was too interesting to see again. Even if she’d been looking for a guy, which she wasn’t, he was completely unsuitable. The sight of the badge on his chest and the gun at his hip just drove that home.

Still, manners dictated she follow him to the door, if for nothing more than to bid him a final farewell and provide a visual reminder that no, he wouldn’t ever want to go out with a woman capable of looking this bad.

“Bye,” Emma rasped. “Thanks again. I’ll make sure Aaron makes good on that dinner offer. You’ve earned it.”

He turned his head to look at her, and for a brief instant she thought he was going to do something terrible, like ask to see her again. Instead, he just said, “It was nice meeting you, Emma. Hope I’ll see you around.”

It was exactly what she’d wanted. And she felt a nasty slap of disappointment anyway as Seth gave her one last devastating smile and shut the door.

Emma looked down at Boof, who had come to rub against her leg.

“Aaron was right. I really am a hot mess,” she said.

In response, Boof gave an irritable meow and headed for the kitchen. His breakfast was late. And really, shouldn’t she and her cat both have more pressing
concerns than Officer Seth Andersen? She told herself that the answer was yes as she locked the door, then headed for the kitchen.

And she was still telling herself that as she pulled the curtains aside just enough to watch him get in his cruiser and drive away.

S
he was sitting quietly at her desk Monday morning, minding her own business, when the sense of impending doom that had been circling since the day before landed on Emma with a resounding thud. The thud, in this case, sounded a lot like the text alert on her cell phone. And the bearer of ultimate doom was her assistant, Brynn.

You might want to see this.—B.

No. No, she really did not. But Emma clicked the video Brynn had linked anyway, then watched silently as someone who looked a lot like her used every rusty skill remembered from childhood dance lessons to wow the crowd down at the Harvest Cove Tavern. Every wobbly pirouette, every random butt wiggle, had been captured for posterity in a shaky video some enterprising soul had taken on his or her phone.

Emma made a soft, pained sound. “The robot? I did the
robot
?”

Yes, she had. It was on YouTube. It was probably on Facebook.

It was bad.

And since the name BigPimpin372 could have belonged to any number of local jerks, she had no one to chase after to demand the video be taken down. . . . Though when she calmed down a little, she fully intended to try anyway. She just needed a minute. Maybe more than a minute.

Emma rubbed absently at the increasing ache in her right temple as the woman in the video threw herself into a chair, tossed her head back to pose dramatically, and upended a pitcher of beer onto herself to the cheers of the crowd. It was a serviceable
Flashdance
homage, she guessed.

“Well. Wow.”

Apparently her sister wasn’t the only one with a flair for the dramatic. Who knew?

Emma made it through the ending, a brief clip of herself singing Katy Perry’s “Firework” into a microphone that had been cut short because the cameraperson hadn’t seemed too steady on his feet at that point, either, and then started to read the YouTube comments before remembering that one should never, ever read the comments. Especially when they were about oneself. A glance at the time stamp told her that the video had been up since early yesterday, probably before whoever took it had fallen into bed. She carefully set her phone down on the desk.

“I have a nice singing voice,” she informed the empty shop. “So there’s that.”

After a few long minutes spent staring at the phone as though she could will it and its contents out of existence, Emma blinked rapidly and straightened. It was time to get back on track. She pulled up the proposal she’d been working on and typed a few words. When she realized they didn’t make much sense, she erased them, then
propped her chin on her hand to study the work she’d done so far. The words kept jumbling together, though, and there was a tightness in her chest she couldn’t seem to get rid of.

It had been a long time since she’d had this feeling, but it was one she never really forgot. If she wasn’t very careful, she was going to wind up with a full-blown panic attack.

Minutes went by, slipping into half an hour, then forty-five minutes. Emma tried to remember the techniques she’d once used to calm herself down, focusing on her breathing, the steady inhaling and exhaling. She found she could at least be grateful that it was a slow Monday, and that she had no appointments until early afternoon. Emma closed her eyes, visualizing a quiet meadow, a gentle breeze, solitude.

Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s okay.

The bell above the door tinkled, but the fact that she was no longer alone didn’t really register until her sister’s voice filled the quiet of the shop.

“Hey, it’s alive!”

Emma’s eyes flew open, startled, and the look on her face must have revealed everything. Sam hurried forward, bootheels clicking on the wood floor, concern etched across her lovely face.

“Jesus, Em, are you okay? You’re as white as a ghost! Did you eat today? Are you sick?”

“No, I’m fine! I was just—just resting!” Her hands flew up defensively, and Sam stopped just short of her, looking uncertain. Things were better between them, but there were still boundaries, old ones, that had yet to be crossed.

“Are you sure?”

Not really.
Part of her wanted to grab her sister and cry
on her shoulder until Sam’s pretty blue tunic was soggy with tears. The rest of her, however, the bigger part, would never allow that. Comforting her shouldn’t be Sam’s job. She could handle it herself. That was what she did, after all. Emma Henry, Woman of Steel. It wasn’t exactly a superpower, but it would do.

Emma collected herself as best she could, despite the uncomfortable squeeze of her rib cage around her lungs, and pretended everything was fine.

“I’m not dead yet, anyway,” Emma said, keeping her voice neutral and managing a thin smile. Not great, but better than looking terrified. “I’m just putting together a package with some options for the McKendricks.” She gestured at her computer screen. “This seems more like a sweet sixteen party than a baptism, but if they want to go big, who am I to judge?”

Sam hesitated, and Emma could see her debating whether to continue to press. Finally, though, Sam offered up a small mischievous smile. “There aren’t, like, ice sculptures involved, are there?”

Emma let out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding, and when she smiled again, it was warmer. “Not this time, no. But you’d be amazed at some of the things I’ve had to set up.”

“This is why I couldn’t do what you do. You have to keep a straight face,” Sam said, moving to perch on the edge of the desk. It was a not so subtle way to make sure her sister couldn’t dismiss her easily, Emma knew. An effective one, too. Despite all the years they’d orbited each other only distantly, they understood each other well.

Sam had come to check on her for a reason. There would be no avoiding the conversation.

“It’s easier to keep a straight face when getting paid
depends on it. Trust me,” Emma said. When Sam simply sat there, looking at her expectantly, Emma folded her hands and tried to steel herself for what was coming. “Look, I have kind of a lot going on today, so . . .” She drew the word out, letting it hang in the air like a question. Sam gave her a look that clearly indicated doubts about her sanity.

“Really? That’s it?”

“
What’s
it? I’m not trying to run you off, Sam, I’m just busy.” She tried to keep the edge out of her voice—the one she knew very well had crept in over the years. Her tough shell had been the price of staying in the Cove, with all its baggage and memories. Sam understood some of it . . . better than anyone else in her life. But her little sister had gotten to run away, and had stayed gone for nine years before coming back last fall. Emma had gone to college, but she’d gone only as far as Boston. She’d never really left. She hadn’t felt she could.

Whether the benefits outweighed the drawbacks was an open question, since the answer changed daily.

“Yes, you are trying to run me off,” Sam said, tucking a lock of pale blond hair behind her ear. “And you know very well what
it
is.” The cheerful veneer fell away again. “When I walked in, I wasn’t sure whether you were going to throw a knife at me or keel over. I know how you are, Em. Seriously, are you okay?”

Emma organized a stack of papers into an even neater stack of papers. “You mean about my local film debut? Not my best work, but I’ll live.”

Sam sighed, with an expression that said she wasn’t buying it. Not that Emma had expected anything different. “It’s just a stupid little video,” Sam said.

“You saw it, I guess?”

“Yes. It was better live.”

Emma sighed. “I doubt that.”

“Okay, so it’s three and a half ridiculous, kind of funny minutes that could have been a lot worse,” Sam said. “Most people aren’t making a big deal about it. I hope you know that.”

Emma looked back at her blandly. “Uh-huh. ‘Most people’ meaning your friends, who definitely aren’t everybody.” She tapped one French manicured fingernail on her desk. “Look, I know it’s making the rounds, Sam, and I know it’s an even bigger laugh because everyone thinks I have the world’s biggest stick lodged up my ass. So they can have their fun with it, and I’ll ignore it until it goes away. End of story. You don’t need to worry.”

Sam looked surprised by her blunt assessment, and Emma took some pride in that. She’d worked hard at not showing much emotion over the years, and her work had paid off. How she felt underneath her reserve was a completely different matter, but she’d deal with that later. Alone.

“Well,” Sam finally said, “I wanted to tell you that nobody who
matters
cares. And that the jerk who put it up in the first place already took it down.”

That news brought a measure of relief she couldn’t hide completely, strong enough to make her feel slightly light-headed. “Oh? How do you know that?”

“Jake saw Melody Northrup maybe half an hour ago. Her dog, Otis, had a limp she wanted looked at. And while she was there, Jake got an earful about her freeloading son and his online activities, which she wanted to apologize for. He called me right away.”

“And you came right here.”
Northrup
. Emma closed her eyes briefly, summoning the image of a guy right around twenty-one years old, snapback hat over stylishly scruffy hair, ironic T-shirt, cute in a douche-y sort of way.
For all that her memories were fuzzy, she remembered him. He’d been trying to grind on her before she’d told him to get lost in more colorful terms than she would normally use.

“Of course I came right here. Like I said before, I know you.” Sam frowned, her blue-green eyes full of worry.

“Melody is BigPimpin372’s mom, I take it. What’s his name? Josh?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Josh Northrup. Jake says he’s a total failure-to-launch. She went in to make his bed today once he rolled out of it, and he’d forgotten to log out of his account on his laptop. Luckily he’s still afraid of his mom.”

“I know Melody a little. He should be,” Emma said, knowing the wave of relief she felt was an overreaction. That stupid video had been up all day yesterday, and from her small sampling of the many comments on it, the damage was done. Not to mention that she’d had quite a live audience to begin with—on Saturday nights in the Cove, the Tavern was the place to be. Still, at least the video was gone, even if the gossip wouldn’t be.

“Good,” she breathed. “That’s good.” The invisible bands around her chest loosened a little with the knowledge that no matter what anyone said, the evidence of her public display of ridiculousness was gone. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

And this, all of this, was a distraction she didn’t need. As if yesterday morning hadn’t been enough to throw her off. Seth’s name surfaced in her thoughts just in time for her to try to stomp it back down.

“Thanks,” she said to Sam, who was still watching her with that concerned look on her face, like she might spontaneously combust at any second. “Tell Jake thanks,
too,” Emma added. “I’m glad it’s gone, and I’m glad you told me.”

“Well, you’re welcome. I’m glad I made you feel better.”

“It’s not going to be better for a while yet. Ask me how I feel in a month or two.” When Sam’s brows went up, Emma relented a little. “Yes, you made me feel better. I appreciate it.”

Sam’s bright smile was a reward in itself, but as much as Emma would have liked that to be the end of this particular visit, her sister stayed put. It wasn’t hard to guess why. Emma bit the inside of her lip and mentally girded herself to run the rest of this gauntlet. The people who’d once tormented her sister as a quiet misfit had never seen this side of Sam—the stubborn, nosy side that came complete with the slightly bent sense of humor all the Henrys shared.

It was good to have Sam back—better than Emma had imagined—but today, she would have preferred to brood silently over endless cups of coffee. Finally, she gave in.

“What?”

“The hot cop? I brought you good news. Can’t you toss me a scrap of information? Anything?”

“I don’t think Jake will be happy if I give you his number.”

Sam swatted her arm. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “You want scraps? Fine. They’re all I’ve got. For whatever reason, Seth decided to keep watch over my sorry, drunken butt until I sobered up. Apparently he’s a nice guy. I wouldn’t know much more than that, because I have no intention of seeing or speaking with him again unless I try to one-up myself and actually get arrested for public intoxication someday.” She shuffled a few papers around on her desk. “It’s nowhere near as interesting as people are saying.”

“How do you know what people are saying? You’re a mole person.”

“I can guess.” She looked away, her voice dropping when she muttered, “And I read the YouTube comments.”

Sam winced. “Why? Why would you do that? Comments sections are the cesspits of the Internet!”

“You would have read them, too,” Emma pointed out. “People think I used my feminine voodoo powers to have hot monkey sex with the cop who broke up your bachelorette party.”

Sam looked less disgusted than intrigued. “So . . . did you?”

Emma’s mouth dropped open. “No!”

“Oh, don’t get all huffy that I might have wanted it to be a little bit true.”

Emma felt her mouth twisting as her brows drew together. “Why would you say that? What kind of a sister actually wishes things like drunk sex with random cops on her loved ones?”

Sam’s laughter soothed away a little of her annoyance, but not all.

“You make it sound so sordid, God! I’m supposed to be the dramatic one, remember? I want more fun in your life, is all. If that involves eighties music and sexy men in uniform for you, I’m not going to judge.”

“Yeah, well, you’d be the only one,” Emma grumbled, typing in the name of one of the venues she was suggesting to the McKendricks. As far as she was concerned, this conversation was over. Sam, though, was going to take a little more convincing.

“So . . . no sexytime at all?” The hope in Sam’s voice was a direct blow to Emma’s pride. Was she really that boring?

Did she really want the answer to that?

“He fell asleep on my couch,” Emma said flatly. “Which I expect Aaron told you already.”