Trudy, Madly, Deeply (Working Stiffs Mystery Series) (28 page)

His gaze softened like a block of chocolate over a flame. Since I was a sucker for chocolate fondue, I felt my resolve melting and that scared the hell out of me.

“It’s crossing the line.” And I desperately needed him to stay on his side if I was going to have a prayer of staying on mine.

“Are you done?” he asked.

I sucked in a shaky breath. “No.”

“Too bad.” He hooked his finger under the strap of my tank and pulled me close. His lips touched mine, feather-light, testing.

My brain screamed at me.
Mistake!

He tried to deepen the kiss, but I pressed a palm to his chest to put some distance between us before I combusted. “What the hell are you doing?”

Steve raked his fingers through his hair. “Char—”

“You’re one of my best friends, and you’re screwing with my head when I haven’t had any sleep! I don’t want to sound whiny,” and I knew that’s exactly how I sounded, “but that’s really unfair.”

He blew out a wine-scented breath. “Right. We should continue this conversation after you’ve had some sleep.”

Huh? The talking part or the other stuff? I felt like I’d been caught up in a whirlwind and my brain couldn’t keep pace. All I knew was that chocolate fondue couldn’t be on my diet.

He slipped his arm around my shoulder and led me to my car. “Let’s get you home.”

He held the driver’s side door open for me as I slid behind the wheel. “I’ll follow you.”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “That’s really not necessary,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Thanks to you I barely touched that second drink, so you don’t have to see me home.”

“Yeah, I sort of do. I live there.”

* * *

After tossing and turning half the night, I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay, put on my denim jacket over my nightshirt and went out the front door to sit on the porch swing. While I stared across the street at Steve’s house as a cool breeze fluttered over me, a dog barked in the distance. At least I wasn’t the only one awake in the neighborhood.

I heard the front door open and looked back to see my mother, barefoot and wearing one of my hooded sweatshirts over her satin negligee.

As if echoing my thoughts, the porch swing squealed in protest when she sat down next to me. “Can’t sleep?”

I shook my head. “Too many things to think about.”

She reached for my wineglass. “Me too.” She took a sip and handed the glass back to me—the second time tonight someone had cut into my alcohol consumption. “How’s Peggy?”

“She went home, so she’s probably doing fine.” And sleeping contentedly, unlike the two of us.

My mother nodded. “Our mission was accomplished then.”

“Right.”

Nothing was accomplished other than me discovering where Dr. Straitham’s alibi came from. The rest of the
mission
had been a complete waste of time, like most everything I’d done the past week.

The porch swing squeaked as we swayed back and forth and shared the wine.

“What did you do tonight?” she asked.

“Nothing much.” Had a fight with Steve, then kissed and sort of made up. “How ‘bout you? How was dinner?”

“Fine.” Hugging her legs to her chest, she huddled next to me for several silent seconds like Gram’s tabby cat, only without the flicking tail to torment me. “Barry wants to get married.”

“What? You’ve known him for less than two weeks.”

“Actually, we met when you were in high school.”

“So you saw him once for five minutes! That doesn’t count.”

Marietta sniffed. “Well, if you’re gonna split hairs, I also bumped into him at your graduation.”

“Okay, ten minutes. Mother, this is crazy. You just got divorced.”

“I know.”

“You don’t need to get involved with anyone right now.”

“I know.”

“He’s a nice guy and he’s screwing with you.” Just like Steve was screwing with me, making me second guess everything I thought I knew to be true.

She heaved a sigh. “Yes, he is, and he’s good at it too.”

Okay, maybe not screwing with her in exactly the same way.

Marietta took the wineglass from my hand and drained it. “I think I’m going to need more of this stuff if I’m going to get any sleep tonight.”

I pushed off the porch swing. “I’ll get the bottle.”

* * *

Six hours later, Gram walked into the kitchen with Steve while I stood at the counter, whipping the vanilla buttercream frosting for her birthday cake.

Steve and I locked gazes, and he shot me an easy smile. Other than the fact that I felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room, it was as if last night had never happened.

“Help yourself to coffee, Stevie,” Gram said.

“Thanks.” He handed her a sparkly, rainbow-striped gift bag. “Happy birthday, Eleanor.”

Gram beamed. “Should I open it now, or wait until later?”

“I’d open it now,” he said, giving my ponytail a tug on his way to the coffeepot.

What the hell? Were we just buddies again?

Gram squealed with delight at the Port Merritt Police Department cap and coffee mug he’d given her. While she smashed down her peach gelato curls with the cap, Steve grabbed a ceramic cup and filled it from the second pot of French roast I’d brewed that morning.

“I feel like I need to eat a doughnut!” Gram announced, the apples of her cheeks glowing. “Then, maybe later, arrest somebody.”

“If I were you, I’d start by rousting the vagrant you’ve got sleeping on the front porch,” Steve said, stirring some milk into his coffee.

Gram blinked. “What vagrant?”

“Mom’s out on the porch swing,” I said.

“For pity’s sake!” Gram rushed to the front door. “What’s she doing out there?”

Last I looked she was snoring.

Setting his coffee down, Steve leaned against the counter and dipped a finger into the bowl of frosting. “I didn’t have any time to do real shopping,” he said apologetically.

I couldn’t look at him. “She’s happy.”

He licked the buttercream from his finger. “Mmm, it’s good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I muttered, spreading frosting over the first layer of Gram’s cake. “I can do some things well.”

“I never said you couldn’t.”

“Right. You only insinuated.”

“What’s your problem?”

I glared at him. Aside from having a wine hangover, my former biology teacher as a potential daddy, and a murderer on the loose, I was looking at it. “Absolutely nothing. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Sure.”

He brushed my cheek with the pad of his thumb and I stiffened.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my face aflame like he’d just flipped the
on
switch of my schoolgirl crush. Again.

“Relax. It was just a little bit of flour.” The laugh lines etched at the corners of his eyes deepened as his gaze swept my face. Unfortunately, I didn’t have an ounce of makeup on.

When Steve reached for his coffee cup, I turned my focus back to the birthday cake. “Have a seat,” I said, trying to exercise some self-control instead of staring at the lips that had kissed mine last night. “Unless you need to get going.” Which would really help in the self-control department.

“I’m in no hurry. And I’d like to finish my coffee first.”

If he cared about me at all, he needed to drink faster.

The front door clicked shut. I hoped that meant I’d have the birthday girl back in the kitchen to divert Steve’s attention. Instead, seconds later, I heard the water running. No doubt that was Gram’s doing since we both knew it was Marietta’s cure for a hangover—a long hot bath, preferably with a bloody Mary.

My body ached to disappear in a bath. The bloody Mary, not so much. Although after a couple of those I might not care about Steve seeing me without my makeup.

Steve dipped his finger back into the frosting, and I lost my capacity to breathe as I watched him lick it off. Dammit.

“Why are you over here so early?” Eating my buttercream, seeing me at my worst, and making me crazy.

“I wanted to give your grandmother her present and see if you needed anything for later. More wine maybe?”

That meant he saw the empty bottle by the porch swing. Always the cop, always observing, and yet so clueless about what he was doing to my libido.

“I’m heading to football practice, but I can swing by a store on the way back.”

“Sure, another bottle of Chardonnay or whatever you want,” I said, spreading frosting with a shaky hand. “Say hi to Heather.”

He took a deep breath. I didn’t have to look at him to sense the slow burn in how he released it. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ll be seeing her at practice, right?”

“Probably.”

“Seems like the friendly thing to say then.”

He tilted my chin, forcing me to face him, but the intensity of his dark eyes overloaded my senses, and I stared down at the ribbed collar of his faded Police Academy T-shirt.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

Reluctantly, I dropped the spatula into the mixing bowl and gazed up at him.

“I’m not back together with Heather. I’m not seeing her other than at her son’s football practices. We’re just friends.” He waited, giving me an open invitation to search his face. “Did any of that register as the truth?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice mainly breath. He hadn’t lied. But we were just friends, too. At least that’s what I’d thought until he kissed me stupid last night.

“Good, because the kid is having a hard time since his dad walked out of his life. Heather, too. Even sought some professional advice about it.”

That explained the appointment with the psychologist. I cringed at the memory of following her, of intruding on someone’s pain. Even if it was Heather.

He gripped me by the shoulders. “So, are you done being a jackass about this?”

I pushed him away. “How am I supposed to answer that? If I say yes, I’m a jackass!”

His lips curled into a killer smile as he dipped the tip of his index finger into the frosting and held it in front of my nose. “Say yes, Chow Mein.”

I knew that look. I’d seen it last night. My breath caught in my throat. “What are you doing?”

“Trust me,” he said, lightly touching the frosting to my lips.

Feeling like I might start sizzling on the spot, I licked off the dab of buttercream. “This is crazy. We’re friends. I can’t—”

“Why?”

“Because … this … this will change everything.”

“I know.” He leaned closer, tempting me with more frosting. “About time, don’t you think?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Say yes, dammit.”

Yes.

Closing my eyes, I sucked the buttercream from his fingertip, savoring the sensuous explosion of sweet vanilla and the slightly rough texture of his skin that made the sizzle at my core flare like a grease fire. Just when I thought my hair might burst into flames, he pressed his lips against mine, seeking, tentatively tasting, cranking my blood pressure to the boiling point.

Danger signs flashed in my head.
You’re just friends. You’re not his type. You don’t have any makeup on!

Steve cupped my face and deepened the kiss, consuming me and my capacity for rational thought. Wrapping my arms around him, I relished the taste of him, a yummy blend of buttercream, coffee, and … Steve.

I heard the water turn off upstairs, and since that meant that my grandmother could walk in on us at any moment, that put a fizzle in my sizzle and I broke off the kiss. “Okay. Yes! But you’re one of my best friends.”

“There’s no reason that has to change.” He glanced down at the telltale bulge in his jeans. “Well, maybe some things might change.”

“You sound like you want dessert and you haven’t even asked me to dinner yet.”

He grinned. “Would you like to have dinner later?”

“You’re already coming here for dinner.”

“Then, how about a late night supper at my place?”

“And compare notes about the case?”

He tucked back a lock of hair that had fallen loose from my ponytail. “No shop talk during dates, Deputy.”

I sighed, but the thirteen-year-old girl inside me was giddy to hear him call this supper a
date
. “Dang.”

“When I stop at the store, I’ll grab an extra bottle of wine.”

I heard Gram’s footfalls on the stairs. Stepping out of Steve’s reach, I picked up the package of chocolate chips I’d set out to make a ganache glaze. “I’ll bring dessert.” Chocolate ganache fondue came to mind.

His gaze darkened. “Chow Mein, you’ll be the dessert.”

* * *

By five o’clock, my mother and I had platters of shrimp, potato salad, and bowtie pasta with artichoke hearts neatly laid out on Gram’s dining room table. Once Lucille arrived with her scalloped potato casserole, it looked like we were setting the stage for another funeral reception, so for Alice’s sake, I placed the birthday cake in the middle of the table and shoved Lucille’s casserole into the oven to keep it warm and out of sight.

Since I knew Duke would be bringing chili, I’d baked cornbread, and Steve put a case of beer into a bucket of ice.

Barry had fired up the charcoal briquettes and had a dozen seasoned beef patties and shish kabob skewers at the ready, awaiting the arrival of Duke and Alice—the only guests on Marietta’s invitation list who had yet to make an appearance.

By five-fifteen, Gram and I were exchanging nervous glances when I called Duke and Alice’s home phone number and there was no answer.

“Duke has never been late a day in his life,” Gram said, perched on the edge of a kitchen chair.

I leaned against the tile counter. “Maybe there was a problem at the cafe and they’re on the way.”

Lucille scowled at me from the dining room. “All this food is going to spoil if we don’t eat soon.”

She was just hungry. We all were.

I met Gram’s gaze. “The briquettes are ready. It’s your birthday. What do you want to do?”

With worry lining her brow she blew out a sigh. “Let’s fire up the burgers and maybe they’ll get here by the time they’re done.”

Almost an hour later, Steve kept me company in the kitchen while I ground the beans for coffee to serve with the black and white fudge cake I’d baked for Gram’s birthday.

I reached for a paper filter and felt his eyes tracking me.