Out of Eden
Jack cracked a smile, sampled more strudel. Shy licked his fingers. He couldn’t blame the dog. Hard to resist heaven.
“Just so you know,” Ziffel said, narrowing his eyes on Shy. “Dorothy is a neat freak.”
“Really.” Jack’s gaze flicked to his office.
“Chief Curtis’s office was off limits. Said he had his own system. Knew where everything was. If Dorothy shifted so much as a pencil, he had a conniption fit.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know Curtis’s system. Ms. Vine can shift all the pencils she wants, and while she’s at it, I could use help organizing files.”
“That she’ll like. That,” he said, pointing to Shy, “she won’t.”
Jack had only met Dorothy Vine briefly, but long enough to know she’d view Shy as a hairy, four-legged disruption. He looked down and met the mutt’s baleful brown eyes. Could she be any more needy? “Ms. Vine will have to deal. Shy’s destructive when I leave her home alone.” He refreshed his coffee and moved into the disaster zone.
Ziffel followed. “Separation anxiety. Saw a special about it on Animal Planet. Stems from fear of abandonment. Especially prevalent in rescued strays.”
Jack sat at his desk and opened that day’s edition of the Eden Tribune—the rural voice of Miami County. Although the paper included state news, it typically focused on feel-good articles, local sports and community events. Far and away from the bleak and stark reports of the New York Times, Daily News and the New York Post. There was something to be said for Americana newspapers, especially by someone suffering big-city burnout. This week the paper brimmed with stories and advertisements for Eden’s upcoming Apple Festival.
Jack skimmed the classifieds while Ziffel spouted the advantages of hiring a dog trainer. “I don’t need a trainer. I’m not keeping her.” No mention of a missing dog in the lost-and-found section. “Figured I’d walk her around town. See if anyone recognizes her.”
“Without a collar and leash?”
Jack glanced up. “We have a leash law I don’t know about?”
Ziffel sniffed. “No law. But what if she attacks someone?”
“Shy’s afraid of her own shadow.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t attack if provoked. Just because she’s meek… Where is she, anyway?” Ziffel turned, stiffened.
Jack saw what he saw—Shy with her nose in the red-and-white signature box marked Kerri’s Confections. Shit. “Don’t—”
“Hey, you thieving mutt!”
“—yell.” Jack was on his deputy’s heels. The sight of Shy crouched and trembling with apple goo and flaky crumbs on her snout made him smile.
Ziffel was not amused. “You…scrounge. You…menace!”
He gripped the man’s bony shoulder. “You can’t blame the dog for wanting to sample something that smells so good.”
“She not only ate all the strudel,” he complained, “she peed on the floor.”
“That’s because you yelled. Relax. I’ll clean it up.” Jack patted Shy’s bowed head, then swiped several tissues from Dorothy’s desk.
“The strudel—”
“I’ll buy more.”
“Probably sold out already.” He swiped up the damaged box. “Dang nabbit!”
Dang nabbit? What the hell? Cops cursed. Most of them crudely and often. At least in Jack’s experience. Then again, this was Eden—paradise in the heartland. An old-fashioned town with old-fashioned values.
While Ziffel cleaned up the pastry disaster, Jack made a mental note to clean up his language—when in Rome—although he refused to substitute dang for damn or fudge for fuck. Although, damn, fuck should probably go. This should be interesting. Amused, he flushed the soiled tissue, then washed his hands.
The roar of an engine drew them both to the station’s front window.
Jack noted the rider with a raised brow. Was that…Holy shit. It was. On the heels of surprise came a jolt of lust. Typically he wasn’t attracted to biker chicks, but this one was sexy as hell in her short skirt, denim jacket and…Christ…were those combat boots?
“Spenser would have a fit if he saw Kylie on that motorcycle,” Ziffel said.
Jack wrestled with his own misgivings. “Because it’s not a Harley? Or because it’s dangerous?”
“Both.”
He was right. Spenser wouldn’t approve. Mostly because of the safety issue. Motorcyclists were twenty times as likely to die in a crash than someone riding in a car.
Great.
Now Jack felt compelled to lecture Kylie on the perils of the road as well as home security.
At least she was wearing a helmet.
He watched as she parked the sleek silver motorcycle in front of Hank’s Hardware. Given her obsession with Asia, he wasn’t surprised she’d chosen Kawasaki. “That her regular mode of transportation?”
“Her car’s in the shop. Usually she drives a Honda Civic.”
“She has a sudden aversion to the usual.”
“A sudden aversion to modesty, too,” Ziffel noted. “Who rides a bike in a skirt? What was she thinking?”
About shaking things up.
Jack noted her tousled ponytail when she whipped off her helmet, the way the flared skirt kissed the back of her toned, creamy thighs. He wondered about the color of her panties—bright green like her socks?
Touch her and I’ll kick your ass.
“Are those army boots?” Ziffel asked.
“Something like.” He couldn’t make out details, but he made out splashes of color. Yellow, pink and blue on black. Definitely different. Hardly sexy, yet he had the mother of boners.
What the hell, Reynolds? Jerk off. Nail a loose woman. Do not approach the temptress.
Ziffel looked at his watch. “Nine-fifteen. McGraw’s Shoe Store always opens at nine prompt.”
“So?”
“Kylie always opens the store. Always. What do you think she’s up to?”
“Trouble.”
“Kylie McGraw?” Ziffel snorted. “That girl’s a pussycat.”
Jack believed otherwise. What’s your game, Tiger? “Keep an eye on Shy.”
“Where are you going?” Ziffel asked as he pushed through the door.
“Making a strudel run.”
“Good Lord,” he heard behind him. “What’s that smell?”
CHAPTER SIX
KYLIE WAS THREE STEPS from Hank’s Hardware when she caught a fragrant whiff of baked goods and java. She wasn’t a coffee drinker, but she’d read that caffeine tames headaches. Just her luck, her hangover had magnified on the bumpy ride into town. In lieu of more aspirin, she’d settle for a big honking cup of dark roast. She swiveled toward Kerri’s Confections…and saw Jack.
Just. Her. Luck.
She almost did a one-eighty—hang the coffee—but she couldn’t avoid the man forever. Best to get this over with. About last night…
Standing her ground, she smiled at the approaching lawman and cursed her skipping heart. She told herself she was reacting to his official appearance, not his hunky bad self. Just because she was over him, that didn’t mean she was blind to the pulse-tripping package. He looked more like a SWAT guy than Eden’s chief of police. The ball cap, the cargo pants and tactical running boots. The badge clipped to his taut waist.
S-e-x-y.
She thought about the previous night. Her botched seduction. Her second botched seduction. Her cheeks flamed. Not that he’d bring it up.
A gentleman even when you ached to be ravished.
Dang.
He stepped from the street onto the sidewalk. “Kylie.”
“Jack.”
His eyes were hidden behind a pair of cool cop sunglasses, but she sensed his amusement when he noted her funky but incredibly un-sexy boots. No doubt he preferred his women in strappy four-inch heels. Jack went for glamour girls. Stunning beauties with hourglass figures. Kylie wasn’t voluptuous or blond, but—thanks to yoga—she did have nice legs. Not that she wanted Jack to go for her. She was, after all, over him, and he’d be over Eden in a month, if not sooner. Pursuing an intimate relationship would only end in heartache. She mentally recited that affirmation three times as her traitorous heart raced.
He focused back on her face. “About that kiss…”
Oh, God. If he was compelled to address her drunken advance, then he felt he had to set her straight. You’re a sweet girl, but…
Kylie scrambled to preserve her dignity. “I’m so not attracted to you.”
He regarded her over the rims of his tinted glasses.
Her knees weakened at the sight of those river-blue eyes. Her stomach constricted as she thought she’d maybe, possibly insulted him. Normally she went out of her way not to hurt someone’s feelings. “Not that you’re not attractive. I mean you’re gorgeous. In a, you know, beefcake sort of way.”
He raised a brow.
“But I’m not the beefcake type,” she rambled on. “I mean, you’re not the type for me. That kiss was just…well, I was drunk and you were there.”
“So if Ashe…”
“Exactly,” she lied. “What can I say? I was pretty blitzed.”
“No argument there.”
Embarrassed and oddly provoked, she hitched the purse she’d just picked up at Boone’s higher on her shoulder and hiked her chin a notch. “I’m just saying you don’t have to worry about me stalking you or coming on to you, because I’m over you. Completely. That schoolgirl crush? History. So…there. We’re okay. Right?” She stuck out her hand, offering a truce, retaining her dignity. “Friends?”
He clasped her palm, stroked his thumb over her skin.
Heat shot up her arm and burned a path from her heart to her…Uh-oh.
He smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make her insides gooey. “Join me for a cup of coffee?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You were heading toward Kerri’s.”
“Yes, but…”
“Friends confide in each other.”
“Sure, but…”
“The beef you have with Spenser. Maybe I can help.”
Kylie stared, his words not registering as much as his touch. He was still holding her hand, still stroking her skin. She tingled everywhere. Eh-ver-ree-where. Even her hair tingled. How was that possible? How could she get zip from a kiss and zing from holding hands?
Then again, this morning she was sober.
This was bad. Not the sober part. The zing part.
Really, really bad.
Kylie jerked free. “Thanks, but…I’m late.” She spun back toward the hardware store.
“Thought you were heading for the café,” Jack said with a smile in his voice.
Was he teasing her? The thought occurred that he’d done that thumb-stroking thing on purpose, just to see if she really was cured of her schoolgirl crush. Curiosity? Arrogance? Although, it wasn’t like Jack to lead a girl on.
“I was,” she said over her shoulder, feigning an easy smile. “But now, thanks to our chat, I’m late. Meeting someone. Gotta run.” She intentionally left the identity of that someone to his imagination. Hopefully, he’d imagine a guy. Maybe even—eew—Ashe. She sure as heck didn’t want him thinking she was hopelessly single, which she was, but that wasn’t the point.
Flustered, Kylie rushed over the threshold of Hank’s Hardware and slammed into Faye.
“You’re twenty minutes late.”
“Sorry.” Kylie wanted to spew about the unnerving encounter with Jack, but she felt stupid. Just this morning, she’d sworn she was over him. Actually, she’d declared her undying love dead the day she’d learned he was getting married—much to Faye’s relief. Faye, who’d endured years of Kylie’s unrequited pining. Faye, who apparently had problems of her own. As soon as they had a private moment, she’d have to ask why she and Stan were on the outs.
“I left this at the bar last night,” Kylie said, flashing her purse and hoping it excused her delay. “Had to stop and pick it up.”
“You drove without a license? Are you nuts?” Faye snapped her fingers. “Ah, yes. The new you. The rebel rouser. What next? Picketing the Bixley? Expand or else?”
Again with the sarcasm. Kylie refused to take offense. If she stayed upbeat, maybe she could lighten her friend’s dark mood. “I could zoom my bike down Main Street topless,” she teased while glancing at the signs hanging above the aisles. “That would cause a stir.”
“Speeding. Indecent exposure.” Faye sighed and shook her head. “You’re determined to land in jail, aren’t you?”
Kylie snorted and moved toward aisle seven. “Jack wouldn’t arrest me. It would piss off Spenser.”
“Spenser’s half a world away.”
“Don’t remind me.” Kylie gestured to her flower-covered Doc Martens. “What do you think?”
“So that’s how you’re going to shake up Eden. Impractical footwear.”
“For a start.”
“Nice ensemble,” Faye said, gesturing to the rest of Kylie’s attire. “Sort of retro Madonna. Except…you rode your bike in a skirt?”
“Yep.”
“No tights or leggings?”
“I’m a little backed up on laundry.”
“Tell me you’re wearing shorts.”
“I’m wearing shorts.” Kylie stopped in the aisle stocked with paint supplies. “So about renovating McGraw’s…”
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this.”
“Believe it.” Kylie surveyed the shelves. Brushes, pads and rollers. Drop cloths. Sandpaper. Solvents and thinners. “I have no idea what to buy.”
“Don’t look at me,” Faye said. “The only thing I know how to paint is fingernails.”
“Ha.”
“I’m serious. I haven’t the slightest clue as to what you’ll need to paint the store. That’s what you have in mind, right? You’re going to make good on your threat? Pink walls, yellow trim? Spenser’s going to kill you.”
Kylie waggled her brows. “Spenser’s half a world away.”
“Can I help?”
“Hi, Travis.”
“Kylie.”
Travis Martin was a long-time employee of Hank’s Hardware. Tall. Fit. His huge puppy-dog eyes and fleshy lips softened his hard-angled face. His red hair clashed with his olive skin. His nose had a weird bump and dent. She’d asked him about that once. An old baseball injury, he’d told her. He also had a scar dissecting his left eyebrow. He wasn’t handsome, but he was attractive, even with the unflattering hair color. She didn’t know his ancestry. Irish-Italian? Spanish-German? She didn’t even know where he’d lived specifically before moving to Eden, although she’d heard through the grapevine Montana. Or was it Wyoming? She never could place the accent.
She did, however, know his shoe size.
Mostly he purchased his footwear at a nearby department store—shudder—but he occasionally shopped at McGraw’s. She wasn’t sure she’d call him a satisfied customer. Although she always sold him what he asked for, he always seemed apathetic. Then again, he was a man, and men didn’t generally fuss over shoes. Especially the practical, silent type.
She indicated his latest purchase. Insulated work boots—waterproof and rugged. Suitable for manual labor. “How are those holding up?”
“Good.”
“Because if you don’t like them—”
“Like ’em fine.”
“I have a new shipment of boots coming in.”
He noted her Doc Martens. “With flowers?” He quirked an excuse for a smile. “No, thanks.”
“We want to buy some paint,” Faye interrupted. “Maybe. If it’s not too expensive. Or too pink.”
Kylie rolled her eyes. “I’m going to redecorate McGraw’s Shoe Store. Inside and out.”
“Out?” Faye echoed.
“A total makeover. In addition to changing the color scheme, I want new shelves and lighting. I have pictures.” She dug in the pocket of her denim jacket and produced photos she’d printed from the Internet, plus pages she’d ripped from a shoe supply catalog. “I ordered some of this stuff online last night.”
Faye groaned. “In a drunken stupor? That’s not good.”
Kylie ignored her. “These shoe displays, these mirrors. And check out these prints I found on Art.com.”
“Interesting mix of abstract and art deco,” he said. “Nice.”
“Sure. If McGraw’s was in a cosmopolitan hotspot,” said Faye. “But it’s in Eden.”
“Please don’t mention cosmopolitans,” Kylie said, massaging the dull pulse at her temples. “Anyway,” she pressed on, “I was thinking about painting the walls this color with these accents. Maybe something similar for the exterior? And wall-to-wall carpet. I like this color. Or maybe this.”
Travis nodded. “Bold.”
Faye looked around his shoulder. “Disastrous.”
“I get what you’re going for,” he said.
“Yeah,” Faye said. “Spenser’s boot up her butt.”
Kylie smirked. “Ha.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Faye asked. “Spenser will have a cow. And what about your mom and grandma? What about tradition?”
“The only tradition I care about is Kabuki Theater and zongzi.”
“I’ll bite,” said Faye. “What’s zongzi?”
“A glutinous rice dumpling wrapped in bamboo leaves.”
“I take it back. I won’t bite. Sounds disgusting.”
“It’s the food of honor at the Dragon Boat Festival.”
“Still disgusting.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe it’s orgasmic. Not that I’ll ever know,” Kylie muttered. The way things were going, she’d never make it to Japan or China, let alone both. She’d be lucky if she ever made it across state lines. She glanced at Travis, who was still studying her photos. “Since you get what I’m going for, would you please box up everything I need?”
Travis raised a brow. “Everything?”
Kylie nodded.
Faye nudged her. “Don’t you think you should get an estimate?”
“If you’re talking an extensive renovation,” Travis said as he moved to his work station, “it could get expensive. Especially when you factor in labor.”
Kylie scrunched her nose. “Hadn’t thought about hiring help.”
“Don’t tell me you planned on handling everything yourself,” Faye asked.
“Not all by myself.”
Faye’s eyebrows rose to her bleached hairline. “Me? You expect me to help? I’m not good with simple home repairs, let alone an entire renovation.”
“You renovated the Orchard House.”
“I picked out colors and furniture. Stan renovated the building.” Faye blinked, smirked. “Oh. You expect me to rope Stan into helping.”
Kylie smiled. “Free shoes for the family for a year?”
“As tempting as that sounds…”
“In addition to some sort of cash fee, of course,” Kylie added. Maybe that’s why Stan and Faye were fighting. Money troubles. “I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of anyone, especially your husband. You guys are like family.”
“Stan won’t take money from you. Same reasoning. Family.”
“What about the shoes?”
“What about the B and B? We have a business to run and I can’t do it alone. Not with two kids in the mix. Besides, we’re knee-deep in our own spiffing-up. The Apple Festival is next week. Starting midweek we’re booked solid and…” Faye broke off and looked away.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“But—”
“Just when did you plan to start your renovations?” Faye asked, swinging the subject back around.
Kylie’s head spun. “Today.”
“Naturally.”
“I know it’ll be hard work,” Kylie babbled, flustered by Faye’s ongoing sarcasm, “but, I want to reopen McGraw’s on opening day of the festival. I ordered a special line of stock. Shoes that’ll appeal to the tourists and…” She flushed when she noted her friend gaping at her like a widemouthed bass. “You’re right. What was I thinking? I can’t expect you and Stan to…never mind.”
“We would if we could, Kylie.”
“I know. It’s okay. I didn’t think things through. Drunken stupor and all that. Obviously, I’m going to have to hire a crew or at least one very productive man.”
“I have an estimate,” Travis said.
Kylie and Faye moved to the counter. They looked at the figure Travis had scratched on a yellow pad. Kylie swallowed. “That much, huh?”
He slid her Internet printouts under her nose and picked up a pencil. “If you cut this and this—”
“Nope. Gotta have those.”
“What about these?” Faye said.
“I’ve had my eye on those for months. Spied them in InStep Magazine.”
“You could cut cost by renovating the interior only,” Travis said.
“Yeah,” Faye said. “It would save time, too. Also, Spenser would only be half as mad.”
It was the exact wrong thing to say. Kylie shook her head. “I want the whole sushi roll.” She nabbed the pencil from Travis and scribbled her own figure. “This is how much I have to spend on supplies and labor. Obviously, I need someone who’ll work cheap. And fast. Oh, and I’ll throw in free shoes.”
Travis looked at the figure.
Faye looked at the figure. She whistled. “You’re taking that out of the business account? Without Spenser’s approval?”
“No. I’m dipping into my personal account.”
“Dipping? It’ll wipe you out! What about your dream trip?”
“It’s just that, Faye. A dream. Sometimes you have to make lemonade out of lemons.” She shrugged. “Or in this case, cider out of apples.”
“I can’t believe you’re giving up,” Faye said. “You’ve worked so hard. Skimped and saved. Again. I can’t—” Her cell phone blared—ringtone of the month, Evanescence’s “Bring Me to Life.” “I have to take this,” she said after checking the screen. “Hi, Miss Miller.” Sting’s kindergarten teacher. “He did what? He…I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Hold on.” Faye gestured to Travis and Kylie she needed to move outside.
Kylie wondered what planet she’d been on when she’d thought about enlisting Faye and Stan’s help. They had full lives. A business. A family. A marriage. They didn’t have time to indulge her life crisis. Especially when they were, possibly, immersed in their own crisis. Except, if that were the case, why hadn’t Faye confided in her? Which brought Kylie back to her initial worry that Faye’s anger was actually directed at her, not Stan. But why?
Dang.
“What about me?”
Kylie blinked out of her musings and focused on Travis. Her temples throbbed as she processed. “You’re offering to help me renovate?”
“I am.”
“But you work full-time and I’m on a tight schedule.”
“I have vacation time coming.”
“Wouldn’t you rather spend that time somewhere else? Somewhere out of Eden?”
“I would, but I can’t.”
Hmm. Maybe he was strapped for funds. “You could relax—”
“I prefer to keep as busy as possible these days.”
Or maybe he didn’t want to travel alone. She suspected keeping busy kept his thoughts off of his deceased wife. Three months back, Mona Martin had succumbed to cancer. Travis had been devastated. He was still damned somber. How long did it take to get over a spouse’s death? She hoped to never know.
Kylie crossed her arms over her middle, trying to decide what to make of the man’s offer. She asked straight out. “Why would you want to do this?”
“To shake up my life?”
Had he been in the bar last night? Had he heard her rant?
“Maybe you miscalculated that figure I jotted. To be clear, I can’t pay you close to what you’d deserve for your time and effort.”
He almost, sort of, smiled. “Happy belated birthday.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AT 10:00 A.M., TRAVIS entered his boss’s office and put in for vacation time. If Hank had refused, he’d been ready to quit. But it didn’t come to that. The man felt sorry for him. Assumed he was still mourning Mona—which he was. Only this wasn’t about Mona. This was about two people stuck in a rut.
By 10:45 a.m., Travis had loaded several cans of paint and various other supplies into the bed of his truck. Hank didn’t carry the kind of lighting fixtures Kylie wanted. Not wanting to wait weeks for an order to come in, she’d been ready to settle for something more conservative. Travis didn’t want her to settle. He told her not to worry. He’d track down those contemporary fixtures or something damn close.
At 11:15 a.m., Travis pulled into his driveway. A burst of adrenaline made his hands shake. He’d broken his routine. He’d tempted fate. Again. He wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure how he felt about that. But this time he wouldn’t turn back.
He raided his work shed for a ladder and toolbox. He pulled a roll of canvas and a bin of paint brushes out of his attic. The whole time he’d been at work boxing up everything Kylie needed, he’d been mentally ticking off items he could bring from home. He’d try to save her what money he could. It bothered him that she’d given up on a dream. He knew all about giving up something important. It ate at your soul. It was too late to save his, but maybe he could save Kylie’s.