The Cop, the Puppy and Me. Cara Colter
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sputtered indignantly.
He actually seemed to consider that for a moment, though his deeply weary sigh was not exactly encouraging.
“Okay,” he said after a moment, those dark eyes shielded, unreadable. “Spit it out.”
Spit it out? As an invitation to communication, it was somewhat lacking. On the other hand, at least he wasn’t walking away. Yet. But his body language indicated the thread that held him here, in her yard, was thin.
“The rescue of the dog was incredible. So courageous.”
He failed to look flattered, seemed to be leaning a little more toward the exit, so she rushed on. “I’ve seen it on the internet.”
His expression darkened even more—if that was possible—so she didn’t add that she had watched it more than a dozen times, feeling foolishly compelled to watch it again and again for reasons she didn’t quite understand.
But she did understand that she was not the only one. The video had captured hearts around the world. As she saw it, the fact he was standing in her yard meant that she had an opportunity to capitalize on that magic ingredient that was drawing people by the thousands to that video.
“I know you haven’t been in Kettle Bend very long,” Sarah continued. “Didn’t you know how cold that water was going to be?”
“If I had known how cold that water was going to be, I would have never jumped in.”
That was the kind of answer that wouldn’t work at all in the event she could talk him into being a participant in her plan to use his newfound notoriety to publicize the town.
Though that possibility seemed more unlikely by the second.
At least he was talking, and not walking.
“You must love dogs,” she said, trying, with growing desperation, to find a chink in all that armor.
He didn’t answer her, though his chest filled as he drew in a long breath. He ran an impatient hand through the thick, crisp silk of his dark hair.
“What do you want from me?”
Her eyes followed the movement of his hand through his hair, and for a moment the sensation of what she really wanted from him nearly swamped her.
Sarah shook it off, an unwanted weakness.
“Your fifteen minutes of fame could be very beneficial to this town,” she said, trying, valiantly, and not entirely successfully, not to wonder how his hair would feel beneath her fingertips.
“Whether I like it or not,” he commented dryly.
“What’s not to like? A few interviews with carefully chosen sources. It would take just the smallest amount of your time,” she pressed persuasively.
His look of impatience deepened, and now annoyance layered on top of it. Really, such a sour expression should have made him much less good-looking!
But it didn’t.
Still, she tried to focus on the fact that he was still standing here, giving her a chance. Once she explained it all to him, he couldn’t help but get on board!
“Do you know what Summer Fest is?” she asked him.
“No. But it sounds perfectly nauseating.”
She felt her confidence falter and covered it by glaring at him. Sarah decided cynical was just his default reaction. Who could possibly have anything against summer? Or a festival?
Sarah plunged ahead. “It’s a festival for the first four days of July. It starts with a parade and ends with the Fourth of July fireworks. It used to kick off the summer season here in Kettle Bend. It used to set the tone for the whole summer.”
She waited for him to ask what had happened, but he only looked bored, raising an eyebrow at her.
“It was canceled, five years ago. The cancellation has been just one more thing that has contributed to Kettle Bend fading away, losing its vibrancy, like a favorite old couch that needs recovering. It’s not the same place I used to visit as a child.”
“Visit?” It rattled her that he seemed not to be showing the slightest interest in a single word she said, but he picked up on that immediately. “So you’re not a local, either?”
Either. A bond between them. Play it.
“No, I grew up in New York. But my mother was from here, originally. I used to spend summers. And where are you from? What brings you to Kettle Bend?”
“Momentary insanity,” he muttered.
He certainly wasn’t giving anything away, but he wasn’t walking away, either, so Sarah prattled on, trying to engage him. “This is my grandmother’s house. She left it to me when she died. Along with her jam business. Jelly Jeans and Jammies. You might have heard of it. It’s very popular around town.”
Sarah was not sure she had engaged him. His expression was impossible to read. She had felt encouraged that he showed a slight interest in her. Now, she was suspicious. Sullivan was one of those men who found out things about people, all the while revealing nothing of himself.
“Look, Miss McDougall—”
She noticed he did not use her first name, and knew, despite that brief show of interest, he was keeping his distance from her in every way he could.
“—not that any of this has anything to do with me, but nothing feels or looks the same to an adult as it does to a child.”
How had he managed, in a single line, to make her feel hopelessly naive, as if she was chasing something that didn’t exist?
What if he was right?
Damn him. That’s what these brimming-with-confidence-and-cynicism men did. Made everyone doubt themselves. Their hopes and dreams.
Well, she wasn’t giving her hopes and dreams into the care of another man. Michael Talbot had already taught her that lesson, thank you very much.
When she’d first heard the rumor about Mike, her fiancé and editor in chief of Today’s Baby, and a flirty little freelancer named Trina, Sarah had refused to believe it. But then she had seen them together in a café, something too cozy about the way they were leaning into each other to confirm what she wanted to believe, that Mike and Trina’s relationship was strictly business.
Her dreams of a nice little house, filled with babies of her own, had been dashed in a flash.
No accusation, just, I saw you and Trina today.
The look of shame that had crossed Mike’s face had said it all, without him saying a single word.
Now, Sarah had a replacement dream, so much safer. A town to revitalize.
“Yes, it does have something to do with you!”
“I don’t see how.”
“Because I’ve been put in charge of Summer Fest. I’ve been given one chance to bring it back, to prove how good it is for this town,” she explained.
“Good luck with that.”
“I’ve got no budget for promotion. But I bet your phone has been ringing off the hook since the clip of the rescue was shown on the national evening news.” She read the answer in his face. “The A.M. Show, Good Night, America, The Way We See It, Morning Chat with Barb—they’re all calling you, aren’t they?”
His arms had now folded across the immenseness of his chest, and he was rocking back on his heels, watching her with narrowed eyes.
“They’re begging you for a follow-up,” she guessed. She wasn’t the only one who had been able to see that this man and that dog would make good television.
“You’ll be happy