A Cop's Honor. Emilie Rose
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intimacy.
His attention shifted behind her—to her bedroom. It lingered, scanned. Lightning flashed, illuminating her bed and the half-dozen throw pillows that hadn’t been there when he’d last slept in that same bed. Lord, she didn’t need to think about him between those same sheets.
Then his gaze swung back to her. The flickering light picked out the golden flecks in his irises. She felt vulnerable even though he couldn’t possibly know that her obsession with pillows was because she couldn’t bear to sleep in an empty bed.
He lifted his arm, the one holding the light. Her breath caught. An image of Brandon propped against her headboard flashed in her mind. Only in this picture his chest was bare and his legs were beneath the covers. Heat rushed through her.
The atmosphere changed, becoming as electrically charged as the storm raging outside. Her heart pounded harder, but it was barely audible over the thunder rumbling the house.
“After you,” he said.
What was wrong with her? He was indicating the stairs, not the bedroom. She blamed her unwelcome thoughts on her conversation with Lucy. She did not want Brandon. Not in that way. She had to get him out of her house. She turned and quickly descended the stairs. On silent feet he followed her, the edge of his circle of light nipping at her heels. In the foyer he set the lamp on the console table and stepped into his work boots.
“So you’ve read bedtime stories before,” she said to break the awkwardly intimate silence.
“I read to the twins sometimes when they stay with my folks to give Mom a break. And, once in a while, I get suckered into reading at the library on Cops and Kids day.”
She’d like to see that. No! She wouldn’t. “Why aren’t you married with children of your own by now, Brandon?”
He finished tying his laces then straightened, looming over her in the murky light. The corners of his mouth curved downward. “Two reasons. My job—you, more than anyone, know the risks that entails—and my dad.”
Yes, she knew the dangers of police work. And she needed to remember them. Right now. “What does your father have to do with anything?”
“He has Parkinson’s disease. It’s not believed to be hereditary, but the doctors can’t be certain of the cause. One day he’ll need ’round the clock care for his most basic needs. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
She was familiar with the disease and had worked with several afflicted patients in the past. “What stage is he in now?”
“Stage two. He’s still mostly independent, but he’s starting to need help. Not that he’s willing to admit that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is what it is. You play the hand you’re dealt. You’ve done a good job of that, Hannah. Mason and Belle are great kids.”
The praise, something she heard so rarely, choked her up, made her eyes burn. But she would not cry in front of Brandon. “I wish Rick was here to see them.”
Brandon’s flinch stabbed her with guilt. She hadn’t intentionally used the spiteful barb to push him away, but distance between them was for the best. When she’d seen him so comfortable with Mason and then again with Belle he’d made her ache for something she would never have again. A partner, someone with whom she could share the joys and burdens of parenthood.
That wind-down period at the end of the day when you rehashed what had happened and planned for the future was tough. That was when loneliness enveloped her. And, yes, as much as she’d tried to deny it, she did miss intimacy. But taking a lover as casually as Lucy did just wasn’t part of her makeup.
Brandon’s lips compressed. “Make your project list, Hannah. I’ll be back. And we’ll get to the bottom of what’s troubling Mason.”
BRANDON THREW DOWN his pen in disgust late Friday afternoon, pushed back from his desk and stabbed his fingers through his hair. He had shit for brains today. He’d tried repeatedly to focus on the case files on his desk, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t wipe what he’d seen Wednesday night from his mind.
For a split second while standing on the landing outside Hannah’s bedroom something hotter than the hurricane lamp’s flame had flickered in Hannah’s eyes. Want. Need. Hunger. And for the span of a dozen racing heartbeats, he’d been tempted to give her what she desired. Because he’d wanted it, too. Then he’d come to his senses. He’d tried blaming the heat in her eyes on the reflection of the lamp’s fire. But he wasn’t buying it.
Circumstances were throwing them together and causing the craziness. It had been five years and she didn’t date. That meant she didn’t have sex. She needed a man. Any man. Except him—the man she blamed for her husband’s death. It didn’t matter that she needed his help with Mason right now, a basic distrust—because he’d let her down, because he’d let Rick down—lay just below the surface.
His dry spell hadn’t been nearly as long as hers, but it had obviously been too long if he was looking at Rick’s wife that way. He needed to rectify the situation. He reached for his phone but didn’t pick it up. He had no interest in dialing any of the numbers in his contact list, and he wasn’t interested in a casual pickup.
As if his thoughts had activated the device, his cell phone vibrated on the desk. He glanced at the screen. He had a text message from his mother.
Hello, dear. Jessamine and Logan are flying into town for the weekend. We’re going to have an impromptu cookout. Are you able to attend?
His mother’s habit of always texting in complete sentences and with proper grammar made him smile. His youngest sister and her new husband lived in the Florida Keys. He didn’t get to see them often. He liked Logan, his brother-in-law, but a guy always had to keep an eye out for his baby sister’s welfare.
Depends on day and time. Helping Hannah, he tapped back.
Hannah? Are you dating someone new?
He cringed. He could practically feel her excitement even though they were miles apart. She’d made it clear she wanted more grandchildren. He’d also made it clear they wouldn’t be coming from him. But she wasn’t listening.
Rick’s Hannah.
I thought she wasn’t speaking to you?
His parents had been at the funeral and witnessed the blowup.
She needs help with a project.
What kind of project?
His mother had been a schoolteacher until she’d quit at the end of the last school year to help his father around the orchard, and she understood kids better than anyone he knew. He would like her advice. He debated filling her in. But that was a face-to-face conversation. Not a texted one.
Home maintenance.
Truth, just not the whole truth.
You could bring her and the children to the cookout. They are welcome and we would love to see them.
Given Rick had practically grown up at their house, the sentiment was no surprise.
I’ll relay message. When’s dinner?
Saturday night. Come early. Your father will need assistance, but don’t let on that you’re helping.
Will do.
He put down the phone. It immediately vibrated again, but this time “Hannah Leith” flashed on the screen, sending a jolt through him.
Need u 2 come over. NOW.
A freefalling sensation hit him, not unlike what he’d experienced the one time he’d stupidly let Rick convince him to try skydiving. He grabbed the phone and hit her number. This wasn’t texting