had sparkled beneath the streetlight.
But maybe he’d finally gotten the message and would leave her alone now.
Damn, she wished that little sidewalk meeting had never happened. Well, she wished none of this had ever happened—she wished she’d found someone else to have sex with that night, or that Jake had never moved here, or that even if he had moved here that he hadn’t recognized her.
But the fresher problem was: Before she’d found him staring up at her apartment, she’d been angry with him—yet ever since . . . oh hell, those sparkling eyes of his had heated her up inside. And the mere memory of the moment turned her on, every time he came to mind, even despite the horrible fears she still suffered about him.
And—oh God, it was just plain difficult to face him. In the beginning, the shock had been the problem, and of course the fear. But by that night, she’d graduated beyond the surprise and worry to stark embarrassment. How could she ever see him anywhere in town without knowing he was recalling all the dirty, dirty things she’d done with him and Colt? How could visions of those obscene acts—which had excited her so much then and horrified her so much now—not pop into his head every time he saw her, or even passed by her shop or heard her name? What on earth must he think of her? And why had he been so intent on talking to her after she’d asked him to leave her alone?
Of course, maybe she’d handled all this the wrong way. Maybe if she’d just come clean, just talked to him in the first place and asked him, from one imperfect human being to another, to please never tell anyone, maybe that would have been smarter—maybe it would have given him whatever it was he was seeking from her now. But the trouble with that was—the very idea of having an actual conversation with him about it made her want to hide, bury her head in the sand. It wasn’t only him she didn’t want to face—she didn’t want to have to face herself , either. She didn’t want to face the reality of the things she’d done in the dark of night and then tucked away so neatly along with her sexy lingerie. She didn’t want to have to admit, out loud, that any of it had ever happened.
Now here she was at the Fourth of July festival and Officer Lockhart was bound to be here somewhere—if not yet, then later. But maybe he wouldn’t even be present for the pie auction on Main Street, shut down to traffic for the day. Maybe, in fact, she’d become completely paranoid about this.
Yet how could she not be? It still felt as if he held her entire fate in his hands.
Stepping away from the pie booth as other ladies handed over their entries, she glanced around at the people milling about. At the red, white, and blue streamers draped overhead, crossing the street from one telephone pole to another. At smiling faces, at well-tended flower boxes lining windows, at tidy storefronts and T-shirts sporting the American flag. Life in this little town was all she knew. Being loved and respected by the good people of Turnbridge mattered to her, deeply. If Jake Lockhart took that away, if he even tarnished it, her life would never be the same.
When a hand closed over her arm, she flinched, but looking over, found only Dana. Thank God. “It’s almost Hank’s turn in the dunking booth at the fire station—let’s go watch,” she said with a smile.
Carly smiled back, or tried to anyway, and let her friend lead her in that direction.
But she kept her eyes open for the new town policeman at every turn—and felt a little more thankful, and a little more relieved, with each passing minute she didn’t see him.
J ake leaned against the brick wall of the bank building along with Tom Gwynn, taking in the Fourth of July festivities. And taking in Carly Winters. Today she wore a fitted red tee with cute white shorts that reminded him how silky and long her legs were—legs he’d once seen spread lasciviously wide. Her hair was
But maybe he’d finally gotten the message and would leave her alone now.
Damn, she wished that little sidewalk meeting had never happened. Well, she wished none of this had ever happened—she wished she’d found someone else to have sex with that night, or that Jake had never moved here, or that even if he had moved here that he hadn’t recognized her.
But the fresher problem was: Before she’d found him staring up at her apartment, she’d been angry with him—yet ever since . . . oh hell, those sparkling eyes of his had heated her up inside. And the mere memory of the moment turned her on, every time he came to mind, even despite the horrible fears she still suffered about him.
And—oh God, it was just plain difficult to face him. In the beginning, the shock had been the problem, and of course the fear. But by that night, she’d graduated beyond the surprise and worry to stark embarrassment. How could she ever see him anywhere in town without knowing he was recalling all the dirty, dirty things she’d done with him and Colt? How could visions of those obscene acts—which had excited her so much then and horrified her so much now—not pop into his head every time he saw her, or even passed by her shop or heard her name? What on earth must he think of her? And why had he been so intent on talking to her after she’d asked him to leave her alone?
Of course, maybe she’d handled all this the wrong way. Maybe if she’d just come clean, just talked to him in the first place and asked him, from one imperfect human being to another, to please never tell anyone, maybe that would have been smarter—maybe it would have given him whatever it was he was seeking from her now. But the trouble with that was—the very idea of having an actual conversation with him about it made her want to hide, bury her head in the sand. It wasn’t only him she didn’t want to face—she didn’t want to have to face herself , either. She didn’t want to face the reality of the things she’d done in the dark of night and then tucked away so neatly along with her sexy lingerie. She didn’t want to have to admit, out loud, that any of it had ever happened.
Now here she was at the Fourth of July festival and Officer Lockhart was bound to be here somewhere—if not yet, then later. But maybe he wouldn’t even be present for the pie auction on Main Street, shut down to traffic for the day. Maybe, in fact, she’d become completely paranoid about this.
Yet how could she not be? It still felt as if he held her entire fate in his hands.
Stepping away from the pie booth as other ladies handed over their entries, she glanced around at the people milling about. At the red, white, and blue streamers draped overhead, crossing the street from one telephone pole to another. At smiling faces, at well-tended flower boxes lining windows, at tidy storefronts and T-shirts sporting the American flag. Life in this little town was all she knew. Being loved and respected by the good people of Turnbridge mattered to her, deeply. If Jake Lockhart took that away, if he even tarnished it, her life would never be the same.
When a hand closed over her arm, she flinched, but looking over, found only Dana. Thank God. “It’s almost Hank’s turn in the dunking booth at the fire station—let’s go watch,” she said with a smile.
Carly smiled back, or tried to anyway, and let her friend lead her in that direction.
But she kept her eyes open for the new town policeman at every turn—and felt a little more thankful, and a little more relieved, with each passing minute she didn’t see him.
J ake leaned against the brick wall of the bank building along with Tom Gwynn, taking in the Fourth of July festivities. And taking in Carly Winters. Today she wore a fitted red tee with cute white shorts that reminded him how silky and long her legs were—legs he’d once seen spread lasciviously wide. Her hair was
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