I blew out a breath but didn't respond until Annette ran her fingertips down my arm. "I realize that I can't prevent every crime, but in a town like this, I can keep an eye out for the signs." I shifted to the side, gazing at Annette. "What makes you stay here?"
A deep laugh rumbled up from her belly. "When I'm not chasing after unavailable men and getting sloppy drunk and generally embarrassing the hell out of myself, I like it here. I like the people, the community, the way this place changes slowly but surely."
"Why are you still beating yourself up about that?" I asked. I dropped my hand on her thigh, needing some physical connection to her.
She avoided my gaze as she worked on another round of rye bread extravaganzas. "Because I'm probably banned from The Galley for life and I acted like an emotionally unstable drunk girl, and both of those things are embarrassing."
"That's not what I'm talking about," I said. "I think you know that."
Annette turned back toward me, a slice of bread in her outstretched hand. "Because I'm not so different from the town, Jackson. I change slowly but surely."
15
Creaming
v. Beating sugar and softened butter together to form a lighter, aerated mixture.
Annette
August peaches werethe best peaches.
This was the first summer I was paying attention to peach quality but I knew this month's crop was as good as it got. Last month's peaches—the one that ended up down my dress—didn't compare to the beauties coming out now. Since they were so damn good, I couldn't stop testing new recipes. My kitchen was filled to the rafters with cobblers and crumbles, crostatas and cakes. And that didn't include the pastries I'd distributed around town.
I'd shipped a peach and almond tart off to Brooke's house on Monday and a peach and raspberry yogurt cake to the Fitzsimmonses on Tuesday. Jackson took a basket of cinnamon peach turnovers to the station on Wednesday and my sales clerk Jane got a peach and blueberry bread pudding on Thursday.
It was hard to believe I'd baked this much in one week. It helped that I had Jackson hauling in big sacks of sugar and flour for me and washing the dishes while my creations were in the oven.
As much I adored the kitchen at his house, I never managed to bring all the things I needed. Either it was the good sifter or the board scraper I always misplaced, or the paring knife I liked better than the rest. There was always something missing.
That was part of the reason I ended up back at my apartment after baking at Jackson's house. The other part was my own crazy mind game where I refused to accept I was falling for him but inventing a world of feelings based on good sex and well washed dishes. That crazy mind game was cool with the sex and the dishes but everything came to a screeching halt at the notion of spending the night at Jackson's house. That was the hard limit, the third rail.
It didn't make sense but neither did my fantasy relationship with Owen.
I allowed myself to believe it didn't have to make sense. Love didn't make sense. Hell, life didn't make sense. Why did my thoughts have to follow a logical sequence? They didn't and it wasn't worth my time to dwell on the roundabouts and contradictions in my head. Not when I could enjoy the time we had together and hope it all worked out for the best.
I hadn't planned on baking this afternoon but a thunderstorm rolled in and canceled my beach plans. I didn't take many days off from the shop but liked to reserve some Fridays and Saturdays throughout the summer. Not always the whole day but even a few hours away was worth it. Good for my tan, better for my soul.
I washed the frosting from my fingers and dried my hands on a towel while inspecting my latest bake, brown butter peach cupcakes. They stood in neat rows and columns on my cooling racks, perfect rosettes of luscious peach-scented cream cheese frosting on top.
I studied them for a moment, my hands still curled around the dish towel, then glanced to the clock. Jackson was still at the station. He'd be there a little while longer.
I stepped toward the window and looked to the sky. Only drizzle and lake-sized puddles remained. The worst of the storm was on its way north.
Seemed like the right time to deliver a snack.
I knockedon the door to Jackson's office and wiggled the glass container filled with cupcakes when I poked inside.
My stars, he was a sight. Legs open as if he was giving a master class in manspreading, his tan uniform trousers pulled taut over his tree trunk thighs. Phone pressed tucked between his ear and shoulder, a pen trapped in one hand, the other wrapped around the nape of his neck. With his arm bent behind his head and that short-sleeved sheriff's department shirt, it looked like his bicep was carved from stone. And now that I'd caught his attention, his dark gaze traveled over me, his eyebrow arched.
Jackson beckoned me closer as I shut the door behind me. He usually kept his door ajar but if history was any guide, we'd want it closed. The station was mostly empty but Cindy was out there and I wasn't taking any chances.
"Are you sure?" I whispered, pointing to the bullpen behind me. "I can come back later."
"Don't you dare leave," he said, his hand over the mouthpiece. His tongue poked out, tracing his lip as he studied my white sundress printed with green palm fronds. "Stay. Let me finish up this conference call but stay."
I moved toward the open chairs but he shook his head and motioned for me to come around the side of his desk. He repeated the gesture when I stood there, staring at him.
"Why am I going over there?" I asked.
