Her last experience with the police in Lewis had been in the sixth grade, on a very short tour of the facility. The sheriff’s office consisted of four deputies and the sheriff herself. Their duties primarily entailed tracking down Mr. Jeffers, the eighty-year-old man with rapidly advancing dementia who had a predilection for wandering Main Street in his boxers.
It did not inspire confidence. Particularly if nothing was really wrong.
“It’s better than nothing. We can call John Flaherty.” Some of the lightness of his features had returned. She did not know whether to be grateful or disgruntled.
“John?” She raised a single eyebrow and cocked her head at him. “John Flaherty?”
His excitement was nearly palpable. “Yeah, he joined the sheriff’s office after he got out of the service. It’s perfect.”
Perfect, right. Their best hope was an eighth-grade arsonist turned cop.
One more thing to add to her to-do list.
On the bright side, the dimple had returned. Patrick flopped into the seat beside her again, spraying her with sweat.
“Dude, you need a shower.”
“No one saysdudeanymore, Anita.”
“I’m saying it right now.”
He was grinning at her. Full-on, eyes sparkling, boyish hot guy grinning at her. A delicious heat spread up her spine.
“It’s not my fault Melanie and Kim invited an extra twenty people when they found out I was teaching this morning.”
The heat turned to ice. “Melanie? Wow. She, uh, gets up early.”
He did not seem to notice. “Those ladies have way too much energy that early in the morning. You would like them.”
Not likely. Anita pulled at her damp running shirt. She smelled like an eighteen-year-old boy’s college dorm room. No sweet Patrick scent for her.
“I’m going to take a shower.” She shook her head, trying to shake out the image of Melanie Templeton hanging on Patrick’s arm, laughing at his jokes, sticking her cleavage under his nose. If she had the chance she would—
She heard the distinct sound of his steps on the stairwell behind her.
“Can I help you with something?” She was not sure where the edge in her voice had come from, but she could not take it back now.
“Any chance I could use your shower?”
Anita’s feet halted abruptly. Patrick in her shower. Water and Patrick. That eight-pack—
The heat had returned and now spread all the way from the backs of her thighs to her shoulder blades.
“Why can’t you use yours?” She choked, her mouth so dry it was like she had eaten sand.No, no, no, no, no.
Patrick leaned one hip against the handrail of the stairs. “They have the water off at my apartment until eleven. Besides, you have all the good products.”
Her voice would not work, so she made a feeble gesture toward her door and tried not to melt into the floor.
****
Patrick tossed two slices of whole-grain bread into the toaster and turned the front burner on the stove to low to scramble eggs. He could hear Anita singing show tunes off-key in the shower. No, he could not look at the door. It would not be ajar. She would not be reflected in the bathroom mirror, surrounded by highly perfumed steam.
He looked anyway.
Masochist.He was a masochist, that was the only explanation.
Reality was that she had practically barricaded the bathroom door, and she would never allow herself to appear in front of him less than fully attired. Even when they had traveled for competitions, she had never let him share her hotel room, no matter how broke they were. Part of it probably should have been because they partnered with other people, but Patrick still took it personally. After a while, Patrick had stopped asking.
