The Hunk Next Door(57)

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“THAT’S QUITE A VIGNETTE,” Riley said, pausing in the doorway and taking it all in. It was a significant part of his job in Belclare to keep an eye on her, but it was a major perk, too. He’d told her the truth: he liked her. In uniform. In a firefight on the shore. Looking elegant in the ivory shirt, black skirt and heels that she wore right now.

He liked kissing her. And talking with her. Even arguing over bombs or flowers. “Smells even better the second time around,” he said, searching for a way to get his mind back on the matter at hand. He needed to know if she’d learned anything about the dead sniper or the men who’d kidnapped Mrs. Wilks.

With the Christmas Village officially opening tomorrow, it would be easier if they could narrow the search parameters beyond ruling out Calder and Mrs. Wilks. He probably shouldn’t have spent so many hours babysitting Mrs. Wilks, but he’d learned a lot just from listening to the woman chatter.

“Thanks. Have a seat,” Abby said. “Do you want wine?”

“No, thanks.” He watched her pour a generous glass for herself. He peered around her to the oven timer. Six minutes was enough time. “Do you mind if I grab a beer from my place?”

“Not at all.”

He went next door as fast as he could without running until he got inside. Then he pounded up the stairs and changed into khakis and a button-down. He’d cleaned up after the ordeal on the shore, of course, but he’d been dealing with fresh pine trees and dusty boxes the rest of the day. Dressed the way she was, she deserved to share the meal with a man wearing something better than his work jeans and thermal shirt. It was the excuse he was sticking with anyway. He was too rushed to review his sudden urge to impress her. He brushed the dust out of his hair and then found his socks and deck shoes.

When he returned to her kitchen door, beer in hand, she was pulling the casserole dish out of the oven. She set it on the table and looked up, her jaw dropping. “What... You didn’t have to...get all dressed up.”

“Yeah, I did,” he replied. The way she looked at him proved it a hundred times over. He came around and pulled out her chair, noticing the level in the wineglass was the same, but the lipstick print at the rim was new.

So he wasn’t the only one dealing with a few nerves. Nice. The big question remained—were her nerves a residual from the tumultuous day or somehow related to him? He decided he could deal with the combination as long as he was a contributing factor.

She started the small talk as they filled their plates and he kept the conversation light, as well. While he wanted to know about the issues with the case, he respected that she needed a little distance.

“You look great,” she said as she assembled a small bite of salad on her fork.

“Thanks.” He’d noticed she wasn’t eating, just sort of moving her food around on her plate, but he didn’t think his wardrobe change was the cause. “What’s distracting you?”

“Nothing. Everything.” She poked at another piece of romaine lettuce and rolled a cherry tomato on top, but she didn’t put it in her mouth.

“I’m a good listener.”

“I’ve noticed.” She looked up, smiling. “But this isn’t the time.”

He took a sip of beer. “Offer stands. You know where to find me.”

“True.”

He cast around for a better distraction. “Are you picky about stringing lights?”

Her gaze narrowed at him. “Define picky.”

“Well.” He pushed his plate back and leaned forward a bit. “In my experience there are three kinds of people when it comes to Christmas lights.”

“Do tell.”

“There are those who don’t care how the job gets done. Then there are those who are picky about something. Either the amount of wiring that shows or starting at the top versus the bottom. You get the idea.”

She nodded, her mouth full of salad.

Progress. “Then there are the insane types who are morally opposed to anything less than their personal definition of lighting perfection. A precise balance across every branch, the cords all arranged out of sight and connected at the back of the tree... Well, you get the idea.”

“Yes.” She paused, filling her mouth with a big bite of lasagna.

“Mrs. Wilks is picky in a sweet, traditional way. She likes white lights that go from the bottom to the top, casting her angel tree topper in a halo of light.”

“Well said.” She raised her glass to him. “You like colored lights.”

“To be fair, those were left over from one of the displays. No time to shop, so I bought them from my boss yesterday.”