Page 22 of S.O.S. Billboard

Billboard gave an internal sigh of relief that O’Shea didn’t have a problem with him living next to his mother. Peggy had. She’d thought it was a little weird for him to be such a mama’s boy, even thoughsheput her police-officer-father up on a pedestal and idolized him.

But that was water under the bridge.

“Where does Cedric live?” Billboard asked. He’d never gotten up the guts to ask her any personal questions when he’d known her before.

“Baton Rouge,” she told him. “And I’m going to be an aunt in a couple months.” Her face showed delight. “He and his wife Libby are expecting twins.”

“Congratulations. You’ll make a great aunt.”

And a great mother, Billboard imagined. O’Shea was so passionate about everything, he could see her on the floor playing trucks or dolls, or whatever their kids would want to—

Oh shit.He’d just imaginedtheirkids.

It wasnotsomething he’d ever envisioned with any other woman.Ever. He needed to shut this train down; or at least slow its roll. Even though he had a feeling O’Shea was everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, there was no saying whether she—fantasies or not—would want to stick around. He had a truckload of baggage, and none of it was good.

“What just made your face go sour, Billboard?” she asked astutely, stopping to face him.

He sighed. There was no way he’d tell her he’d been thinking about future children with her, or how she’d probably run from him, far and fast if she knew what he’d done in the past. But she deserved to know hewasnervous about her not sticking around. “Just thinking about where things between us might fall apart.” He blew out a stream of air from between clenched teeth. “I’ve got…ghosts. And I’m an uncommunicative asshole. You? You’re…open. Those are pretty big differences to overcome. Then there’s where you live. You’re in Louisianna, and I’m in Boston.”

Something suddenly occurred to him. “Hell, I don’t even know how long you plan on staying here.”

She shrugged, but didn’t back away from his probing as they moved forward again. “What if I told you I’m contemplating a move?”

Something lit up inside his chest. “Really?”

Damn.He hoped his voice hadn’t cracked.

“Yeah. I…” Taking one deep breath, she lit into a tirade of how she’d worked so hard for a promotion back in Opeloosa. How she’d finally passed the sergeant’s exam, but then with thewhole upheaval of the department, her plans had been derailed when the sergeant’s position had been filled before she’d fully qualified.

“That’s rough,” Billboard commiserated. Down deep, however, he was crossing his mental fingers. “Where…?” He cleared his throat. “Do you, uh, have any thoughts as to where you might want to end up?”

O’Shea turned and stopped dead in her tracks again to face him, all sense of play gone from her visage. “You can’t say anything about this because I don’t want to get Brigid’s hopes up, but I’ve made inquiries with the Police Commissioner’s Office here in Boston. I’m waiting to see if they’ll accept my sergeant’s credentials without too much hassle.”

If Billboard thought he was over the moon before with the whole “O’Shea dreaming about him” thing, this news blew that away.

Okay. Maybecompoundedit. Because after all,fantasizing…

He shook himself a little to get back on track.

The thought of O’Shea being in Boston; being close by?Hell, yes.Nothing would make him happier.

Not generally a spontaneous guy, he tossed aside his normal caution and threw his arms around O’Shea, picked her up, and twirled her in circles, a shit-eating grin breaking out over his face.

O’Shea spluttered. “I guess… I’m thinking that news makes you happy?” she squeaked, once she landed back on her feet.

Billboard wasn’t going to beat around the bush. “Yes. It makes me happy. Ecstatic, actually,” he rambled. “I didn’t know how things would work out if we were going to be roughly a dozen states apart, but if you actually move here…”

He trailed off.Right.Things still had to go smoothly between them, and that would all rest on him. O’Shea wasnothing but an open book, whereas his leathery and beaten old cover remained closed most of the time.

She seemed to know where his mind had gone, and patted his arm.

“Don’t sweat it, Billboard. We’re a work in progress. We already know we like each other, and,” she became impish, “that we want to suck each other’s face off. The rest will either come to us or not.”

“It’s the ‘or not’ I’m worried about,” he grumped.

“And that, my hopefully-lover-to-be-hot-guy, is up to you. If I’m worth it, you’ll find a way to work through all your crap and open up. If not…” She shrugged and turned, not giving any more power to his doubts. “Now, which ride is yours?”

Billboard shook himself, then pointed proudly to his 1977 Ford Bronco with its original turquoise-green paint, sitting several yards away under a streetlight that had just gone on.

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