Page 21 of Noble Neighbor
A short curse interrupted her musing.
“What?”
He shot her a quick look before picking up the antibiotic cream. “One scratch is deep. I’ve made it bleed again.”
Sunny shrugged, loathe to tell him her skin was on fire. “It’ll heal.”
“You just need to monitor it,” he said, smoothing the cream across her skin. “In case infection sets in. One guy I worked with on the force? A stray scratched his son, and the kid developed some sort of cat-scratchdisease. He needed antibiotics.” Oliver frowned, givingher an earnest look. “I can’t remember the exact symptoms,but I’ll look it up.”
“I’ll watch out for any weird things happening.” Then she frowned. “You worked on aforce? As in police?”
“Yeah. Detective. With DC Metro.”
Shit. Oliver had been a cop. In DC.
Shit, shit.
“Left after … Christie died. Moved here to write detective stories instead.” Oliver cocked his head. “Why? What’s—”
A door slammed. “Mom!” It was Kenzie.
Grateful for the interruption, Sunny hopped from the vanity and took the roll of gauze from him. “I’ll finish up. Kids are home. You need to go.” She turned a very confused Oliver toward the door. Not that she could blame him; she’d gone from hot to cold in an instant.
As he reached the doorway, he looked back. “We need to talk again, Sunny. About earlier.”
The moment Oliver cleared the dressing room, Sunny dropped her head in defeat, her vision clouding with tears. Would the shame, the guilt, never leave her? Even now, after all the meticulous planning, the past slapped her upside the head, reminding her to be careful and to form no attachments.
He’d been a cop. In DC.
Shit.
7
A visit from the sheriff
She was avoiding him. It was the only logical explanation Oliver could come up with. But why? They’d connected on a deeper level. Hadn’t they?
That kiss … incendiary. And memorable. Fuel for nights of fantasies. And could his mind weave them. They’d even spilled over into his writing, and now poor Dirk shared his dilemma.
Life had been simple before Sunny Jones moved in.
Six weeks ago, he’d known exactly where he wasgoing with his life. But now? Oliver groaned, his eyeline moving from the words on the paper he was not reallyreading to the house across the way.
“You expecting Beau?”
Oliver looked at his father standing at the edge of the veranda, a thankfully silent Harvey — blasted bird had been screeching the “Nothing But A Hound Dog” refrain all morning — perched on his shoulder. His old man was wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist, having gotten a bee in his bonnet this morning about trying out a new recipe for some … Had his dad said coffeecake? Whatever. The aroma wafting about was torture. Almost as torturous as the naked Sunny from his dreams.
Beau pulled his county vehicle to a stop. “No,” Oliver answered, surprised by the mid-morning visit.They’d become friends, and Beau was one of the few people in Clearbrook who knew everything about his past. And once or twice he’d run a tricky scene by the sheriff, appreciating a fresh eye on his work.
“Oliver, Frank,” Beau greeted, stamping his feet on the mat before climbing the steps. It had rained overnight, and the ground was still damp in places.
“Beau. You joining us for coffee and streusel?”
The sheriff offered a half-grin. “Seems I timed my visit well. Thanks, Frank.”
Oliver set aside his editing and turned his focus on Beau. “You look troubled.”
Beau exhaled slowly, his gaze everywhere but on Oliver. “I am.”
