In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(94)

“Where’d you get this guy, anyway?” Jack asked.

“Bryce Campbell. He owns the animal shelter now. Hey, is that Jeremy’s place over there?” She pointed to the Lyons Den, the nearest neighbor to Blue Heron, owned by Faith’s former fiancée.

“Yeah.”

“He’s so nice. Maybe you could talk to him about your PTSD.”

“I don’t have PTSD.”

“Were you aware that two minutes ago, you stopped in your tracks and didn’t answer me till I handed you my dog?”

Shit. “Let’s finish this up, okay? The perimeter check or whatever you’re doing. Then you can stay for dinner.”

She didn’t answer, but as they got close to the house, she stopped at each window and looked at the ground. “Too bad there’s no snow. And it’s too cold for muddy prints,” she said. “But maybe someone dropped a cigarette butt or something.”

Sarge was snoring gently.

“I guess I’m done,” Em said, seeming chagrined that she hadn’t found anything incriminating.

“Good. When do you get off duty?”

“I’m on call tonight.”

Just then her phone chimed. Jack’s did, too. He checked it with his free hand—Levi’s taking tonight’s shift, so if Emmaline’s there, why don’t you have her stay for dinner? xox your favorite sister.

Em sighed.

“Everything okay?” Jack asked.

“Yeah.”

“So if you’re not working tonight, I guess you can stay for dinner.”

She frowned. “Who says I’m not working?”

“Your boss’s wife.” He smiled. “Come on, Em. Stay. I could use the company. Stop scowling. I’m a good cook. And since you’re off duty, you can have a glass of wine.”

* * *

JACK HOLLAND LOOKED awfully good in the kitchen, Em thought. He caught her looking, and she jerked her gaze away.

“I visited your wife earlier,” she said.

“I have no wife,” he answered calmly, pouring her a glass of white. “Our unoaked Granite Chardonnay, so named because it comes from the field next to the family cemetery, and we felt funny about naming it Cemetery Chard. Vanilla and floral bouquet, clean mineral notes, a buttery finish that lingers on the palate. Why on earth would you go see Hadley?”

“To ask about that possum.”

“You’re just stirring the crazy pot, you know,” he said. “The more attention you give her, the worse she gets.” His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the glass, and a current ran up her arm.

She sat on the stool at the counter and took a sip of wine. “You like it?” he asked.

“It’s not bad.”

“Stab me in the heart, why don’t you?”

“She seemed awfully thrilled that someone’s stalking you.”

Jack set down the spatula from whatever meaty, yummy thing he was stirring. “Emmaline, I don’t want to talk about my ex-wife. Okay?”

“Sure. What are you cooking?”

“Sweet Italian sausage ragout in a creamy vodka sauce with broccoli rabe over penne. Here. Taste it.” He held the wooden spoon to her mouth, and she obeyed.

Holy food orgasm. Spicy and creamy and sweet and frickin’ unbelievable.

“You cook like this every night?” she asked.

His eyes were on her mouth. “I could if I had a reason.”

She stopped chewing. Swallowed a bit hard.

Men like Jack should be careful about what they said. A lot could be read into a statement like that.

Then his cat made a sound like an old screen door, and Sarge dashed after him. “Want me to put the dog in the cellar?” she asked.

“No, it’s fine. Lazarus can take care of himself.” He got a spice out of the cupboard and added it to the frying pan.

She couldn’t remember the last time a man had cooked for her. Well, cooked her a meal she actually wanted to eat. Those last few months with Kevin didn’t count.

A fire crackled and popped in the big stone fireplace in the great room. Em got up and wandered around.

Jack had a few pictures here and there—one of Levi and Faith and Blue from last year, at their wedding. Em had gone to that one, and she remembered the photo being taken, people laughing as Blue kept nudging in between the couple. Another photo from a wedding she’d gone to, Tom and Honor’s. This one was of Jack and Honor. Nice. Here was one of Jack and his father holding up a gold medal and a bottle of wine. Another Holland family portrait, but this one with Jack’s mother in it. Prudence’s wedding, young Jack tall and skinny and geeky-cute.

The bookcase was filled with biographies and political thrillers, the typical man stuff when it came to reading. A couple dozen tomes on wine, as one would expect.

The windows showcased the Holland farmland, all the way down to Keuka.

Jack’s furniture was beautiful—simple and functional, but with inlaid wood and graceful lines. “Where’d you get this?” she said, running her finger along a tall narrow table.

“I made it,” he said.

Of course he made it. He saved children and made beautiful furniture and cooked and looked like a movie star.

“It was my first and last project,” he said. “I almost cut off my finger with the miter saw.” He grinned and held up a hand. “Nineteen stitches.”