The Feel Good Factor(9)

It’s a strategy Jansen implemented, and it seems to be working so far. We have a great relationship with the citizens of this town.

They know our names. We know many of theirs, and I believe that plays a part in keeping crime lower than low.

“What if I drank the rest of this lemonade all by myself?” My colleague Elias Nicholson holds up the pitcher, a glint in his brown eyes. We joined the department around the same time nine years ago and have been moving up the ladder together. He’s running the booth with me today, pouring lemonade as I decorate faces.

“Then there’d be nothing for the kids, so get your mitts off it.”

“But it looks so delish.”

“That’s because your wife makes amazing lemonade from scratch for you to give away to children.”

“She is a wizard in the drink department.” He pours himself a cup and downs it.

“You’re the worst, Nicholson.”

He wipes his paw across his mouth. “She’ll bring me more.”

“She’s seven months pregnant, and she’s going to bring you lemonade? Shouldn’t you bring her whatever she needs?”

“I brought her chicken wings and caramel popcorn last night. And I rubbed her feet. I’m damn good at the husband gig. To wit—I put the baby in her belly the first month we tried.”

“TMI!”

“It’s the truth though. We went to our favorite spot for brunch—the Silver Tavern—and then once we were home . . . Bam.”

“I don’t know how she puts up with you,” I say, but I’m smiling.

“It’s a miracle to me too.”

The par-for-the-course ribbing ceases when a curly-haired blonde in a tutu wanders over to my tent, surveying the paints. “Can you paint my face?”

“You bet I can. Let me guess. You want a butterfly, a unicorn, or a rainbow?” I suggest with a smile.

She laughs, shaking her head. “No.”

I tap my chin, looking skyward. “Maybe a kitty cat? Meow.”

She giggles. “No. No. No.”

“I see we have a tough customer here. Maybe a doggy?” I bark.

“Guess again.”

“A horse?” I offer a neigh.

“Do a cow!”

I launch into my best rendition of a moo.

“Frog!”

“Don’t think you can trick me. My animal repertoire goes deep.” I show off my fantastic ribbit.

She shakes her head. “No, can you draw a frog on my face, Mrs. Lady Cop?”

I smile. “Of course I can.”

I scoot my stool closer, dip a brush into the green face paint, and draw a frog on the girl’s face.

When I’m done, I grab a mirror and show her my handiwork. “Does it meet your approval?”

“I love it. I’m going to go show my mom and my uncle Derek.”

She takes off running, darting down an aisle teeming with tables full of peaches, pears, and strawberries. I tend to the next group of kids, painting a dragon, Spiderman, and another butterfly until I need to take a quick break.

“I’ll be back in ten.”

“Damn, you women take long to pee.”

I punch Elias in the arm. “I need avocados too. Also, if you finish off all the jugs, I’ll have to haul you in and throw away the key.”

“Please. I know where the keys are.”

I take off to the ladies’ room at the edge of the market, spotting my favorite food truck a half block away. I jog over and wave to my friend Staci Winters in the window, serving up a chocolate-covered strawberry waffle treat to a waiting customer. “Stop by later, Perri. I’m here till one,” she calls out. “I’ll save enough to make your favorite.”

I blow the waffle mistress a kiss. We went to college together. She helped me in my required bio class, and I repaid the favor a few years later, helping her navigate the fastest path to procuring a permit for her food truck. “You’re a goddess of tomatoes, cucumbers, and parsley.”

“And tzatziki! Don’t forget the tzatziki.”

“How can I forget it, even if I can’t pronounce it?” I turn around and head to the bathroom for a pit stop. On my way back, I detour through the veggies. I have about six minutes, so I trot over to the avocados since I need to pick some up for dinner.

I look for the affable guy usually running this stand, but no one’s here at the moment. I’ve just reached for an avocado to see if it’s ripe, when I hear a voice, all low and smoky. “Hey, officer. I think you might have been walking too fast through the market.”

The hairs on my neck stand on end. That gravelly, too-sexy-for-words tone delivers a wave of sensation across my skin.

It could only be Mr. Trouble.

With an avocado in hand, I turn around, and my eyes feast. How is it possible for him to be even hotter today? Is this a trick only the handsomest men can employ? The ability to multiply their good looks?

Somehow, maybe a trick of the light, he’s exponentially sexier in those shades, his gray T-shirt showing off swirls of ink, and jeans so well-worn they cling caressingly to his legs.

Lucky jeans.

But it’s his face, most of all, that draws me in as soon as he flicks off his glasses and I get a full dose of dark, soulful brown eyes full of naughty wishes.