Debra & Regan Webb & Black - The Hunk Next Door

Despite the press conference that had gone viral thanks to national news and social media, in recent days her confident speech felt more like a publicity stunt. She knew the value of perception as well as caution. The mail and email that flooded the department and website in the days following the drug bust was mostly positive, but the threats, in an increasing number, had to be assessed and cleared or sent up to the feds, who claimed she was in trouble. They’d even suggested she employ a protective detail, but they hadn’t given her the personnel. Besides, with everyone in town watching for her next mistake, she had enough eyes on her already.

The threats monopolized her time, taking her away from other important daily endeavors, though Homeland Security would disagree with that assessment. They were sure she was dealing with a sleeper cell and their insistence, while absurd, had her looking at everyone in town with suspicion. She knew these people. Cared about them—even the hardheaded one glaring at her right now.

Of course, Martin didn’t care that she’d drawn that line with his safety in mind. Aesthetics and historical accuracy mattered more than anything else to him. Thankfully, the men and women on the police force agreed with the aggressive line she’d drawn.

“I will not relax the patrols on Main or anywhere else, Mr. Filmore.”

“But the problem was out at the docks. Isn’t it a better use of resources to keep your patrols focused in that area?”

He wanted her to save resources in the hope that he could divert any funds she didn’t spend into his budget at the next council meeting. She knew the tactic far too well. She’d taken this job despite the politics that went with it. Abby felt the tension mounting. Her shoulders were tight, her legs were ready to spring and her toes were cramping in these stupid pumps. She reminded herself she couldn’t throw a tantrum. There were better outlets than the bloodcurdling scream of frustration trapped in her throat.

A soft tap-tap-tap of a hammer and squeak of boots on the metal ladder told her O’Brien was back to work in the lobby. Talk about an outlet. Wow. Riley O’Brien would certainly qualify as an effective distraction. He was handsome and built. If only she could be sure he wasn’t also a threat in contractor’s clothing. Had she really just thought that? She gave herself a mental shake. This had to be some universal female fantasy involving a thermal shirt, faded jeans and a tool belt that sparked sudden, inexplicable lust in a stranger under present circumstances.

“Well?” Filmore demanded.

She dragged herself back to the present. Mr. Filmore deserved a thoughtful reply. “I could have the increased patrols work in their civilian clothes.”

“How is that any better?”

She knew it! It wasn’t about the official uniform presence hindering anything. His dissatisfaction was about the budget. She was done with Filmore’s whining and she had another appointment in just fifteen minutes. Abby squared her shoulders. “My officers will be out there, in uniform. End of discussion. They will not harass anyone, because I’ve given clear instructions—” based on the most recent threats that she didn’t bother explaining “—regarding what they should look for.”

Filmore made an unpleasant sound of frustration. “I suppose you expect me to be grateful.”

She smiled, remembering he was a decent guy if a bit uptight about historical accuracy. “I expect you to recognize the necessity of the situation. Together is the only way Belclare gets through this rough patch.”

His beady eyes locked on to her. “You might have thought of this ‘rough patch’ before you turned our town into a target.”

Before she could respond, he spun on his heel and marched out of her office, his spine ramrod straight.

Abby let him have the last word. Not because he deserved it, but because she refused to be late to her next appointment. She was ready for a bit of solitude in her car and the comfort of coffee and conversation with a friend who didn’t have an agenda. She shut down her computer and moved away from her desk. Adjusting the silk scarf at her throat, she slipped into her black wool overcoat.

She was debating the wisdom of ruining her look by switching from her heels to her winter boots when someone knocked on her office door. Again. She turned and the professional smile she’d forced onto her face faded at the sight of Riley O’Brien filling her doorway. “Yes?”

“Danny said I could come on back.”

She made a mental note to have a chat with Danny.

“I just wanted you to know I’d finished the lobby as well as the display out front.”

“I’m sure your boss will be thrilled with your efficiency.”

“Probably so.” He gave her a grin that reminded her of the young men she’d pulled over in the past who tried to get off with a warning. “Today’s project list filled two pages.”

“That’s...” Why did he think she cared? “Ambitious,” she finished. “If you’ll excuse me I have an appointment.”

“Oh, sure.” He stepped out of the doorway but hovered while she locked up. It was a new procedure and no reflection on her department but—

“Can’t be too careful these days,” he said, echoing her thoughts.

“Precisely.” She maneuvered around him, unable to ignore the enticing scent of evergreen and cinnamon clinging to his clothing. “The garland is scented this year? I didn’t approve that.”

“I’m not sure it’s possible to un-scent fresh pine, ma’am.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“The ma’am thing. I don’t like it much.” It made her feel old and right now the increased pressure following the drug bust was more than enough to cope with.

“Right.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Danny mentioned that.”

She was definitely having a talk with Danny. He needed a reminder about basic security around strangers. “Enjoy your stay in Belclare, Mr. O’Brien.”

“Call me Riley.”

Abby had no intention of calling him anything at all. While it wouldn’t be a problem under normal circumstances, this wasn’t the best time to make new friends. Except when she looked up, his expression was open and there was a humor lurking in his brown eyes. Her earlier thoughts about a stress relief outlet flooded back.

“I’d like that.”

“Pardon?” In her fantasy, she’d apparently lost the thread of the conversation. Reaching into her pocket, she gripped her car keys and strode toward the back of the station. He followed her.

“I’d like to enjoy my stay. If you’re not doing anything tonight, maybe you could show me around?”

Startled, she stopped, gathered her foolishly scattered wits. “I’m the chief of police, Mr.—” she made the correction before he could “—Riley. If you need a map or a tour guide, check with the Visitor’s Center.”

“I don’t get it.” He shook his head.

She shouldn’t ask. If she let him stall her much longer, she’d be late. “What’s the matter?”

He grinned again. “I thought we sort of, well, connected earlier.”

“You’re joking.” The idea was absurd.

“Only a little.” His eyes twinkled. “Call it instant hero worship instead of a connection. I didn’t think anything could make Mr. Filmore stop talking.”

The urge to laugh startled her and she smothered it quickly. “That was more luck than skill.” A distaste for Filmore’s voice was a connection shared by 90 percent of Belclare’s population. “I really need to go.”

“Okay.” He pushed open the door and held it for her. “If you change your mind or need anything decorated, I’ll be around.”

His slow smile and the warmth of his body as she brushed by him created a stir low in her belly. Simple lust. A tempting distraction she couldn’t risk at the moment, no matter how genuine he seemed or how efficiently he tacked up decorations. The cold air slipped around her legs and up her knee-length skirt. She was rather grateful for the assist from Mother Nature as parts of her had turned inappropriately warm during this bizarre conversation. “You’ll be around? For the month?”