Shelley Galloway - A Small-Town Girl

The loper—or should she say interloper—had a lot of nerve. “I can get it.” She’d never been one to lean on a man—or anyone, for that matter. It was far easier simply to depend on herself. That way she wouldn’t be disappointed when things didn’t go as planned.

But, as if he didn’t hear her, the guy grabbed the sack out of her hands and tossed it into the back of her car. The action was impressive considering the guy didn’t look all that brawny.

“You should have asked Ted to give you a hand. I’m surprised he didn’t offer.”

The store owner had offered, not that it was anyone’s business.

The stranger’s uncalled-for concern made her feel off-kilter and more than a little unnerved. Boys back home knew better than to open Genevieve’s car door. The officers in Cincinnati had learned early on never to assume Gen couldn’t do anything. The men she worked with in Lane’s End were beginning to take the hint, too.

But this guy was treating her the way folks treated Margaret—with gentlemanly concern. Because Gen had never felt very ladylike, the gesture took her by surprise.

“I’m okay,” she answered. “Fine.”

His brown eyes narrowed as he backed away from her. “Hey, sorry, I thought I was helping you out.”

“No, I’m sorry. Thanks for the help,” she amended, feeling her cheeks heat. Oh, her mama would be rolling her eyes if she were there to witness Gen’s lack of manners. Even independent women should know when to say thank you.

“You’re welcome.” He paused. For a moment Gen thought he was going to say something else. Instead he shook his head and walked away.

Well, that prompted her to step forward. For some reason, she was uneasy about his assuming she had the grace of a bowling ball. Especially since her sergeant had just reminded her that morning about how police officers did more in Lane’s End than uphold the law. They interacted with the community. And hadn’t that been something she’d vowed to do better? “I appreciate your help. It’s been a long day—the traffic is a killer.”

“It is. There’s so many banners and signs in this town it’s hard to dodge them all.”

She shook her head. “Basketball. I like it as much as the next person, but this craziness is pretty extreme.”

The guy’s lips curved just as she noticed that he, too, was wearing a black-and-gold sweatshirt. “You’re not excited that Lane’s End High might make it to the play-offs?”

Chuckling, she said, “I’m new in town. I guess I haven’t caught on to the significance of it quite yet.”

“You will,” he said confidently. “This is the first time in twenty-eight years that Lane’s End will probably go all the way.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

Still grinning, he said, “Sorry—I have a hard time forgetting that everyone isn’t fixated on the basketball team. At school it’s all we’ve been talking about.”

“School?”

“I teach algebra at LEHS.”

A teacher. A math teacher. He didn’t look like any math teacher she’d ever seen before. He was like Pierce Brosnan, Charlie Sheen and Clark Kent all rolled up into one. Gen had a sneaking suspicion that algebra was the most anticipated class at the local high school.

Because she was practically trapped under his dark-eyed gaze, she continued the conversation. “I bet you have a lot of interesting stories.”

“Hundreds.”

Gen knew this was the perfect time to tell him about her job. How she was the new police officer in town. How she hadn’t meant to sound gruff or standoffish, she’d just never mastered the art of conversation.

How her mother had given up nurturing Gen’s feminine side right around the time Gen had asked for a BB gun instead of a Barbie for her sixth birthday.

“So. You must have some dog,” he said, pointing to the food he’d dumped in her hatchback.

Gen couldn’t help but smile. “She is.”

“What is she? Great Dane? Mastiff?”

“Beagle.”

He laughed as he stepped forward again. “Some beagle. I’ve got one, too. Mine’s named Sludge.”

“Mine’s Sadie.” Forgetting all about not being good at chitchat, she said, “So I guess you know all about the trials of being a beagle owner?”

“Howling at night? Foraging for rabbits?” With a chuckle, he said, “I know it all.”

As Genevieve thought about Sadie’s penchant for snacks, pizza—anything off the dinner table—she had to agree. “Sadie once ate all the hidden eggs in a neighborhood Easter egg hunt.”

“How many?”

“At least a dozen. She ate each one in a single bite. The colored shells didn’t deter her the slightest.” Recalling Sadie’s bloated stomach and lingering aftereffects, Gen added, “I felt her pain for two days.”

Holding out his hand, he said, “I guess if I know about Sadie’s appetites, I’d better introduce myself. Cary Hudson.”

“Genevieve Slate,” she replied, shaking his hand.

“Genevieve. Pretty name.”

Her mother had thought so, too. “Actually, I go by Gen. So is that Cary as in Cary Grant?”

“Definitely. My mom was a huge fan of old movie stars. My brother’s name is Dean.”

She was intrigued. “Like Dean Martin?”

“Absolutely.” That infectious grin appeared again. “If you know of Dean Martin, you must be a movie fan, too.”

“I am.” Gen couldn’t believe they had something else besides beagles in common. She had all of Cary Grant’s movies on DVD and had watched the original Ocean’s Eleven just last week.

She was warming to Cary Hudson, the teacher. Cary, like Cary Grant. He was likable and attractive. Open and approachable.

The complete opposite of herself.

At least on the outside.

Cary probably enjoyed walks in the park, hanging out in front of the fire, reading—activities that a lot of the men in her line of work didn’t always admit doing. Sadie would love him.

Gen had the feeling she wouldn’t be too opposed to him, either.

If she was going to be in the market for a relationship.

Breaking the silence, Cary slapped his hands on his jeans. “Well, now that I’ve bored you, I’ll see you around.”

“I wasn’t bored. Thanks again for the help.”

“Anytime. Good luck with your beagle.”

“You, too! And don’t worry—Sadie’s docile as long as she’s well fed.”

“Aren’t we all?”

His comment was so true she burst out laughing. Cary joined in, then walked to his vehicle. Gen knew if she didn’t say a word, she’d never have a reason to speak with him again—unless he needed help from the police for some reason.

To her surprise, hurrying home to Sadie no longer seemed that important, even if Sadie was probably entertaining a thousand ways to make Gen pay for coming home late for dinner. “Hey,” she called out just as he was about to get into his car. “Do you drink coffee?”

“I do. Do you want to go sit down somewhere?”

Cary was obviously too much of a gentleman to make her ask him out. His manners made her regret skipping cotillion classes back in the eighth grade. “Yes. I mean, if you have time.” God, she was so bad at this!

“I have time. Do you know the Corner Café?”

“Sure. I’ll meet you there.”

Situated in an old yellow farmhouse, the café had already become one of Gen’s favorite spots. She liked checking out the antiques there on Sunday mornings. It brought back memories of her mother’s love of handmade crafts—and Gen’s desire to be just like her until it had become apparent that unlike her sister, Gen didn’t have a natural aptitude for anything handmade. After that, Gen had fostered her father’s admiration by trying to be the son he never had. Unfortunately that hadn’t really worked, either. Daddy had wanted a boy, not a girl who behaved like one.