RaeAnne Thayne - Raeanne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One - Blackberry Summer

So much sorrow. She couldn’t bear it. She had to do something for her friends to ease the pain a little, but she had no idea what. The usual gestures of a warm meal or a lovely card seemed wholly inadequate. She needed to do more.

“Enough of this,” Alex said, her voice firm as she closed the now-emptied dishwasher. “Let’s do something fun. I don’t have to be at the restaurant until five tonight, so I’m hanging out here with you until then.”

“You don’t have to babysit me.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Who said I was talking to you? I’m here to visit Chester.”

At his name, her basset hound lifted his head off the rug and gave Alex the happiest look he could muster out of his droopy eyes.

“That’s right, you gorgeous cuddle monkey. You’re such a good boy. Yes, you are.” Chester obediently rose and headed over to Alex to nudge against her leg. “Chester and I are going to snuggle up and watch Charade, aren’t we, you?”

He licked her hand, his tail wagging hard enough to churn butter.

Alex grinned at the dog, then looked up at Claire. “I guess you can join us.”

“Thank you,” she said dryly.

“A perfect afternoon, right? We can admire Audrey Hepburn and her hats and moon over the lovely Cary Grant.”

It did sound perfect, she had to admit.

The only thing better would have been sharing a longer kiss with Riley.

HE WASN’T AVOIDING CLAIRE over the next week, he was only busy.

That’s what Riley told himself anyway, as the unusually wet and cool May dripped along. He was still trying to settle into his new role as a small-town police chief, a task made more difficult by a few strident voices who didn’t want him there, led by J. D. Nyman.

He had plenty to do preparing for the preliminary court proceedings in the robberies—filling out paperwork, interviewing the other teens involved, trying to inventory the stolen items they’d recovered so that they could be returned to their rightful owners. And it wasn’t as if that little crime spree was all he had to deal with.

Throw in a half-assed knife fight at the Dirty Dog between a couple of drunk, stupid tourists, some shop-lifters at the grocery store who tried to shove a couple of pot roasts down their pants and a pair of domestic assaults and he had plenty on his plate. His obligations didn’t leave much time for social calls.

That’s what he told himself anyway. He might almost believe it, too, if not for the annoying little voice in his head that whispered the truth.

In his heart, he knew he was avoiding Claire for one reason. That kiss they shared had rocked him off his foundation and he didn’t quite know what to do about it.

Claire wasn’t the sort of women he was used to. She was soft and pretty and homey, the kind of woman who could spend months fixing a crumbling old house so her family could have a comfortable nest. She was soft quilts and warm cookies after school and flowers brimming over weathered baskets on the porch steps.

All the things he’d been running from like hell since he reached adulthood.

As he headed home from the station on Thursday evening, nearly a week after he had seen those flickering porch lights as he passed her house, Riley mulled all the reasons he needed to ignore the urge to stop by her place to check on her, the same litany of excuses he’d been telling himself every day since their shattering kiss.

As stunning as he found the experience, he knew he couldn’t repeat it.

Claire and he were entirely different. His relationships tended toward fun, casual, no-strings-attached sorts of encounters with women looking for the same thing. He knew it probably had to do with his father deserting them all when he was fourteen. As he had watched his mother’s stunned devastation in that first year after James McKnight decided he was being smothered by his family and needed to escape, Riley had decided he wasn’t going to ever be in that position, where one person could have that kind of power over him. Nor would he ever be the one doing the hurting.

He had almost married once, when he was seventeen years old and his girlfriend found out she was pregnant. The marriage would have been a disaster, he knew that now. The miscarriage she’d suffered at two months, while a tragedy at the time, had probably been one of those blessings-in-disguise things.

Riley wasn’t sure he was cut out for that life. Watching his sisters’ various marital misadventures had only reinforced that conviction. Casual and fun and flirty, that was him, where no one could end up with a broken heart.

Claire wasn’t like that. She needed a man who would stick around. Because that man wasn’t Riley—and because he couldn’t seem to spend a moment in her company without wanting to become whatever she needed—he decided he was better off staying away.

He was still telling himself that on his way home from the station that evening when he spied a kid trying to ride a bike with his arm in a cast and making no effort to dodge the puddles left by the steady rain of the day.

He smiled as he recognized Owen Bradford under the blue helmet and the Star Wars clone fighter backpack. Nice to see the kid’s broken arm wasn’t keeping him from the simple pleasures of puddle jumping. Riley had spent many a drippy day when he was a kid seeing just how high he could make the water splash.

He waved, tapping his horn as he passed, and saw Owen’s flash of a grin. The kid raised his casted arm to return the wave, but the movement shifted his weight just enough that he was slightly unbalanced when the front tire hit the edge of a puddle that turned out to be more like a pothole. The bike’s rear tire went up in the air and Owen, not holding on well, did a spectacular endo over the handle bars.

Crap on a stick. Riley slammed on his brakes and pulled his patrol vehicle to the side of the road—half on the grassy parking strip of grumpy old Mr. Maguire, who wouldn’t appreciate it, he knew—and shoved open the door.

When he reached the kid, Owen was sitting beside his bicycle wearing an expression of mingled pain and disgust.

He had mud from chest to knee where he’d fallen and Riley could see a rip in his jeans and a blood smear glimmering through the frayed threads of cotton. Despite the kid’s obvious war wounds, Riley could tell he was trying fiercely not to cry, his mouth pressed in a hard line.

He had been that same kind of kid, stubbornly determined to be tough, and seeing this mini-me version of himself was a little disconcerting.

“You okay, bud?”

“Yeah.” Owen’s voice sounded a little ragged but he cleared his throat. “I think so. Stupid puddle.”

“You’ve got to watch those. You never can tell how deep they are or what’s underneath the water.”

It struck him that while Claire probably wouldn’t appreciate being compared to a mud puddle, the argument could be made that she was much the same. He had a feeling there were hidden depths and pitfalls to her, just waiting to tangle a man up on his handlebars.

Or maybe he just needed to stop thinking about her every blasted minute.

“I do have to say, that was a truly spectacular dive. I’d give it 10 for form and a 9.5 for precision.”

Owen giggled, just as he’d hoped. The shock of the fall was probably beginning to wear off and in Riley’s experience, this was the trickiest point, when the adrenaline rush faded and the pain set in.

“How’s the cast?” he asked. “Did it get banged up?”

Owen lifted his arm and gave it an appraising look in the gathering twilight. “Muddy. My mom’s gonna be mad.”

“I doubt that. It was an accident and we should be able to wipe it down because it’s fiberglass. Can I help you up?”