Sherryl Woods - Flamingo Diner

“When did you develop this fondness for old things?” he asked. “I thought you wanted to be an actress or maybe a pilot.”

She laughed. “How on earth did you remember that? I’d almost forgotten. I guess by my senior year in high school I’d figured out I wasn’t cut out for the silver screen, since I never once got chosen for the school play. As for being a pilot, once I understood how much technology was involved, I realized I was more interested in seeing the world than in actually flying a plane.”

“It’s still a big leap from either of those careers to selling antiques,” Matt said.

“While I was in college, I used to wander around Georgetown when I had some free time. There was this great thrift shop next door to a coffee shop I liked. I started poking around in there, looking for things to decorate my dorm room. One day I found a piece of porcelain. Even under all the grime, something about it made me think it might be valuable. I paid a few bucks for it, cleaned it up, then took it up the street to Fashionable Memories. Marcel bought it from me for a hundred dollars, then sold it for twice that. He told me he’d buy any other treasures I stumbled across. Next thing I knew, I was haunting thrift stores and going to flea markets and garage sales all over town. He suggested I start taking some appraisal courses. When I graduated, he offered me a job.”

She grinned at him. “Believe it or not, that’s the short version.”

“And the long version?”

“You don’t want to hear it. I go on and on about the thrill of the hunt, about trying to discover the history behind a particular piece, about feeling connected to the past. It’s pretty boring stuff.”

Matt gazed into her shining eyes and felt that familiar spark of desire, that tug of longing to know everything that went on in her head. She had the kind of enthusiasm that was contagious. “I can’t imagine anything you have to say ever being boring,” he said honestly.

“Then one of these days before I go back to Washington, I’ll take you with me to explore a few thrift shops around this area. I guarantee I’ll have you pleading for mercy by lunchtime,” she promised, barely stifling a yawn.

Matt laughed. “I’ll hold you to that.” He stood up. “I really do need to get out of here and let you get some sleep.” He searched her face. “Think you can now?”

She nodded slowly, looking vaguely surprised. “Actually, yes. Thank you.”

“For what? Making you sleepy?”

She stood up and touched his cheek. “No, for distracting me for a little while.”

“My pleasure. I’ll be back in the morning. If you need anything in the meantime, my home number’s on the back of this card.” He handed it to her, noting the beginnings of a smile tugging on her lips. “What?”

“Matt Atkins, Chief of Police,” she said with a shake of her head. “I guess we really are all grown-up now.”

He shrugged. “So they say.” For the last few hours, he’d felt like a teenager again, awkward and uncertain in the presence of a girl on which he’d had a secret crush forever.

When she reached up to give him a kiss on the cheek, he turned so that her lips brushed his. It was just a fleeting, unexpected caress, but it was enough to send fire shooting through his veins.

When he looked into Emma’s eyes, he saw by her startled reaction that the kiss had done something to her, too. Then her gaze turned shuttered, as if she’d suddenly remembered that her father had just died, and Matt cursed himself for being a jerk. The woman was in mourning and he was sneaking kisses just to prove something to himself.

And what had he proved? That he could coax a reaction from her? That he still felt a powerful pull where Emma Killian was concerned? Or simply that he was about as sensitive as a sledgehammer?

He considered apologizing, then decided that would make way too much of what had been little more than a friendly peck on the lips.

“Get some sleep,” he ordered brusquely instead.

“You, too. You must be exhausted.”

He had been, but then he’d met Emma at the airport and he’d caught a second wind. “I’m used to long hours.”

“But not to finding a friend drowned in the lake, I imagine,” she said quietly, a quaver in her voice as if the haunting image had lodged in her head.

“No, not to that,” he agreed. “Don’t focus on that, Emma. It doesn’t do any good.”

“How can I not?” she asked wistfully. “I’m afraid when I close my eyes that’s what I’ll see. It’s just been words up till now, but I’m afraid if I try to sleep, I’ll see what you saw.”

To be honest, Matt shared the same fear. The scene was indelibly inscribed in his head. Even without having been the one to pull Don from that car, he’d seen him in the murky water, still and lifeless. If it had been horrifying for him, how much worse would it be for Emma? Thank God he’d been the one to discover Don, and not someone in the family who would be haunted by the image forever.

“Come on, then,” he said, making a decision.

Swearing to himself that this was not a totally self-serving act, he led the way into the living room and pulled Emma down on the sofa beside him.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, but she didn’t resist. “Matt, you don’t need to stay. You need to go home and get some sleep.”

“I can pretty much sleep in any position, especially after being up more than twenty-four hours straight,” he said, gently tugging her until her head was resting against his shoulder. “Now, go to sleep. I’ll be right here, if you start to have nightmares.”

“I can’t let you do this,” she protested sleepily, but her eyes were already drifting closed.

Eventually he felt her relax against him, heard her breathing ease. Then, and only then, did he turn off the light and let himself fall asleep.

5

“Well, if this isn’t just fucking terrific!”

Emma was awakened by the sound of Jeff’s disgusted voice. “What’s going on?” she mumbled sleepily. She squinted and caught a glimpse of her brother’s outraged expression. “Jeff? Is everything okay?”

She felt something shift beneath her and realized that she was resting not against a pillow in her own bed, but against Matt’s chest. At her sudden movement, he groaned and stirred.

“Dad’s dead, and the two of you are making it in the living room,” Jeff accused. “Yeah, looks to me like life’s just peachy, at least for you.”

“We are not making it,” Emma said calmly, straightening her blouse as she stood up. Jeff was clearly looking for someone on whom to take out his anger. She refused to let him goad her into such a ridiculous fight.

“You could have fooled me,” Jeff said. “Dad thought you were such a saint. I guess now that he’s gone, the truth’s out.”

Emma fought against the tide of hurt that crashed over her at the reminder that her father was dead. Somehow during the night, wrapped in Matt’s arms, that reality had slipped away. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. It was Matt who filled the silence.

“Don’t speak to your sister that way,” he ordered curtly, scowling at Jeff. “You owe her an apology.”

“For what? Telling her the truth?”

“Nothing happened here, Jeff,” Matt said quietly, “and you know it. We’re both fully clothed. And don’t you think if we were making it, as you put it, we’d have gone someplace a little more private and comfortable? Your sister was upset. I stayed. End of story.”

Emma saw the anger and confusion in Jeff’s eyes and knew that what he was really upset about had nothing to do with finding her in Matt’s arms on the living room sofa. He might be twenty, but he was still a scared kid who’d just lost his dad. She could certainly relate to that. Her father’s death had shaken her world to its very foundation, and she was six years older and had been on her own for some time now.