Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 127715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
But what was rendering me speechless, to the point I could feel gooseflesh raising on my arms, was that, from afar, he was an intensely handsome man.
Up close, he was taller than I expected, his shoulders were broader, his jaw was sharper, his cheekbones higher, his dark brown hair more lustrous, and after whatever was going to happen with him being on my doorstep happened, I might construct a shrine so I could worship his thick, long, curling eyelashes.
“Lillian Rainier?” he asked.
I had to clear my throat because…because…
He was just that beautiful.
But now I had his voice, which was deep and imposing. An authoritative cop voice. A man’s-man voice.
Further, it was saying my name, deep, imposing and authoritative. And the sound of it wrapped around something that was only mine made me have a highly inappropriate response.
“Yes,” I forced myself to answer.
“I have a few questions…”
He hesitated, but I could fill in the blanks.
He filled them in for me.
“About your parents. And about Willie Zowkower.”
Willie?
That was a surprise, even when it wasn’t.
“What’s Willie done now?” I asked.
“Can I come in?”
Sheriff Harry Moran…in my house?
Every available woman (and some unavailable ones) from the age of eighteen (probably younger) to eighty (probably older) wanted Harry Moran in their house.
“Ms. Rainier?”
I jolted at his prompt, then I felt my cheeks heat because I was pretty sure I’d been staring at his mouth (I forgot to mention he had great lips, deliciously ridged, the bottom one full, the top one perfectly formed).
I shuffled out of the way, keeping a hold on the door and sweeping my arm out in front of me as an added invitation.
He came in.
I tried not to mentally inventory my living room in an effort to decipher how a man I did not know would react to it.
This was hard, because it was perfect. I’d worked my butt off to make it so.
I just wondered what Sheriff Moran would think of it at the same time I wondered why I cared so much (and I did, I cared a lot).
I didn’t have a ton of space to work with, but in my humble opinion, I’d done a great job.
I closed the door behind Sheriff Moran and watched with unfathomable anxiety as he scanned the room.
Cream sectional, not huge, but it fit great in the space and was ultra comfortable. Cream and brown checked curtains. White walls. Exposed wood beams on the ceiling. Wooden chests instead of tables so I had extra storage. An inspired (again, my humble opinion) array of toss pillows. Heavy-bottomed ceramic lamps sprinkling surfaces.
This, along with the rest of the house, was accomplished through hours of trolling Target and World Market with splurges at places like West Elm and CB2. Not to mention, even more hours of painting, sanding, laying tile and all the rest.
I considered my house—and my garden—my finest achievements.
And as I stood there, stressed out waiting for a reaction, like Handsome Harry Moran would turn and give me a thumbs up for my endeavors, I realized he was having a reaction.
His entire long, muscled frame had grown tight.
“Sheriff?” I called.
He jerked to face me, and full disclosure, over the years, I (and every available woman in Fret County, be they eighteen or eighty) had paid a lot of attention to our local official. We’d grieved for him when he’d lost his wife way too soon. We’d championed him when he’d gone head-to-head with Leland Dern. And we’d commiserated with him when all hell broke loose in Misted Pines (more than once), and all of that—serial killers (times two!) and deranged, homicidal fans—had fallen into his lap.
And in that copious attention, I’d never seen him move awkwardly. He was a man who had command of his body, knew what it could do, and put it to use regularly.
Something about that movement was both alarming and endearing.
“You have a nice place,” he said.
If feelings could bloom a flower, at his comment, my space would be covered with roses.
I smiled at him. “Thanks.”
His eyes dropped to my smile.
My stomach dropped to my feet.
He lifted his gaze swiftly, and I pulled myself together.
“Would you like to sit down?” I asked. “And can I get you something to drink? I have coffee. Also tea. Some Crystal Light, the cherry pomegranate one. Fresca. I think I have a few La Croix, but I don’t know the flavors. Then I have boba. Green apple. It’s yummy.”
Oh, my lord.
Did I just run down every non-alcoholic beverage in my house and call boba yummy?
His (yes, delightfully thick and arched) dark brows stitched together. “Boba?”
“It’s tea. Bubble tea. From Taiwan. I mean, I don’t think the kind I have is from Taiwan, per se. But it originated in Taiwan. I think. It has tapioca pearls in it. That’s the bubble part. It sounds weird, but trust me, it’s super good.”