Bad Girl by Night (11 page)

So walk away he did, on a sigh, back to Schubert’s, where he drank a root beer and indeed chatted with more of the locals and started to feel, bit by bit, as if he were beginning to fit in here, becoming a part of this town.

But
would
he leave it alone? Leave
her
alone? That part he wasn’t sure about yet.

He should. But the hell of it was . . . he wasn’t certain he
could
.

 

 

T
he two chocolate cream pies Carly held carefully on one of her handmade cherrywood trays were both perfect, just like every year. The recipe had come down from her grandma to her mother and was now hers. But her mom claimed Carly’s meringue was even taller and fluffier than when she baked it herself, and Carly couldn’t disagree. She wasn’t an outstanding cook or baker, but there were a few things she made well, and chocolate cream pie was one of them.

Now she stood in line at the pie baking booth on the Fourth of July, waiting to enter the annual contest—even if she was having second thoughts about it this year.

“Well, hello, Carly.”

She looked up to see Mary Reinholdt, who ran the contest, ready to take her entry, as she placed the pies on the booth’s plywood counter, painted red.

“Your signature chocolate cream, I see,” the older lady said with a smile as she assigned the pies a number, which she taped onto the tin plates. “Given the heat, we’ll get these in the fridge until judging and auction time, of course. Good luck!”

In accordance with a Turnbridge tradition that went back at least seventy-five years, the second pie would be auctioned off after the contest, the baker sharing the first two slices with the person who bought it. Once upon a time, it had been a romantic frivolity—and it was well known in the community that Carly’s parents had first dated after her father bought one of her mother’s chocolate pies. Now, however, the tradition felt pretty obsolete—last year Carly had ended up sharing her pie with Tiffany Cleary, who’d made a point of outbidding everyone because her dad loved chocolate pie. In other years, Carly had eaten pie with Frank Schubert and also one of her mother’s bridge partners. Some men made a point of buying the pie baked by their wife or girlfriend, but the romance of the tradition was mostly a thing of the past and the “sharing” part seemed silly to Carly at this point.

And the sharing part was also what had almost made her not enter this year—just in case the new town cop decided to show up and bid. Since he’d seemed so intent on talking to her ever since they’d met—the second time.

But while eating lunch one day outside the deli with Dana and Beth Anne, Carly had mentioned that she might not enter and her friends had nearly gone crazy.

“You
have
to enter!” Beth Anne insisted. “Everybody loves your pie, and besides, if you don’t, that harpy Julie Marie Steinberg might win, and I’d hate that.” Julie Marie Steinberg’s apple pie had, in fact, won the year before Carly’s pie had begun taking the top honor, and the woman—a fairly recent transplant to Turnbridge—was always insinuating that her baked goods were better than what she bought at Beth Anne’s. “And if my peach pie were to do well, too, we might shut her out of first and second place altogether this year.”

“And besides, why
wouldn’t
you enter?” Dana asked.

Carly had hesitated, the faint taste of bile rising to her throat.

“Well?” Dana persisted.

At which point Carly had sighed, felt stuck, and given an honest answer. “Okay, maybe this is stupid, but I guess I’m afraid that new cop will buy my pie.”

Dana just blinked her disbelief. “Yes, that
is
stupid.”

“Wait, what did I miss?” Beth Anne asked, looking back and forth between them.

After which Carly had been forced to tell the same fib to Beth Anne that she’d told Dana a few days earlier. And then they’d both lectured her on being a stick in the mud, and Dana had said, “How could you not want to go out with him?” and “You
are
baking pies this year, if I have to stand over you with one of your scary woodworking tools to make it happen. And I hope he
does
bid for your pie so you’re forced to spend a little time with the guy and give him a chance.”

Then, of course, Beth Anne had had to chime in with, “Really, Carly, don’t take this the wrong way, but we worry about you.” Never dating, she meant. They’d had this conversation before.

Finally, she’d just agreed to enter the stupid contest to shut them up and end the discussion.

And actually, she hadn’t seen Jake since that night she’d nearly run right into him on the street. God, the way he’d been standing there staring up at her window . . . Something about it had nearly made her heart stop when she’d come upon him like that in the dark. And when he’d turned to her that very moment, his eyes had sparkled beneath the streetlight.

But maybe he’d finally gotten the message and would leave her alone now.

Damn, she wished that little sidewalk meeting had never happened. Well, she wished
none
of this had ever happened—she wished she’d found someone
else
to have sex with that night, or that Jake had never moved here, or that even if he
had
moved here that he hadn’t recognized her.

But the fresher problem was: Before she’d found him staring up at her apartment, she’d been angry with him—yet ever since . . . oh hell, those sparkling eyes of his had heated her up inside. And the mere memory of the moment turned her on, every time he came to mind, even despite the horrible fears she still suffered about him.

And—oh God, it was just plain difficult to face him. In the beginning, the shock had been the problem, and of course the fear. But by that night, she’d graduated beyond the surprise and worry to stark embarrassment. How could she
ever
see him anywhere in town without knowing he was recalling all the dirty, dirty things she’d done with him and Colt? How could visions of those obscene acts—which had excited her so much then and horrified her so much now—not pop into his head every time he saw her, or even passed by her shop or heard her name? What on earth must he think of her? And why had he been so intent on talking to her after she’d asked him to leave her alone?

Of course, maybe she’d handled all this the wrong way. Maybe if she’d just come clean, just talked to him in the first place and asked him, from one imperfect human being to another, to please never tell anyone, maybe that would have been smarter—maybe it would have given him whatever it was he was seeking from her now. But the trouble with that was—the very idea of having an actual conversation with him about it made her want to hide, bury her head in the sand. It wasn’t only him she didn’t want to face—she didn’t want to have to face
herself
, either. She didn’t want to face the reality of the things she’d done in the dark of night and then tucked away so neatly along with her sexy lingerie. She didn’t want to have to admit, out loud, that any of it had ever happened.

Now here she was at the Fourth of July festival and Officer Lockhart was bound to be here somewhere—if not yet, then later. But maybe he wouldn’t even be present for the pie auction on Main Street, shut down to traffic for the day. Maybe, in fact, she’d become completely paranoid about this.

Yet how could she not be? It still felt as if he held her entire fate in his hands.

Stepping away from the pie booth as other ladies handed over their entries, she glanced around at the people milling about. At the red, white, and blue streamers draped overhead, crossing the street from one telephone pole to another. At smiling faces, at well-tended flower boxes lining windows, at tidy storefronts and T-shirts sporting the American flag. Life in this little town was all she knew. Being loved and respected by the good people of Turnbridge mattered to her, deeply. If Jake Lockhart took that away, if he even tarnished it, her life would never be the same.

When a hand closed over her arm, she flinched, but looking over, found only Dana. Thank God. “It’s almost Hank’s turn in the dunking booth at the fire station—let’s go watch,” she said with a smile.

Carly smiled back, or tried to anyway, and let her friend lead her in that direction.

But she kept her eyes open for the new town policeman at every turn—and felt a little more thankful, and a little more relieved, with each passing minute she didn’t see him.

 

 

J
ake leaned against the brick wall of the bank building along with Tom Gwynn, taking in the Fourth of July festivities. And taking in Carly Winters. Today she wore a fitted red tee with cute white shorts that reminded him how silky and long her legs were—legs he’d once seen spread lasciviously wide. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail with some sort of fluffy red-white-and-blue elastic doodad. She looked cute as hell, and—he was tempted to point out to his new buddy—not the least bit like a closet lesbian.

Of course, she didn’t exactly look like a girl who would invite two guys she’d just met at a bar to have raunchy sex, either.

She stood with another woman—a pregnant redhead—and a big guy who he’d bet was the redhead’s husband. A large crowd had gathered in front of the pie stand—Tommy had told him the pie contest and auction was the biggest draw of the day until the fireworks after dark. Tom had also explained how the auction worked, adding, “So I gotta pay attention when they sell Tina’s apple pie. If I don’t buy it, I’m a dead man. Last year, she had to eat a slice with Barlow Jones—he’s that old geezer you see driving up and down Main in that yellow Cadillac. He’s eighty if he’s a day, he’s always on the make for women less than half his age, and Tina says he even smells weird, too.”

Jake just laughed, then listened as an older lady announced the winners of the contest. Third place went to Julie Marie somebody, who looked smug and put out as she approached the stand to take her white ribbon. Second went to Beth Anne somebody, who actually squealed a little when her name was called and ran up to snatch the red ribbon from the emcee lady’s hand. “Beth Anne owns the bakery,” Tommy told him.

“And first place, for the fourth year in a row,” the woman said, smiling with pride, “goes to our dear Carly Winters for her scrum-dilly-icious chocolate cream pie.”

A few people in the crowd cheered and the rest applauded, all looking genuinely pleased for Carly. Frank Schubert was right—people loved her. Jake just couldn’t quite figure out
why,
since she had yet to be anything other than rude to
him
. Carly appeared gracious and even a bit shy as she wove her way through the crowd to accept the blue ribbon, and the woman squeezed both Carly’s hands in hers—one more show of affection for the hometown girl.

As she took her place back with her friends, the woman with the microphone said, “Thank you to all the ladies who entered this year. And now we all know what comes next—our annual pie auction! Proceeds go to the Turnbridge Festival Committee, so be generous, folks, so we can keep having all our wonderful events each year.” Then a man standing behind her passed her a card to read as he held up a pie for the crowd. “First up, we have this delicious apple pie baked by Tina Gwynn.”

Jake elbowed Tommy. “You’re up, dude.”

In response, Tommy started to bid, but hesitated, and Jake sensed him trying to choose an appropriate amount that wouldn’t offend his wife but also wouldn’t break his bank. By the time he was ready, an old man yelled out, “Seven dollars,” and Tommy growled under his breath, letting Jake know it was the old guy in the Caddy.

“Ten!” Tommy called.

Four bids later, Tommy was at twenty dollars and looked to Jake like he was starting to sweat. When no other bids came, the lady with the mike finally declared, “Going, going, gone—an apple pie to Officer Gwynn for twenty dollars,” concluding with a big wink since the pie had come from Tommy’s wife.

And Tina herself delivered the pie a minute later, saying, “My hero,” with a pretty smile as she nestled against her husband—who then introduced her to Jake.

As Jake watched them, thinking they fit well together, he began to realize Turnbridge was rife with couples. They were all around him at the festival, and he was pretty sure he was the only single guy at the police department. Back in the city, he’d never thought much about the idea of getting married, settling down, but here, it was clearly the thing to do.
Hmm. If I stay here, will I become one of those settled down married guys buying his wife’s pie, going over to Cherry Creek to happily look-not-touch like Tom? Could I be into that?

He didn’t know, but it was way too early to be asking those kinds of questions, anyway—especially since the one single girl in town he knew hated his guts for reasons unknown and clearly had a few problems of her own anyway. And right now he was far more caught up in looking at Carly Winters’ long, lithe legs than in thinking about all the happy couples around him.

But—huh—did
Carly
want that? Did she see all these cozy couples and wish she was one of them? And why the hell wasn’t she? Was it really possible
she
—of the infinite blow job—had really broken up with her first love because she didn’t like sex with him? Given where Jake had been with her, he just didn’t see how that was possible. The mysteries around his hot one-night stand just seemed to multiply.

Barlow Jones, Jake soon realized, bid on
most
of the pies. “Maybe he just likes pie,” he told Tom and Tina with a shrug.

But Tina lowered her chin derisively. “No, what he likes is
girls.
The old bastard kept trying to touch my leg under the table last year.”

“So, does anybody but me think this is a
really
outdated tradition?” Jake asked. He’d heard stories about such things back in his grandparents’ time, but not since then.

Tina nodded. “Everybody does—but we all keep entering our pies anyway. For the life of me, I don’t know why.”