In Safe Hands (7 page)

“Good night, Ms. Little. I hope you're able to get some sleep tonight.”

“'Night, Sheriff.” As she closed the door behind him, she muttered, “After your little pep talk, I doubt I'll ever sleep again.”

“The dead-body mystery is solved.”

Stunned into immobility, Daisy felt the jump rope smack her shins. “You've been here for twenty minutes.”

“So?” Despite the speed of the rope, his voice was conversational. Daisy wondered what it would take to make him breathless and then blushed as her mind jumped right into the gutter. Clearing her throat, she refocused.

“You're just telling me this now?” She was tempted to use the jump rope to strangle the man. That might make him breathless.

He made a sound that was the verbal equivalent of a shrug. Daisy waited for a few more slaps of his rope against the floor and then demanded, “So?”

“So?” Although he turned his face to hide it, she caught a tiny grin and knew he was messing with her. She was leaning more and more toward strangling.

“Chris Jennings. Do not make me kill you.”

He laughed and finally stopped jumping. “Rob called the owners of the house. They're living in Florida and said that they hired Angus Macavoy to clear out some junk in the back yard.”

“Angus Macavoy?” The name didn't ring a bell. “Have you told me about him before?”

“Don't think so.” Chris put both handles in his right hand and absently began swinging the rope in vertical circles. Eyeing the blurred rope, Daisy took a cautious step away from a potential unintentional slap. “He just started six months or so ago.”

“That was him yesterday morning, then? Why was he doing it at three thirty?”

“According to Rob, who had a little chat with Macavoy about using a department vehicle for personal use, all the junk he'd cleared wouldn't fit in his compact car. Yesterday, after he'd worked the three-to-three swing shift, he decided to stop by and pick up the pile of stuff in the SUV. He hauled it to the junkyard and then went home to sleep.”

“Why wasn't he in his uniform?”

Chris was doing figure-eight loops with the jump rope now. “He likes to change before he leaves work.”

It took a few seconds to process the explanation, to make it fit with what she saw. The feeling of menace she'd experienced while watching must have been her imagination. “Of course there's a reason that doesn't involve someone dying. Sorry to drag you along on this fake mystery train, Chris.”

“I'm glad you told me. It was definitely suspicious. Your neighborhood tips help a lot, especially with nipping that Corbin kid's shenanigans in the bud.”

“Shenanigans? And Lou called
me
an Amish grandma?” Her smile was short-lived, and she groaned with embarrassment. “I can't believe the sheriff wasted his time on this.”

“Wasn't a waste,” Chris countered. “In fact, he said to thank you for giving him the heads-up that Macavoy was misusing resources. Rob'll keep a closer eye on him from now on.”

Although she nodded, her face still burned at the memory of the sheriff's sharp gaze watching her as she talked about dead bodies. “Your boss is…”

Chris picked that moment to pull up the bottom hem of his shirt to wipe his face, revealing his abs. His T-shirt still lifted, he eyed her over the fabric. “He's…what? Tenacious? Humor-free? A workaholic? A hottie?”

“Well, I was going to say intense, but now I'm more interested in discussing the fact that you're attracted to your boss.”

He snorted, finally letting his shirt drop back into place, which allowed Daisy's brain to start functioning again. “I was just quoting one of the girls on a class tour a couple of weeks ago. Not the workaholic and humorless part, though. That was all me.”

“Huh.” During the sheriff's visit, she'd been too stressed, embarrassed, and a host of other negative emotions to rank him on the hot-or-not scale. She tried to bring up his features in her mind, but it was no use. She just couldn't get past how small and raw he'd made her feel. “I'll have to take your word for it. Do you like working for him?”

Chris's teasing expression faded as he considered the question. “Most of the time, yeah. I do. He can be rigid and rule-bound, but that's pretty common in cops. I like that he's consistent, easy to predict. Even if I know I've screwed up and am going to get my ass chewed, it's better than not knowing how he'll react. Make sense?”

After considering it for a moment, she said, “I can see that. I'm probably overreacting. He just kept looking at me like I was a bug he really wanted to squash.”

Laughing, Chris said, “We call it ‘going to confession.' After a few minutes of Rob giving someone the eyeball, the suspect spills his guts about every bad thing he's ever done, even admitting to shoplifting a pack of gum when he was nine.”

“I'd confess,” Daisy admitted with a shiver. Talking about the sheriff was souring her stomach, so she changed the subject as she hung her jump rope on its peg. “I think we're warmed up, Yoda. What's today's lesson?”

His grin had a predatory cast that shouldn't have been as attractive as it was. “Aggression drills.”

“Sounds…um, interesting?”

“It's important. You're smaller than most would-be attackers.”

“I'm not
that
small.” She scowled, although she couldn't force much heat into it. She was too grateful to him for the way he treated her. During training, Chris always acted like she could walk out the door anytime she wished. He never mentioned the improbability of her having to face off with anyone besides him and maybe Lou. “Oh! I almost forgot. Lou was wondering if she could join us for training sometime. And someone named Ellie, too, although she needs to recover from a bullet to the chest first?”

Her expression must have been horrified, since Chris gave an amused snort. At least, Daisy hoped he was laughing at her reaction and not at the poor woman who had been shot. “Sure. You'll get a chance to spar with someone besides me that way. And the bullet was deflected, so Ellie Price has a fractured sternum and a monster of a bruise, but she doesn't have the bloody hole in her chest that you're picturing.”

“Good.” She had indeed been imagining a gory wound. “And Callum doesn't want you sparring with Lou, so he'll be here, too.”

Looking perilously close to rolling his eyes, Chris said dryly, “Of course he will. There's no way George is going to let Ellie out of his sight, either, so prepare for a full house. I wouldn't be surprised if Rory joined the fun, too.”

“Yeah, Lou mentioned a Rory.” The name was familiar, but it took a minute for her to remember the story Chris had told her. “Isn't she the one who moved in with Ian Walsh across the street?”

“Yep. Ian'll probably tag along, too.”

Daisy was quiet as she mentally inventoried food and beverages. With a group of six people coming, plus Chris, she'd definitely need to restock. As much as she didn't want to ask Chris for help, there was no other alternative unless her dad returned soon.

“Dais?” Chris's tentative tone brought her out of her contemplation. “You okay with everyone coming here?”

“Sure.” She smiled at him, deciding to wait until the event was actually scheduled before worrying about training-day refreshments. “How about those anger drills?”

“
Aggression
drills,” he corrected, letting it go. “We're taught to avoid acting aggressively, especially women, so we need to work on changing your initial reactions. Like this.” He grabbed her forearm. “What's your instinctive response?”

Surprised at the contact, Daisy looked at his hand and then his face, not moving.

A grin started to curl up the corner of his mouth, but he quashed it, returning his expression to stern-instructor mode. “If I were a stranger, what would be your first reaction?”

“Maybe scream, depending on the situation.”

“Screaming's good. What else?”

His fingers tightened, and she automatically tried to yank her arm out of his grip.

“Right!” he said, resisting her attempt at freeing herself. “Your initial instinct is to pull back. How's that working for you?”

Daisy increased her efforts, leaning back to use her body weight as well as her arm muscles to try to escape. “Not well,” she gritted, her voice already a little breathless.

“Exactly. By trying to pull away, you've created a tug-of-war situation, where the one with the most brute strength wins. Which one of us will that be?”

“You,” she grumbled reluctantly, giving up her attempt at freeing herself.

“Yes. Me or your probably bigger attacker. Not only have you put yourself in a contest that you won't win, but you're doing exactly what he expects.” He released her arm, taking a step back, and then lunged forward to seize her again. Automatically, she tried to lurch backward, tugging against his hold. “When I grab you, I expect you to pull back.”

“So I'm not supposed to try to get free?” she asked doubtfully.

He let her go again and retreated a few feet. “Grab me.”

Grinning, she did, grasping his hard forearm in both hands. Daisy always liked when she got to play the attacker. It gave her a feeling of control, and, although she'd never admit it to Chris, it was a treat to be able to touch him without him trying to leap away from her.

As soon as she gripped his arm, he moved—not backward, like she had, but forward, into her space. Startled, she stumbled back a step.

“And there it is. You weren't expecting that, so it threw you off balance. Now I'm here, close to you, where I can land a knee”—he mimed the defensive movements as he named them—“an elbow or a palm heel strike.” His hand brushed the side of her neck.

Trying to ignore that light contact, she frowned. “It seems wrong, though, to come closer to the bad guy when I want to get away.”

“That's why it works. It's unexpected and counterintuitive. You just need to practice until it becomes second nature. Then your instinctual reaction will be to step into the assailant's space rather than trying to pull away.”

“Hence aggression drills?”

He grinned. “Hence aggression drills.” With his best villainous expression, he grabbed her arm.

* * *

An hour later, Daisy was clinging to the grappling dummy.

“Max! Save me from the evil drill sergeant,” she groaned, her legs wobbly with fatigue.

Chris glanced at his watch. “I need to get a few things done at home anyway, so we should probably wrap things up.”

“Thank you.” Even to her own ears, she sounded pathetically grateful. After aggression drills, they'd done a cross-fit workout that included burpees—something Daisy was positive had been invented by the devil in the deepest depths of hell.

He smirked, eyeing her desperate grip on Max. “You two look…cozy.”

Too exhausted to care that she was hanging off a fake, naked man, Daisy just shrugged—or she would have shrugged if her deltoids hadn't stopped working twenty minutes ago.

“Don't forget to stretch,” he warned as he walked to the door.

Daisy scowled at his back, annoyed at the way his legs continued to function, even though he'd worked out right alongside of her.

“Thanks, Chris!” she yelled as he headed into the hall. He disappeared, only to stick his head back in a moment later.

“Don't you need to lock the door after me?”

“Right.” With a groan, she heaved herself upright. Once she was certain that her legs would support her on their own, she left Max with a grateful pat on the rear.

“You're abnormally attached to that thing,” Chris said as she shuffled to the doorway.

“Max is awesome. As much as I punch him, he never holds a grudge.”

“I let you punch me,” Chris huffed. If she had any energy to spare, she would've laughed at his offended expression. “A lot more than Max has.”

Her chuckle came out as more of a wheeze. “Yes, you're almost as awesome.”

“Almost?”

“Max gets extra points for letting me cuddle him afterward.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could unsay them. Although she didn't want to look at Chris, she couldn't help herself—her gaze darted to his face. Immediately, she regretted it. The teasing humor had disappeared, leaving an impassive mask that the sheriff would've envied.

The rest of their trip to the front door was silent.

“Thanks again, Chris,” she finally blurted as he opened the interior door.

His nod of acknowledgment was short. “Later, Dais.” Then he was gone.

Securing the locks on autopilot, she heard the clunk of the outer door closing. Her forehead made a similar sound as it hit the wood panel in front of her.

“You're a bigger dummy than Max,” she muttered to herself. With a groan that was as much about disappointment as it was sore muscles, she pushed herself away from the door and shuffled toward the shower.

That night, she lay in bed, her eyes wide open. Despite the training session from hell, she couldn't sleep. The light entering her bedroom window was strange. It wasn't snowing outside, but a cloud had settled over the neighborhood like a blanket, turning everything a foggy white. The illuminated rectangle of her window called to her, but she resolutely ignored it. The memory of the sheriff's judgmental gaze still stung, and she was determined to break the habit of spying on her neighbors.

It was hard. The book she'd been reading wouldn't hold her interest, not with teenage domestic drama and furtive junk disposal happening within view. Daisy tried thinking about the upcoming training session, instead. Lou hadn't wasted any time getting it arranged, and everyone would be coming over at two o'clock on Saturday, just two days away. She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. When she saw that it was after one a.m., she mentally corrected herself. Saturday was only one day away.

The window beckoned. With a huff of irritation, she threw off the covers and got out of bed. “Just for a minute,” she muttered, then laughed. She sounded like an addict—a spying addict.