She bent down and struggled a moment to unhook the belt, hampered by the awkwardness of her cast.
“Hang on. Let me get that.”
He joined her on the porch, trying not to notice the scent of her, strawberries and springtime, or the way her white cotton blouse gaped open probably a button more than she realized, revealing a tiny hint of the lacy bra beneath.
The belt had seemed a good idea at the time, but removing it proved more difficult than he expected. He finally knelt to the level of the dog—and within perfect view of Claire’s legs beneath the knee-length flowered skirt she wore, one in a cast and the other bare and smooth. The toes of both feet had been painted a vivid, adorable pink.
He cleared his throat and yanked the belt free, looping it around his hand to keep from sliding his fingers up that delectable length of leg....
“Thank you,” Claire said again. “I’m sure he would have wandered back, but I appreciate your going to the trouble to bring him home.”
He rose. “No problem. I didn’t want to risk him going into the next block and not being able to find his way.”
She studied him for a moment there and he thought he saw indecision on her features. “Want to come in for a moment?” she asked, the words tumbling over each other quickly. “Angie brought some cinnamon rolls over earlier this evening.”
“My sister Angie?”
“The Demon Seed is what I like to call her, especially when she comes bearing her cinnamon rolls. She brought a whole dozen over, but the kids are gone all weekend. If I don’t find somebody to take some of them off my hands, I’m going to eat the whole pan myself.”
“That woman knows how to hold a grudge. I couldn’t make it to Sunday dinner at her place last week and to pay me back, she makes you cinnamon rolls and conveniently forgets I live only at the end of the block.”
“Maybe she thinks you’re able to find your own pastries,” she murmured.
Something in her tone had him looking closely for any sort of double meaning, but she only smiled blandly.
“Yeah, it’s definitely a job hazard when you’re a cop. Seems like there are always doughnuts available, whether you want them or not.”
“Those, too.” She opened the door. “Angie brought me more than enough rolls. Come in and I’ll try to find a container for you to take some home.”
“I’ve always got room for Angie’s cinnamon rolls. They’ll make a great breakfast before my shift tomorrow. Thank you.”
She only limped a little as she led the way into the entry and through the hall.
He was struck again by how warm and welcoming she had made her house. It was the sort of place designed for kicking off shoes and settling in. The kitchen smelled delicious, of lemons and spice and roasting meat. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it as Chester headed straight for the water dish and Claire bustled around her kitchen, pulling out a disposable plastic container. Riley leaned against the doorjamb as she moved half of the round pan into the container.
“Something smells good in here.”
She made a face. “Dinner. I know, it’s late, but the kids are at Jeff and Holly’s, so I’ve been catching up on work. I marinated chicken all day and forgot to throw it in until I got home an hour ago. So how was your lunch?” she asked, then immediately looked as if she regretted the question, although he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.
“Good. Do you know Sharilyn Lundberg? She’s a deputy county attorney.”
“I don’t think I’ve met her, no. She seemed lovely.”
He hadn’t noticed anything about the woman other than her sharp legal mind and her annoying habit of touching his arm entirely too often whenever she made a point, as if that brush of physical contact would somehow give more credence to whatever she was saying.
“We’re working together on the charging documents against Charlie Beaumont and the other teens involved in the crime ring.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” Claire’s features suddenly seemed a little more rosy than they had a moment earlier. “Where do things stand with the charges?”
All the frustration of the meeting with Sharilyn pushed back onto his shoulders. “Not well. Small-town politics are a bitch.”
“You’re in a difficult situation, Charlie being the mayor’s son and all.”
“It’s tough.” All he wanted was to do the job he’d been hired for, to be a cop. Instead, he had to wade through this frigging minefield. “The mayor, of course, is trying for a deal, trying to plead down the charges, but that’s going to be impossible. The county attorney wants to make an example here and try Charlie as an adult because he just turned seventeen. He was drinking. Not much, true, only point-zero-four in his system, well under the legal limit for an adult. But as a minor, he’s not supposed to have any alcohol. Layla’s dead and Taryn Thorne is still in a coma and may not come out of it.”