The Hero Next Door

“You don’t strike me as the Bible-toting type.”

“Is there such a thing?”

His relaxed question threw her. The truth was, she’d always thought of Bible readers as holier-than-thou and a bit nerdy. Yet none of the people of faith she knew fit that stereotype, she acknowledged. This man was certainly far removed from that image.

“I guess not. I just assumed you’d prefer action stories in your reading, given your background.”

A subtle tautness sharpened his features. “I have enough action in real life. Besides, the Bible isn’t dull reading. And it offers great guidance.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that. When it comes to dealing with life, I prefer to rely on myself.”

It occurred to her he might take offense at her remark, but his demeanor remained placid. “You sound like my sister.”

She caught the hint of affection in his tone, and a smile tugged at her lips. “If she’s independent and self-sufficient, I expect we have a lot in common.”

“That pretty much describes Marci.”

“I have a feeling I’d like her.” She took a step back. “Well…I’ll let you get back to your reading. And your lunch.”

“I finished lunch. I’m moving on to dessert.” He snagged a bag from the towel and withdrew a smaller sack. Holding it out to her, he smiled. “Would you like to share? Edith tells me these are great.”

Leaning forward, she peeked into the bag and narrowed her eyes. “Are those almond macaroons from Bartlett’s Farm?”

“Yes. Edith suggested I pick up lunch there, and she said these were fantastic.”

They were also one of her favorite treats. As Edith well knew, Heather thought darkly.

Capitulating, she reached into the bag and took one. She was going to have lots to talk about with her neighbor when she got home. “Thanks. These happen to be a particular favorite of mine.”

“They can’t beat the stuff you serve at your teas. Those were some of the best desserts I’ve ever had.”

Warmth flooded her cheeks, and she backed up a few more steps. “Thanks. I think I’ll head down that way.” She motioned vaguely to the west. “Enjoy your reading.”

“You, too.”

Swiveling around, Heather trekked down the sand in search of her own secluded spot, trying not to wonder if the dark-eyed cop was watching her.

Selecting a niche in the side of a wind-and surf-carved dune, she set up her chair, wiggled into a comfortable position, stretched her feet out in front of her, and opened her book. The novel that had kept her enthralled far too late into the night for the past week would dispel any further thoughts of J.C., she assured herself.

But today, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t focus on the heart-racing suspense between the covers of her book.

Because her heart was already racing—thanks to a certain transplanted Chicago cop who’d staked out a spot on her private territory that was way too close for comfort.

“Is Edith here, Chester?” Heather pushed through the gate into her neighbor’s backyard, passing under the rose-covered arched arbor.

Chester paused from tinkering with the lawn mower and waved a wrench toward the house. “Inside.”

“Thanks.”

Marching toward the back porch, she mounted the steps and called through the open door. “Edith?”

“In the dining room, dear. Come right in. And help yourself to a muffin.”

Heather pulled open the screen door, ignored the fresh-baked treat on the counter in the homey kitchen—an appeasement offering…or Edith’s standard prelude to a good gab session? Heather wondered—and strode into the dining room.

Her neighbor sent her a rueful grimace from her seat at the table. “I don’t know how I got roped into assembling the buzz book for the Women’s Club at church.” She gestured to the stacks of paper in front of her. Selecting a sheet from each pile, she tapped them into a stack and positioned the long-armed stapler. “You didn’t take a muffin.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Heather sent Edith a pointed look. “I already had an almond macaroon from Bartlett’s Farm.”

Heather caught the flash of smug satisfaction on Edith’s face.

“Did you go there today?”

Planting both palms flat on the table, Heather leaned closer. “Don’t play innocent with me, Edith Shaw. J.C. told me you sent him to Ladies Beach.”

With a determined push on the stapler, Edith linked together the individual pages she’d assembled. “What can I say? The poor man asked me to recommend a quiet beach to do some reading. Can you think of a better spot?”

“You know that’s my special place on Mondays.” Heather straightened up and propped her hands on her hips. “I love you dearly, Edith. But back off on this. I’m not in the market.”

“Too bad.” Edith tapped the next set of pages into an even line. “You couldn’t do any better in the looks department. And Burke has high regard for him. Said he had to overcome a lot to get where he is on the Chicago force.”

Despite herself, Heather’s interest was piqued. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Burke didn’t offer anything else. You could always ask J.C. himself if you’re interested. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to the man once in a while, you being neighbors and all.”

Engaging J.C. in conversation was the last thing Heather intended to do. Every encounter with him left her on edge—and yearning for things she’d told herself she didn’t need.

“We’re both too busy for idle chatter. Besides, our paths don’t cross very often.”

“That could be remedied.”

Heather sighed. “Look, could you just try to restrain yourself with the matchmaking? I don’t have the time or the interest. And I’m sure it will annoy J.C., too.”

“Did he seem annoyed when you showed up?”

Far from it, Heather thought. But she didn’t share that with Edith. “I have scones to bake. I’ll talk to you later.”

Heading to The Devon Rose, Heather resolved to forget about the Chicago cop who’d taken up residence next door.

Unfortunately, he’d taken up residence in her mind as well, she realized. Every time she stepped into the foyer or passed table four, an image of him flashed through her mind. Thoughts of him even invaded her kitchen. Distracted, she found herself adding baking soda instead of baking powder to the scone recipe she’d made thousands of times.

Angry at her mistake—and at herself—Heather dumped the ruined batch of dough in the trash. If she was the praying type, she’d be calling on the Lord about now, asking Him to give her something else to think about. Anything but the cop with the dark, appealing eyes and the potent magnetism.

But maybe—if she was lucky—He’d hear her silent plea anyway.

Chapter Five

Three days later, as Heather reached across the precision-trimmed row of miniature boxwoods for one of the weeds that had dared to invade her manicured garden, her cell phone began to ring.