His hand swallowed hers. His palm was roughened by hard work, and very warm against her chilled skin. And she felt her knees go shaky in reaction.
She’d never responded like this to a simple handshake. She couldn’t imagine what would happen if this man should ever kiss her....
What was she thinking? A kiss between her and the chief of police—a family man, she reminded herself—was never going to happen.
She removed her hand hastily from his. “Goodbye,” she said, and closed the door between them with somewhat more haste than courtesy.
WADE LOOKED at that closed door for a moment with a lifted eyebrow. And then he glanced down at his right hand, which still seemed to be tingling from contact with hers.
He was whistling between his teeth when he climbed into his Jeep and started the engine.
He would definitely be seeing Emily McBride again.
3
ALWAYS ON THE FIRST Saturday in October, the townspeople of Honoria gathered at Sidney Applegate Park for a festival to mark the symbolic end of summer. Hot dogs and hamburgers sizzled fragrantly on grills manned by city dignitaries. Vendors sold ice cream and sodas and snow cones. There was an antique-car show, and a cutest-pet show. Local merchants sponsored booths advertising their services with giveaway items. Amusement-park rides, games of chance, pony rides, a storytelling circle, and other attractions were set up for the children.
Emily had been “volunteered” to work the face-painting booth for a local civic club.
Several squirming children stood at her elbow as she put the finishing touches to a cluster of colorful balloons on a little girl’s chubby cheek. Emily had promised to work another half hour at this booth, and then she was taking a break—whether anyone replaced her or not, she thought firmly. She’d already supervised the beanbag-tossing game and she’d promised to help judge the baking contest later.
Just ask Emily, she thought wryly. The unofficial town motto. It should be emblazoned on the sign that marked the city limits of Honoria.
Five minutes before Emily’s shift ended, a little boy with blazing red hair and an adorably snub nose slipped into the metal chair in front of her. And then he just sat there, studying her solemnly.
“Would you like your face painted?” she asked him with a smile, struck by the gravity of his round blue eyes.
The boy nodded.
She showed him the chart that held the available designs. Balloons, hearts, rainbows, flowers, a few popular cartoon figures, smiley faces, Superman’s S and Batman’s bat symbol were among the choices. “Which one do you want?”
The little boy studied the chart closely, biting his lip, as if the decision was terribly important. Emily waited patiently.
Finally, the boy pointed to a picture. “That one,” he said in little more than a whisper.
The drawing he’d selected was a fat goldfish with blue bubbles rising from its smiling mouth. It would be the first of its kind that Emily had done, but the sketch looked simple enough. “All right. What’s your name?”
“Clay.”
“Do you like fish, Clay?” she asked, reaching for the paint pens.
He nodded.
“Do you have a goldfish?”
Another nod.
“What’s your fish’s name?”
“Moby.”
Emily smiled. “That’s very cute.”
“He’s named after a whale in a book,” the child volunteered. “My daddy told me about him.”
Emily traced the outline of the cartoon fish on the boy’s impossibly soft cheek. “Yes, I’ve heard of Moby Dick, the white whale in the story.”
“My daddy said the whale was ferocious. But my Moby’s a nice fish.”