Mr. Dobbs makes a V of his pointer and middle fingers and moves it between his eyes and Mrs. Hawthorne. “I’ve got my eye on you, Grace.”
“You need a hobby,” she huffs.
The radio on Jesse’s belt crackles. He pushes the call button. “Hang on, Jeanie. We’re still here with Stuart and Grace. We’ll call you as soon as we’re in the patrol car.”
He turns to the two neighbors. “Are we good here?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hawthorne says, her tone as petulant as a scolded child.
Stuart nods.
Jesse and I climb back into the cruiser and he calls Jeanie. “What’s going on?”
“Well, you won’t believe this, but we’ve got some more decorations up and vanishing. A wreath at the Oaklands’ and strings of lights from the Shmuckers’. Also, a snowman statue from out front of Mad River Burgers.
“Huh,” Jesse says, looking at me with a stumped expression. “We’ll make the rounds to follow up.”
We go to the two addresses, asking the residents to describe the lost items and when they went missing. Then we circle around to the burger place.
We’re driving past a cocoa stand some kids have set up in the town square when I spot Cooter. Jesse’s driving at his usual snail’s pace. Cooter ambles up to the cocoa stand, waits until thegirls are occupied with a customer, grabs a cup of cocoa and slips away in the other direction. One of the girls turns and sees him. She frowns, whispers to the other girl. She shakes her head and then they both go back to serving the people lined up in front of them.
“Did you see that?” I ask Jesse.
“Cooter?”
“Yes. He stole a cup of cocoa. And the girls saw him. Should we stop him?”
Jesse sighs. “Cooter’s half town mascot, half walking cautionary tale. Everyone knows he’s mostly harmless. If he’s borrowing cocoa from a stand, we’ll probably let it slide.”
My mouth pops open.
“What?” Jesse asks.
He’s got a dimple. It’s distracting. I’ve got a thing for a man with dimples. His smile deepens, and the dimple has friends, those lines that bracket a man’s grin—I’m not sure what they're called. Dimplines? Whatever they are, Jesse’s got them and I’m having a hard time looking away.
“Alex?”
“Huh?”
“What is that look?”
“Oh. Uh. I can’t believe you’re letting this slide. You—Mister Misdemeanor. Letting Cooter steal cocoa in broad daylight slide.”
“I know. I know,” he shakes his head, still smiling. “But where certain people are concerned, I guess I have a soft spot.”
“And Cooter’s one of those people?”
“Yeah.” His face is etched with tenderness—a compassion that seems to almost embarrass him. “I guess he is.”
I don’t know why my ex comes to mind. No one got to slide with him. Marco wasn’t a villain. Just not soft-hearted—at all.Who knew how much it would touch me to see a man show mercy to the town drunk.
“You’re a good man, Jesse.” The words slip out before I can weigh them—but I want him to hear it, to believe it.
“I do my best,” he says, eyes fixed on the road, as if looking at me might make the words too real.
The car is quiet except for the hum of the heater, the low strains ofSilent Night—and the roar of my thoughts which feel loud enough to be heard by both of us. I didn’t come here to find a man attractive. Or to be intrigued by his tender heart. I’m here to join a police force—to make my way as a woman in a male-dominated field.
When I look over at Jesse, humming along to the Christmas carol, his eyes soft and his grip on the steering wheel solid, something in me shifts—and I don’t quite know what it means.
