A Cop's Honor. Emilie Rose

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      “No. Jeez. It’s just a sayin’.”

      Brandon held the level and waited for the boy to retrieve the hammer and get back into position. “Do you have any friends in this neighborhood? I didn’t see bikes, toys or basketball goals in the other yards when I drove in.”

      “Nah. Only old people live on our street.”

      That shot down one theory. “What about behind you?”

      Mason stiffened. “I don’t know.”

      Looked like the friend he’d been going to study with wasn’t fictitious. “I just wondered if you have anyone to shoot hoops with.”

      “Nah. Somebody left the net here one Christmas. Mom says it was Santa.” The sarcasm in his voice and the accompanying eye roll silently voiced his opinion about that.

      “Not buying that, huh?”

      “No.”

      “You ever shoot?”

      “Sometimes. I’m not very good.”

      “Your dad and I used to play together.” Mason said nothing. Brandon let a few more minutes pass, then asked, “Do you like computers?”

      “I guess.”

      “Your dad was good with them—probably the best I’ve ever known.”

      “Why do you keep talking about my dad?”

      “Because he was my best friend for more than twenty years. More like a brother. He was a big part of my life. I miss him.”

      “Well, I don’t even remember him, and he wasn’t a big part of mine. So stop it. Okay? Pizza’s here.” Mason scrambled down the ladder and headed for the delivery vehicle just entering the driveway, ending the discussion.

      It pained Brandon to hear that Mason didn’t remember his father. Rick had been too great a guy to be forgotten—especially by his own son. Brandon resolved to find a way to rectify that situation. That meant he now had two assignments: figure out where Mason’s bad behavior originated, and help him remember his father.

      * * *

      “I WAS ABOUT to call you,” Lucy said when Hannah bustled Belle into the dance studio’s waiting area. “You’re never late.”

      Hannah checked her watch. “Hi, Lucy. We’re not late, but we are cutting it close. Is Ella feeling better?”

      “No. That stomach flu has knocked her out. She’s staying with my mom while Celia gets her groove on.”

      Hannah glanced through the window overlooking the dance floor to Celia, Lucy’s youngest. She’d worn her dress-up tiara tonight. Belle would be begging for one on the way home.

      “I hope you and Celia don’t come down with it.” Then she turned to Belle. “Hurry and put on your slippers, sweetie. The other girls are already lined up.”

      Belle did as asked then dashed through the door and galloped across the room to the barre to greet her friend Celia. Hannah scooped up her daughter’s sandals and sank onto the bleachers provided for parents. Her pulse was racing, but only because she’d been rushing and because she was having second thoughts about leaving Brandon in charge at her house. It had nothing to do with the man himself. Nothing at all.

      Lucy scanned the room. “Where’s Mason?”

      “At home.”

      Red eyebrows shot skyward. “Alone? Given what’s been going on, is that wise?”

      Hannah took a long, calming breath. Aside from Brandon, Lucy was the only one who knew about Mason sneaking out. Her friend’s question was understandable. “I left him with a former colleague of Rick’s.”

      “A cop?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then I guess Mason won’t get into anything.”

      Hannah glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Hope not.”

      “So who is this colleague?”

      “Brandon Martin.”

      Lucy’s green eyes and mouth rounded. “It’s-his-fault, Brandon Martin?”

      Hannah put a finger to her lips and nodded. She didn’t want her business shared.

      “I thought you hated his guts,” Lucy whispered.

      “Hate is a strong word.” But accurate. For years she’d channeled all of her anger from grief toward Brandon. “He’s Mason’s godfather. And I didn’t know who else to ask. He and Mason are fixing the sagging gutter over my garage door.”

      “Ooh. He’s a handyman? Is he single?”

      She shot Lucy a level look. “What does that have to do with anything?”

      “If you’re determined to keep your fixer-upper, you have to admit, you could use a man around.”

      “For repairs, yes. For anything else, no.”

      “But—”

      “Even if I didn’t hold him responsible for Rick’s death, the fact that he’s a cop makes him off-limits.”

      “That’s only two strikes.”

      The third was that Brandon made her feel things. Womanly things. She would never let herself fall in love again. Falling meant landing—hard—when it ended. And sex...well, for her, love and sex went hand in hand. “This isn’t baseball. Two strikes is enough.”

      “Girl, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

      Lucy was a single mom with an active social life. She fell in and out of love every few months and shared all the juicy details with Hannah. At first, the guy was Mr. Perfect and she’d extoll his virtues. Then she started to see his flaws and Hannah heard about those, too. She was convinced her friend was more in love with the idea of love than the practice of it. It seemed like she always wanted romance’s version of new car smell.

      “I’m not missing anything. I love my kids. I love my job. I love my house. Life is good.”

      “C’mon.” She leaned closer. “Don’t you miss sex?”

      Embarrassed, Hannah again checked to see if any of the other parents were listening, but they were too engrossed in their cell phones to care.

      “No.” Yes. But it wasn’t just the physical act she missed. It was all the rest: the companionship, the adult conversations, having someone who shared her hopes and dreams and understood her need to put down roots—deep roots. But no matter how great her relationship with Rick had been, nothing could fill the gaping hole his death had left behind. Her children had been too young to suffer much then. They weren’t now, and she would never put them through the loving СКАЧАТЬ