Page 4 of Sweet Obsession
The familiar, exasperated tone of Sheriff Brody cut through the tense air. She knew how to handle a gun, and knew she had the upper hand on the intruder, but still, it was nice to have some back-up. Despite how her heart hammered a frantic beat against her ribs, her gaze never wavered from the hooded figure now frozen on the hardwood floors of Mrs. Kirby’s living room, and her hands, gripping the 9mm Smith and Wesson she kept in her purse, remained calm and steady. Charlie Sweet would be proud of his daughter. Both she and her sister had learned how to shoot a gun when they were about nine years old. By the time they were both in high school, there was little doubt anyone would ever get the upper hand on a Sweet as long as they were packing. And they were always packing.
“Didn’t Madge on dispatch tell you to wait for me?” The sheriff’s heavy boot steps crunched on the gravel of the side path before he appeared beside her, his substantial frame a sudden, grounding presence. He didn’t yell; he just sighed, the sound of a man who’d seen this kind of stubbornness from a Sweet before. He gently touched the top of her extended hand, his fingers applying firm, yet gentle pressure to point the barrel of the gun toward the neatly trimmed lawn. “I know you know how to usethat thing, but the last thing I need is for you to shoot someone’s foot off.”
“Not where I’m aiming.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. Generally, I prefer my B&E suspects alive and able to answer a few questions.”
“As long as I can say the same for Mrs. Kirby.” The sincere concern made Jillian’s voice sound tight. Images of the sweet, feisty old woman harmed by this skulking intruder prodded at her gut like a hot poker. “He was breaking in, Sheriff. In broad daylight. What was I supposed to do, offer him a glass of sweet tea?”
“I see that.” The sheriff shifted his focus past her, his own voice hardening into the official tone he used when things got serious. “Alright, son. Hands where I can see ’em. Stand up straight and turn around. Slowly.”
The figure complied, unfolding himself from the hardwood surface, rising to his full height, he raised his hands in surrender. As the suspect turned, Sheriff Brody took a step forward, reached through the window, and with one quick tug, pulled the hoodie away from the man’s face.
Jillian’s world stuttered to a halt. The gun in her hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy. Mussed sandy blond hair, a strong jawline, shadowed with stubble, and those eyes—startlingly green eyes she hadn’t seen in person since she was a kid, now wide with a mixture of apprehension and weary resignation could only be one person—Blake Kirby.
“Lord love a duck.” The sheriff’s stern expression melted into one of pure, dumbfounded disbelief. He stared for a long moment, a frown creasing his brow as he processed the impossible. “Boy, what in the name of all that’s holy are you doing breaking into your own grandmother’s house?”
Yep. Blake Kirby. The rock star. The boy from her youth whose memory was tangled up with the scent of summer nightsand the sound of a guitar. Before he could answer, another voice, chipper and utterly familiar, floated from the front walkway.
“Sheriff Brody, what’s all this commotion?”
The sheriff and Jillian both took a step back, making way for the homeowner now heading up the path with a bag of groceries in one arm and her handbag in the other. Jillian’s gaze dropped to the gun in her hand and quickly secured the safety, then hurriedly stored the gun in the locked compartment of her handbag.
Coming to a sudden stop, Sara Kirby placed a hand on her hip, and fixed the sheriff with a withering glare that could have curdled milk. “And what exactly, Martin Brody, do you think you are you doing to my favorite grandson?”
Blake dropped his hands, a look of profound, soul-deep relief washing over his handsome face. “Grams! I was so worried. I called, you didn’t answer… I thought something was wrong.”
“Pish posh. I was at the market getting ingredients for your favorite pie.” She beamed at Blake, a vision of grandmotherly adoration, then her sharp eyes narrowed, landing first on Jillian, then at the purse where she’d stowed her handgun. “And you, young lady. Jillian Sweet. Threatening my grandson with that firearm? Has the world gone completely mad?”
Jillian felt a hot, mortifying blush creep up her neck “I… I thought he was a burglar, Mrs. Kirby. He was climbing in the window. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Well, you’ve got good intentions and a steady hand, I’ll give you that.” Mrs. Kirby flashed a familiar smile before turning her full attention back to the sheriff. “Now, is it now illegal for a boy to visit his grandmother?”
“No, ma’am.” Sheriff Brody sighed, tipping his hat toward Mrs. Kirby, a gesture of respect and surrender. “I’m assuming you won’t be pressing charges?”
Now Jillian understood why the clichéif looks could killremained popular in modern culture. The aging woman gave the sheriff a look so potent, so full of unspoken history and small-town authority, it made both Jillian and Blake chuckle under their breath. The sheriff held up his hands and began backing away toward the street, shaking his head. “Thought so,” he mumbled, turning away. “You all have a nice day now. And next time, son, try the door.”
Not till Sheriff Brody was completely out of sight did Blake’s pulse finally slow to a normal rhythm.
“Well.” His grandmother turned and sporting an even brighter smile than moments before, faced the woman who only moments ago had been pointing a loaded gun at him. “No point in standing out here growing roots. I baked a pie this morning. Come on in and I’ll cut us a slice.”
Jillian didn’t get a chance to do more than sputter like a clogged engine. It was obvious to anyone within ear shot that his grandmother wasn’t expecting an argument. Heaving a loud sigh, the girl he hadn’t seen in what felt like forever waved her hands and hurried after his grandmother. “Mrs. Kirby, I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding—” her voice carried through the open window.
“Don’t you worry yourself. Any good neighbor would have done the same. The important thing is you didn’t shoot him.”
The front door swung open in time for Blake to see Jillian. Moving quickly, he took the grocery bag from his grandmother as she stepped inside. “Let me get those for you, Grams.”
“Thank you, dear.” She patted his cheek, the familiar gesture tightening his throat. “Put those in the kitchen. And for heaven’ssake, take off that ridiculous hoodie. You look like you’re planning to rob a bank.”
He ducked into the kitchen, grateful for something to do. The layout was as familiar as his own heartbeat—glasses by the sink, plates to the left, silverware in the drawer below. Grams was a creature of habit, which made that disoriented phone call all the more disturbing.
On his heels, his grandmother opened a cabinet by the sink, pulling out a stack of plates. “Set these down on the coffee table in the living room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come back for the tea.”
He nodded again. Unable just yet to meet Jillian’s gaze, he set the dishes on the antique table and muttered, “Be right back.”
