A Lawman in Her Stocking. Kathie DeNosky

pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “Wow!”

      “That shouldn’t have happened,” she said breathlessly.

      “No, it shouldn’t have,” he said honestly.

      What the hell did he think he was doing? The woman was trouble from the top of her pretty head all the way to her little feet. Hadn’t he learned his lesson five years ago?

      The best thing he could do would be to see that she got into the house, then get back in his truck and put as many miles between them as the old Chevy would take him.

      “I’ll walk you to the porch,” he said, releasing her.

      She reached for the door handle. “It isn’t necessary.”

      But Dylan was out of the cab and around the front of the truck in a flash. When he opened the door and helped her down from the bench seat, he could tell she was going to protest again.

      Placing his hand at her back, he ushered her toward the front porch. “My dad made me promise a long time ago that I’d be a gentleman at all times. And that includes walking a lady to the door when I take her home.”

      “But you were only giving me a ride.”

      “Doesn’t matter,” he said stubbornly. “You’re a lady. I drove you home. I walk you to the door. It’s as simple as that.”

      When they reached the porch steps, he glanced down at her and felt as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. This was the way she was meant to look—soft, her hair slightly mussed from having his fingers tangled in the silky strands, a blush of desire coloring her porcelain cheeks.

      He had to have lost every ounce of sense he possessed, but he wasn’t one bit sorry he was the man to cause that look. His body tightened and he figured it was time to beat a hasty retreat before he did something stupid like kiss her again.

      Just as he started to bid her a good evening, the sudden brightness of the porch light made him blink. “What the hell?”

      “Brenna? Is that you?”

      “You know darned well it is,” she muttered, quickly stepping away from him.

      An elderly woman around the same age as his uncle Pete, stepped out onto the porch. “Of course I do.” The old gal winked at him. “But since it’s obvious you aren’t going to ask this handsome young man inside, I had to come up with an excuse to meet him.”

      Removing his hat, Dylan extended his hand. “Dylan Chandler, ma’am. You must be Brenna’s grandmother. It’s nice to meet you.”

      “I’m Abigail Montgomery. Won’t you come in for a few minutes?” she asked, shaking his hand and treating Brenna to an impish grin.

      Brenna gripped the strap on her tote bag so tight she was surprised it didn’t snap in two. The smile on her grandmother’s face and the delighted twinkle in her eyes promised days of questions, teasing and anything but subtle innuendo.

      “Granny, I’m sure Sheriff Chandler has more important matters to attend to.” She gave Dylan a pointed look. “Don’t you, Sheriff?”

      He nodded. “Maybe another time, Mrs. Montgomery.”

      “I’ll hold you to that.” Abigail smiled pleasantly. “Maybe Brenna can cook dinner for you some evening.”

      Brenna couldn’t help it. Her mouth dropped open at her grandmother’s ridiculous statement.

      “Shut your mouth before you catch a bug, kiddo,” Abigail advised.

      “I’d better say good-night and let you ladies get inside,” Dylan said, sounding anxious to make his getaway.

      “Thanks again for the ride,” Brenna said when her grandmother elbowed her in the ribs.

      “No problem,” he called, walking out to the truck. “Good night, ladies.”

      “Night,” Abigail said. Once Dylan had started his truck, she steered Brenna through the door. “Let’s go inside. You have a lot to tell me. And I’m warning you. This time, I want the straight poop.”

      “There’s nothing to tell,” Brenna said, closing the door to secure the lock.

      “Oh, yes there is,” Abigail shot back. “You told me you didn’t like Darren Chancellor.”

      “Dylan Chandler.”

      “Whatever,” Abigail said, waving her hand. “You told me you had no interest in him.”

      “I don’t.”

      Abigail snorted. “Yeah, and the Grand Canyon is nothing but a big drainage ditch. Get real.”

      “Dylan just gave me a ride home.” At her grandmother’s dubious expression, Brenna added, “He’s not my type.”

      “Sure looked like he is.” Abigail laughed delightedly. “It takes some pretty heavy breathing to fog up windows that fast. And I don’t blame you one bit. That man’s the sexiest stud muffin I’ve seen come down the pike in a long time.”

      When her grandmother began humming “Here Comes the Bride,” Brenna turned on her heel, walked into her bedroom and slammed the door. She sank down on the side of the bed, rummaged through the drawer of her nightstand and pulled the object of her search from inside. Peeling back the wrapper, she bit into the chocolate bar.

      As the rich, smooth taste spread throughout her mouth, she sighed heavily. Life with her grandmother could be trying at best, but now that she’d met Dylan Chandler, it was going to be downright impossible.

      Three

      Dylan rested his chin on his palm and stared off into space. It had been four days since he’d agreed to take Brenna’s painting class. Four days since he’d taken her home. And four days that he’d been useless to himself and everyone else.

      Oh, he’d gone through the motions of tending to business. But more times than he cared to count, he found himself staring off into space. Like now.

      When he’d kissed her, he’d only meant to silence her. But he’d been the one at a loss for words when the kiss ended.

      He shook his head as he turned his attention back to the papers on his desk. The last time he’d made the mistake of letting his hormones overrule his good sense he’d come out looking like a complete fool. He had no intention of letting anything like that happen again. And the best way to see that it didn’t would be to remove himself from temptation.

      Next Tuesday night, instead of going to that damned painting class, he’d be over at Luke’s with the rest of the guys doing what they always did—playing poker in the back room.

      His decision made, Dylan settled down to the paperwork in front of him. He’d only gotten as far as the middle of the first page when Myron Worthington rushed into his office and plopped his bulk into the chair in front of Dylan’s desk.