Claudie waited until Sara was inside, then asked, “Are you a cop?”
Bo blinked, astounded by her perceptiveness. “No.”
“You move like a cop. You’re always asking questions like a cop. If you’re not a cop, then what are you?”
A PI looking into ruining your friend’s life. The thought made his stomach heave, nearly recycling his hastily eaten burrito.
He moved past her, noticing for the first time how fragile she seemed. How’d you end up on the streets? he wanted to ask. Instead, he said, “Just a guy killing time ’til I get a job, but jobs ain’t easy to come by when you got a record.” He was good at improvising.
“What kind of record?”
D.U.I. in college. “None of your business,” he said shortly, walking away. She dogged his heels, step for step, but stopped half a block from the bookstore. Reluctantly, Bo slowed, then turned around.
“I don’t know if I believe you, but I don’t really give a flying you-know-what. Keneesha and me look out for our friends, and Sara is off-limits to all losers,” she said, her tone ominous. “She wouldn’t be interested in you anyways.”
Bo had no intention of making a play for Sara—no matter how cute she looked with her new haircut—but he didn’t like being told what to do. He’d had enough of that growing up. “Oh, really? And why is that?”
Claudie waited until the man ahead of them was through the door of the bookstore before she said in a low voice, “Because she’s…gay.”
Bo’s mouth dropped open. “Bullshit,” he sputtered. “I don’t believe you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Well, she is.”
Before he could reply, Sara poked her head out the door and motioned to him. “I need him, Claudie. The group’s starting. Besides, this is your night off.”
Bo’s face heated up, even though he could tell by her tone, Sara was teasing. His only satisfaction came from seeing Claudie’s face flush with color, too.
SARA TUNED OUT the low rumble of masculine voices emanating from the far corner of the bookstore. Years earlier, before Hank had died, she’d hauled in a couple of old couches Julia was throwing out and some funky pole lamps to create a “reading room.” Hank had called it a waste of space, but had let her have her way. Although he never admitted it, sales went up—and the reading room stayed.
Closing her eyes, Sara gently rocked Brady back and forth. If she let herself, she could drift off to sleep, too. She’d been up since five, trying to figure out how to pay for the repairs needed on Julia’s house.
“Can I put him down for you?” a voice asked softly.
Sara opened her own eyes to a pair of remarkable blue ones, as deep a hue as the pair she played peek-a-boo with every morning—only this pair was attached to a stranger. A very handsome stranger, who seemed full of concern for her.
That by itself was odd, but the sudden, shocking quickening of her senses left her speechless. In answer to his question, all she could do was shake her head.
“He looks heavy. Are you sure?” His voice was cultured, rich as honey and faintly melodic. Its basic vibration caught her somewhere between her breast-bone and her belly button and radiated outward in the strangest way.
She rocked forward, intending to rise, but her knees felt insubstantial, as if they might crumple if she put any weight on them. He seemed to sense this, and plucked Brady from her arms as if by magic. He didn’t hesitate for a second but smoothly transferred the sleeping child to the playpen with such fluidity that Brady didn’t even stir.
Sara put her hand to her chest as if to capture Brady’s warmth a second longer. Tears rushed to her eyes for absolutely no reason.
“He’s a handsome boy,” the stranger said.
“Thank you.” Sara looked at him as he stood a few steps back from the crib. Suddenly she felt a deep primal urge to push him away. She rushed to cover Brady with a knitted throw that Keneesha had made for him.
Sara straightened, forcing herself not to be intimidated by the man’s size or beauty. And he was gorgeous. His thick, wavy autumn-brown hair had a carefree quality that made her want to touch it. His skin was a healthy tan, not too dark, not too pale.
“Are you here for the group?” The inanity of her question struck her the second she took in his fine, navy pinstriped trousers, perfectly creased above Italian leather shoes. Even without a tie and unbuttoned at the collar, his smoke-gray shirt made a fashion statement: wealthy.
He shook his head. “No, I’m supposed to meet a friend, but I got here a little early. Do you mind if I look around?”
The bookstore owner in her wanted to offer him free reign, but some other part of her remained uneasy. She tried attributing her qualms to his proximity and his maleness, but somehow that wasn’t enough. She had a store full of males, and none of them made her senses peak like this man.
“Be my guest,” she said, faking a smile.
When he stepped away, she let out a long, silent sigh and turned to her desk. She had a hundred things to keep her occupied while the men talked, but couldn’t for the life of her recall a single one. She was about to sit down, when the stranger called to her, “Have you read this one?”
His soft, husky tone made tingles run up her skin. Rubbing her bare arms—Sara told herself it was rude to ignore him—she walked to the cardboard display case holding the latest release from a popular, prolific writer.
“No, I’m not really a fan of horror genre.”
He seemed surprised by her frankness. A blush warmed her cheeks. Smart move. Knock a potential sale to a potential customer.
“I once heard a fifty-eight-year-old man accused of killing his eighty-year-old parents say the reason he hacked them to death with a butcher knife was that they wanted to move into a rest home and he would have had to get a job.” His serious, contemplative tone took her by surprise.
“Are you a psychologist?” Her first guess would have been politician.
A smile tugged at the corner of his thin, masculine lips, suggesting a dimple in his left cheek. “It sometimes feels that way. I’m a judge.”
Sara reflexively took a step back. A judge. The word conjured up memories of a time she wanted to be excommunicated from her consciousness.
She started to turn away, but his next words stopped her.
“In law school they tried to prepare us for some negativity.” He flashed her a beguiling, boyish grin. “Do you know the difference between a catfish and a lawyer?”
Sara shook her head, intrigued by the humor in his tone and the oh-so-human crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
“One’s a scum-sucking bottom feeder. The other’s a fish.”
Sara tried not to smile, but did, anyway.
Oddly, his smile faded. “The antipathy changes when you become a judge,” he said. “It doesn’t go away—it just becomes more…judicious.”
The wistfulness of his tone caught Sara off guard. The only judge she’d ever met stood out in her memory as a Wizard of Oz kind of character. A big head and commanding voice, passing judgment on things he didn’t understand.
“I’m sure it’s not an easy job, in fact, I can’t imagine one I’d want less.”
Instead of being put off by her opinion, the man stepped around the display, bringing himself closer to Sara. It made sense since they were speaking in library-level whispers, but crazy alarms went off in her head, obscuring his reply.
“It wasn’t high on my list, either, but when the governor asked me to fill a vacant slot,