Tennyson, with an eye on the raccoon, who sat regarding her curiously, stomped to the window and raised it higher. She then moved toward the end of the bed, far enough away from the raccoon that she could dart toward the open doorway if it came at her, but close enough to command the little beast’s attention. Throwing out her arm toward the window, she said, “Out.”
The raccoon rolled into a Jabba the Hutt pose and twitched its nose.
“Out. Get out,” she yelled at it.
“How much wine have you had, anyway?” Officer Rhett asked from the doorway.
Tennyson glanced back at him. The man had his hand on the gun, ready at any moment to fire if needed. Well, that was somewhat comforting. Just in case Rocky did, in fact, have rabies.
“Enough to not be afraid of a stupid raccoon,” she said.
The raccoon followed instructions the way most men followed instructions, which is to say, it sat there and did nothing.
“Ugh, why doesn’t it move? Isn’t it scared of us?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not a raccoon expert.”
She waved her hands, and the raccoon leaped up and moved toward her pile of down pillows. “Shoo!”
Then the animal turned and came toward her.
Tennyson bolted, sliding behind Officer Rhett. She pressed against his back, peeking around to see the raccoon lumbering off the bed. She also noticed how firm the hot cop felt beneath her fingers. Oh, and he smelled yummy—like fabric softener and something manly.
Who did his laundry?
“Stop,” Officer Rhett said, trying to pull away from her, but Tennyson had a death grip on his waist.
The raccoon leaped to the sill and climbed out the window. The little bastard didn’t even look back as a farewell gesture.
Tennyson released her hands. “Oh, thank God. Go close the window.”
Officer Rhett turned. “You do it. It’s your house.”
“But you’re the cop.”
“Police officer.”
She made a face. “Are you scared of a raccoon?”
“No.” But he looked a bit like he was. His hand was still on the butt of the gun. She felt him stiffen his spine before striding to the window and slamming it down with a bang. The glass panes actually rattled.
The doorbell rang.
“That’s probably animal control,” she said, hurrying back toward the front of her house, leaving Officer Rhett behind.
Ten minutes later, animal control was gone with no raccoon in their animal trap, and Officer Rhett had finagled her broken French door into a reasonably secure position. She’d found a toolbox—a cute pink one she’d bought at Home Depot the only time she’d ever been to Home Depot—that had enough tools for him to make the door somewhat functional.
“You need to call someone tomorrow to fix this. Do you have someone?” he asked. He’d spent a good five minutes cleaning up the debris. Tennyson wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be done by a police officer, but she appreciated that the man was conscientious. And smelled like an invitation for a big-person playdate. She kept noticing things like the way his pants fit him (nicely), the way his jaw clenched while he was working (chiseled), and the way he talked to himself under his breath (sort of adorable).
“Do I have someone?” she repeated.
“Like a boyfriend? Or a neighbor?”
“Are you asking if I have a boyfriend?”
He looked at her like she was nuts. “Only if he can fix this. I know a guy and can leave you his number. Let me go out to my unit and grab my card in case you need his information.”
Officer Rhett went to his police car and returned seconds later with his card. Joseph C. Rhett. There were other things on there like his badge number and his rank and yada yada. She flipped it over and bingo—his cell phone number was scrawled across the back.
Why that thrilled her, she hadn’t a clue.
“Again, ma’am, I’m sorry about your door, but I’m glad you’re safe. Remember to check your windows and make sure they’re all locked. This is a safe neighborhood, but you still need to take precautions.”
“Yes, Officer,” she said.
“If you have any other trouble, call us. We are here to protect and serve.”
Tennyson nodded and walked him to the door. “I’ll be sure to call if I need you.”
Her words sounded flirty, and Officer Rhett’s expression looked puzzled. Okay, so her flirting skills were rusty and—
Tennyson caught her reflection in the mirror she’d hung in the foyer a few days ago.
Holy hell. She looked like death warmed up in the microwave. Clumps of hair falling (and not in a sexy, cute way), the mask dried in patches, her lips drawn tight and pale, and her boobs not as perky as they were in her expensive padded bra. Total mess.
“Have a good night, ma’am,” Officer Rhett said.
Then he walked down her front walkway, looking clean-cut and unruffled . . . and very much not interested in Tennyson.
Her flirting skills may be rusty, but her interest-level radar worked just fine. And this man was not interested. And for some reason that really hurt. Because Tennyson used to be able to seduce even the most stalwart of men. She’d even had a hard-nosed general groveling and begging to kiss the toe of her black stiletto boots. Of course, that was back when she was into that sort of thing.
But this Shreveport patrol cop?
Nada.
“Damn it,” she said, closing the front door and ignoring the lock just because it suited her to disobey. She needed to get her shit together because this version of herself was unacceptable.
If she was going to live in Shreveport, she needed to do it right.
Tennyson O’Rourke was back home, and she wasn’t going to be ignored.
CHAPTER THREE
Melanie plopped her wine down on the table, though she was tempted to throw it against the wall of the perfectly nice restaurant her daughter had chosen to deliver the most shocking, horrible, ridiculous news of her life. “No. I’m sorry, you aren’t doing this. It’s preposterous.”
Emma’s mouth flatlined. “Marrying Andrew is not preposterous. We’re doing this with or without your support. I don’t need your permission.” She then turned to Andrew, who looked about as comfortable as a woman in stirrups. Maybe more uncomfortable.
“Now, let’s all calm down,” Kit said, pressing his hands against the air between them.
“Daddy, I knew she’d react this way. I told you she would, but it doesn’t matter. If y’all don’t want to pay for the wedding, Andrew’s mom said she will.”
“Wait, you already knew about this, Christopher Douglas Layton?” Melanie said. She was on the verge of losing total control, something she never did. But her daughter had told Kit she was engaged before she told her own mother, and that hurt. Of course, Emma had likely already told her father because she knew how to play her daddy like a Steinway. Then the last part of her daughter’s statement hit her. “Wait, Tennyson knows, too? You told her before me?”
“We told her a few hours ago. Jesus, Mom, why is everything such a competition with you?” Emma said, rolling the blue eyes she’d inherited from her father.
Her possibly lying, flirting-with-cheating father.