Emma left a message. “Hi, Sheriff Martin. This is Emma Kerry. We met last week when there was vandalism at Frederick Elementary. I’m calling to follow up on the conversation we had about my mugging. This might be nothing, but I just found footsteps in my yard and on my porch, congregated near my back door and kitchen window. There’s no damage or anything, but after the mugging, I thought I’d let you know. Maybe you could have a patrol or two come by over the next few days? Okay, that’s all. Thanks. And Merry Christmas.”
She disconnected. And then she realized that her boots were dripping melted snow all over her dining room floor. On a groan, Emma cleaned up and made herself a cup of hot chocolate in an oversized mug so there was plenty of room for the metric-ton of mini-marshmallows she liked to have.
And then she felt at loose ends.
But she wasn’t having it. She wasn’t letting a little weirdness overshadow her enjoyment of her favorite time of the year. So she put on Christmas carols, lit a few candles, and grabbed some of the chocolate-drizzled caramel popcorn she’d grabbed from the candy store at the mall. She added a few packages to the space under the tree, and then spread out the blanket and a stack of cushy pillows on the floor. The moment she was lying down, the festive tree looming tall in front of her, all felt right in Emma’s world. She opened a book on her e-reader, tossed a handful of popcorn in her mouth, and read until her eyelids grew heavy.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been lying there when a plow rumbled past her house, waking her from a little catnap. She stretched against the blanket, accidentally disrupting Chewy, who gave a little groan against her side.
The clock on the wall said that it was quarter ‘til ten.
Emma rose and went to the window, curious to see how much snow had fallen. It looked to be a good four or five…
Her mouth fell open. Because there was a motorcycle out there again. Parked a little farther down the block and shrouded in a light gray cover that clung to the bike underneath enough for her to know for sure what it was. Now the question was: whose bike was it? As far as she knew, there was only one biker who’d ever hung around her house…
“What the hell?” she asked, going from sleepy to wound the hell up in about two-point-five seconds. She thought about the tracks on her porch, and that they’d worried her enough to call the sheriff. If that was Caine… She shook her head, anger making her heart beat hard inside her chest. “No, I’m putting an end to this once and for all.”
She jammed her feet into her boots, tugged a coat on, and grabbed her phone and keys. “Stay here, Chewy.”
Snow fell in fat, wet flakes and crunched under her feet. Emma had no idea where Caine was, but she began looking by going down the little walkway along the side of her house to see if he was in the alley, which was where those footprints in her yard had come from. She thumbed on the flashlight on her phone to guide her way, but found the alley to be empty.
Shining the light on the ground near to her gate, she found lots of footsteps, but then there were more than a few sets all along the alley, which some people used as a short-cut to the next block. She pushed on the gate itself, but the latch held. Reaching over, she wanted to see if she could grab the release mechanism that would allow someone to let themselves in, and she just managed to reach it. She pushed the gate part-way open and peered into her yard.
“Caine? You back here?”
Silence was her only reply. A chill raced down her spine.
On a frown, she closed the gate and squinted against the whirling snow. “Caine?” she called louder. “I know you’re here somewhere!” Frustrated, she retraced her steps back up the narrow walkway. At the street, she looked right and left. “Caine?” The wind seemed to swallow her words.
Suddenly, across the street, he stepped out of another walkway like the one right behind her.
Emma didn’t hesitate. She marched through the snow—which required not a little effort given the mounds that the plows were already building along the parallel-parked cars—and stalked right up to him. “What are you doing?” she asked.
Just as he said, “What are you doing out here?”
“Since I live here, I’m pretty sure that’s my question.” Her gaze ran over his face, half in shadow under the hood, those icy blue eyes glinting in the street light. He wasn’t wearing his Ravens’ jacket, but instead some sort of bad-ass-looking black and gray motorcycle coat that made him look like one of the shadow Stormtroopers from the newer Stars Wars movies. She braced her hands on her hips and hated herself a little for noticing how freaking sexy this man was. And for reacting to it, too.