Enticing Emily (Southern Scandals 3)

Emily was amused at the child’s mature manner. What a sweetheart. “Is your Moby all gold or does he have spots?” she asked, thinking she’d make the cartoon fish as close to his pet as possible without seeing it.

“He’s orange. All orange.”

“I see.” Emily reached for the orange paint pen.

“I’m here to relieve you, Emily,” a young woman said, setting her purse on the table at Emily’s elbow.

“Thanks, Grace. Let me finish this one, and then I’ll get out of your way.”

“You’re lookin’ good, Sparky,” Grace said, studying the little boy’s partially painted cheek.

He blinked.

“My name’s not Sparky. It’s Clay.”

Emily laughed. “That’s okay, Clay. She calls all the guys ‘Sparky.’”

“Only the cute ones,” Grace said flippantly.

Emily drew a trail of tiny blue bubbles around the happy-looking fish, then leaned back to admire her work. “It does look good, if I do say so myself. Want to see it, Clay?”

He nodded eagerly. She gave him a hand mirror.

Clay peered into the glass, then broke into a broad grin that warmed Emily’s heart. “It looks just like Moby!”

Emily loved children. All children. She had actually enjoyed her stint at the face-painting booth, and had been amused by all the little ones she’d chatted with that afternoon. But this child touched her in a special way. There was something about that grave little face of his... or maybe that heartbreaker smile.

“Hey, pal. Looks like you’re all decorated.”

Emily looked quickly over her shoulder in response to the familiar male voice coming from behind her. Chief of Police Wade Davenport stood close by, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of the faded jeans he wore with a khaki police-uniform shirt. It was the first time she’d seen him since he’d stopped by her house last Sunday.

The bright sun reflected from the badge he wore on his chest. He wasn’t wearing a weapon, only a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, but he looked tough and official, nevertheless—except for the softness in his eyes when he smiled at young Clay.

This adorable little boy was the police chief’s son? Confirming her startled realization, the child said, “Daddy, look what this lady painted on my face. It’s Moby!”

“Well, it sure is. Looks just like him.”

Clay beamed.

Suddenly self-conscious, Emily stood to allow Grace to take over her spot, and the line of increasingly restless children waiting to be painted. Her movement drew Wade’s attention.

He smiled at her. “Afternoon, Ms. McBride,” he drawled.

“Chief Davenport,” she responded with a slight nod of her head.

Grace grinned irreverently as she slid into the seat Emily had vacated. “Want your face painted, Sparky?” she asked the police chief. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

“I think I’ll pass,” he answered good-naturedly. “But thanks for the offer.”

Emily thought that Grace’s expression offered a lot more than a cheek painting, but Wade seemed oblivious to the implications.

“Is your shift over?” he asked Emily, falling into step beside her as she walked away from the booth.

She nodded. “I’ve been sitting there so long that I need to walk around a bit.”

His little hand swallowed in his father’s much bigger one, Clay peered up at Emily through his long, curling lashes. “You could walk with us,” he suggested, his expression shy.

“Well, I—”