Arden stares down her nose. “There are many fantastic book kisses. The Great Gatsby. Romeo and Juliet. The elevator kiss in Fifty Shades.”
“It can be whatever, as long as it’s a competition and it raises money for a charity,” Vanessa adds. “That’s what we want—any sort of contest. That’s what we can do for this year’s birthday gifts.”
The three of us decided a few years ago not to give each other birthday gifts. All through grade school, middle school, and high school we did, but now we’re adults, and we don’t need gifts from each other. Instead, we donate or raise money for some sort of charity. We all have fall birthdays, so it’s time to start planning.
Last year, Arden hosted a tea at her bookstore, raising money for underprivileged kids. Vanessa held a bowl-a-thon and donated the proceeds to a pediatric cancer charity. And I did a 10K walk to support don’t-text-and-drive efforts. They were our gifts to each other, and to ourselves too.
Vanessa’s brown eyes spark with excitement. “I could do a bowling competition for charity.”
“But you’re naturally good at that,” I say.
“And you were naturally good at kissing in high school.”
“Hey, don’t get on my case just ’cause I liked to make out with boys back then.”
“You like to make out with boys all the time,” Arden chimes in. “Anyway, I’m spearheading a reading competition among the book clubs at my shop. Most books read equals most money raised for literacy programs.”
Having lobbed the ball into my court, she stares at me expectantly, and Vanessa prompts, “And you should enter the kissing contest. It’s a slam dunk for you. It supports all the causes near and dear to your heart. Plus, your boss will like it. He said he wants your precinct to win.”
I raise a skeptical brow, even though she makes a good point. “I don’t want to horn in on his territory. What if he wants to win?”
Vanessa grabs my phone. “Just ask him.”
I sigh but grab the phone back and fire off a quick text to Jansen.
Perri: Question for you. You said you wanted our precinct to win the kissing contest. Would it help if you had more entrants?
His response is instantaneous.
Jansen: I didn’t want to ask you or anyone to enter, but my answer is the more the freaking merrier.
I show his response to my girls, and they smirk in tandem at me.
“See?” Vanessa says.
“Plus, I dare you to,” Arden adds.
“And I dare you to as well,” Vanessa seconds.
“You dare me? Are we in high school again?” I ask.
“If we were, you’d put up both hands to volunteer,” Vanessa teases, and she’s got me there.
It’s for a good cause.
And maybe I’d like to be a girl who loves spending her days kissing again without a care in the world.
“Now I’m going to have to find a guy I want to kiss for that long.”
Or at least long enough to raise a little dough.
As we finish the game, I keep wondering what it would be like to want to kiss someone for that long.
And I keep coming back to Mr. Trouble.
I have other matters to deal with before I find a man to kiss.
Namely, getting a little more money flowing into my coffers.
When I return home that evening, I call my brother Shaw, catching him up first on the potential good news about the patrol sergeant position.
“That’s what I’m talking about. You’re the woman,” he says, in the same tone you’d say you’re the man.
I turn on the light to the kitchen. “Thank you. I’m excited. I need to nab this. But do you know what else this means?”
“That you’ll finally crack down and arrest me for not paying back taxes on my secret after-hours stripping job?”
I laugh as I pour a glass of water. “As if anyone would pay you to strip, secretly or publicly.”
“Oh, ye of little faith. I have lines of ladies waving small bills in my direction. That’s what happens when you’re one of the stars of a very popular firefighters calendar.”
“You do realize the money is to get you to stop?”
“Yet all they say is ‘Go, go, go.’”
“Like I said, they want you to go away.”
“Fine, you win the smackdown,” he grumbles. “Anyway, what does the potential promotion mean?”
I glance toward the stairwell at the back of my small house and draw a deep, excited breath. “It means—drumroll—I won’t have to rent the room above the garage much longer. I won’t need the extra money.” The possibility is tantalizing. A good renter is gold. A bad one is the worst, and I’ve had the worst. I don’t ever want to share living space again with someone who cooks with onions, bathes in Obsession, and talks dirty all night long.
“That’ll be a relief for you, considering your last renter.”
I cringe, remembering the deceptively sweet Cassidy. “But that also means I need your help finding a new tenant until then. I haven’t had one for a few months, and I could use the extra income till I know what’s going on with the promotion. Can you find someone who won’t baby-talk on the phone to his or her significant other every single night?”
“It wasn’t just the baby talk, if memory serves.”
I do my best to try and forget all the things I overheard Cassidy telling her boyfriend she wanted him to do to her. And, evidently, all the things he did to her over the phone. Though in retrospect, it could have been worse if her boyfriend lived locally instead of dialing in from the other side of the state.
“Exactly. So you’ll find me someone I’ll hardly ever see, hear, or smell? Someone I barely realize is sharing space with me?”
“Piece of cake.”
5
Derek
After my Saturday-night shift, I head to my sister’s home, crashing on her couch as quietly as I can, hoping this temporary living situation doesn’t last much longer. I love my sis, and she’s the only reason I’m in Lucky Falls. But she has three kids, including an infant, and I cannot handle sleeping on a couch much longer.
My greatest love, besides family, is a fancy-ass mattress, the kind that’s smart enough to conform to your body. I slept on one once in a hotel, and it was heavenly.
This couch? It’s hell on my back, and my back is kind of important to my job.
I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable, searching for a position that won’t radiate pain down my neck. Somehow I find one, then drift into the land of Nod.
But not for long.
At three in the morning, a shriek awakens me. I bolt upright and head for the baby’s room.
My sister, Jodie, is right behind me, rubbing her eyes.
“I got it,” I tell her as I scoop up little Devon.
My sister yawns canyon-wide. “No, I’ll take care of her.”
But I give Jodie the heave-ho, shaking my head. “It’ll be my pleasure.” I know how hard it is for her, with her husband overseas for a year, a first grader, a four-year-old, and an infant. Our parents are gone, and that’s why I’m here. We’re close, and I want to do what I can for her, especially when she needs it most.
“You’ve got a crazy day at the farmers market tomorrow. Your bread waits for no one. Get some sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
I pat the baby’s shoulder. “Please. I’ll take care of this perfect little angel.”
“I’ll find you a place soon, Derek. I promise.”
“I know, I know. I’ve asked around at work too. Got a few leads. Finding a rental in this fancy town is harder than differential calculus.”
“Fortunately, you were good at math.”
I smile, send Jodie back to bed, and warm up a bottle as Devon grabs my finger. “You’re going to be fine, sweet pea. I’ve got your favorite drink right here.”
Devon cries again, but it’s softened to a mere whimper. She knows the food is coming. I rub my forehead against hers. “I promise. Would Uncle Derek lie to you?”
She coos at me and grabs my beard with her chubby fingers.
I bring her to the couch, give her the bottle, and pop the new Stephen King book open on my phone as my little niece sucks down her food.
When I wake at the crack of dawn, I have a wicked crick in my neck.
“Morning,” my sister says, cheery as can be as she heads into the kitchen, tucking her brown hair into a neat bun. Molly, her four-year-old, follows behind, hopping like a frog.
“Ribbit, ribbit, Uncle Derek,” Molly says, jumping her way to the kitchen.
“Morning.” I pull the covers back over my head as dark-haired Travis bounds down the stairs and into the room.
“Hey, Derek,” says the six-year-old with the gap-toothed grin. “Want to go play basketball?”
“Travis, give him a break,” Jodie calls out to her son.
“Later for basketball, okay, buddy?”
“Okay,” he says, seeming a little sad we’re not playing now, and a little happy we’ll do so later.
I hear Jodie start a pot of coffee. She returns to the living room and bends over the couch. “Thanks for helping last night. You’re a godsend. By the way, have I ever mentioned that a local cop works the face-painting booth at the market?”
I sit up straight, my thoughts zip-lining to one particular officer of the law. “Why are you telling me this?”
She wiggles an eyebrow. “She’s just your type.”
I throw off the covers, get in the shower, and head to the market.
6
Perri
Some girls can never have enough butterflies.
They want them in emerald green, in sapphire blue, in candy pink.
A platoon of three-, four-, and five-year-olds skip and jump around the market with painted butterflies on their faces, courtesy of the local police department booth, where residents can learn about our community initiatives and not be freaked out by cops, thanks to face painting and lemonade.