she realised the last hour had flown. Brody had done such a good job entertaining the children she’d hardly had to do anything—including calling on her back-up plan of distributing mass amounts of choccie eggs if the bunny had been too moody to play.
Thankfully the bunny had been one hop ahead of her all the time, and it had been a pleasure seeing him bring joy to so many little faces. She loved this motley bunch of kids, ranging in age from four to nine, all locals whose parents patronised her shop on a regular basis looking for gifts.
She’d been hired to organise fairy parties for all the little girls in town over the last few years, and knew almost every kid in Stockton personally—which was why she went the extra yard at Easter and Christmas, organising the pageant and Santa’s cave for the darlings.
Clapping her hands, she called the children to her. ‘Okay, it’s time for the Easter Bunny to go. What do we say to the bunny?’
‘Thank you, Easter Bunny. Come again next year,’ thirty voices rang out in unison, in the peculiar monotone they’d rehearsed a few hours ago.
Brody waved to the kids and hopped towards the back door of the shop. She smiled at him, wondering if he could see her through the peepholes in the rabbit’s mouth. In response, he turned, wiggled his cute little cotton tail butt at her and hopped into the shop, shutting the door behind him.
Well, well, well. Maybe there was more to Brooding Brody than he let on?
CHAPTER THREE
‘YOU didn’t have to do this.’
Brody took one look at the table Carissa had set for dinner and wanted to bolt home. It looked too cosy, too inviting, and far too scary for his peace of mind.
He didn’t do dinners. He didn’t do dates.
And this meal she’d cooked as thanks for him helping her out with the bunny thing looked like a frightening combination of both.
She turned from the stove, brandishing a wooden spoon filled with rich bolognaise sauce in one hand and a fairy-covered pot holder in the other. ‘I know, but I wanted to. It’s the least I can do after the show you put on for the kids yesterday.’
He managed to look affronted for all of two seconds. ‘That wasn’t a show.’
Far from it. He’d enjoyed himself more than he had in ages—acting like a goofball with the kids, enjoying their rough-house tactics. He never played like that with Molly, was too scared he’d hurt her. She was all he had left in this world and he’d do his best to protect her—after doing such a lousy job with her mum.
‘No?’ She tasted the sauce and smiled the self-satisfied smirk of a cook who knew she was good and is proud of it.
And, despite his wariness of this whole situation, his mouth watered at the spicy aromas wafting through the small kitchen: a rich combination of garlic, tomatoes, oregano and basil infused the air, and he wondered if he’d ever smelt anything so tempting.
Or seen anything so tempting, as he watched Carissa turn back to the stove, the simple movement causing the short black skirt she wore to flip around her knees in a provocative swish. She was barefoot, her shapely calves beckoning him to feel their contours and keep heading north to the hidden delights underneath that flirty skirt.
He swore silently and thrust his hands in his pockets, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute.
What the hell was he doing here?
He needed to escape. Fast.
‘The bunny act was nothing and this really isn’t necessary. So, thanks anyway, but I need to check on Molly.’ He sidled towards the door, unprepared for the flash of anger in her eyes as she swung around to face him.
‘I thought you said Molly is with Daisy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And didn’t you also say she adores her great-aunt?’
He nodded, feeling like a fool. What harm could a simple meal do? He could eat and run. Besides, Molly had raved about the great time she’d had at Daisy’s yesterday afternoon, and had been more than eager to spend a few hours with her this evening. Thankfully, old Daisy had become an ally of his since he’d moved to town, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out the old lady’s softened stance had a lot to do with Molly.
The way he looked at it, the severe spinster would be a good influence on Molly, giving her some female stability in her topsy-turvy little world.
The world he’d turned topsy-turvy through his own stupidity at letting that brash young driver off the hook. He’d seen something of himself in that guy—confident, cocky, with the gift of the gab—and he’d taken the soft option.
Pity the soft option had turned out to be the hardest one for his motherless daughter.
As for dinner—he could do this. As long as his long-dormant libido didn’t get any crazy ideas. In four years he hadn’t looked sideways at a woman, and now that he finally felt settled for the first time in ages maybe his imagination had just been hot-wired into action? Though it probably had more to do with the surprising woman wearing a fitted ‘I Luv Chocolate’ T-shirt, a short skirt and no shoes than anything else.
‘It’s settled, then. You uncork the wine; I’ll serve up.’ She thrust a corkscrew into his hands before he could change his mind and all but pushed him into a seat at the table. ‘Hope you like Shiraz. I’ve been saving this.’
‘Don’t open it on my account.’
‘I love a good red, so go ahead.’
Carissa almost bit her tongue in frustration. She was trying to be nice here, to repay Brody for helping her out yesterday, but it wasn’t working. Dinner with her moody neighbour had been a bad idea. He obviously didn’t want to be here, and she hated having to watch her ‘p’s and ‘q’s, being careful not to stir up her neighbour’s latent temper.
Racking her brain for some small, innocuous comment to break the awkward silence that enveloped them, she said, ‘Tell me about your job.’
‘I’m not working at the moment.’ He poured the wine into glasses and handed one to her, his frown a clear indication that he didn’t want to discuss his employment status further.
Undeterred, she ploughed on, determined to get him to lighten up, to give her some glimpse of the man behind the terse façade. She knew he’d had a hard time, and there was something about Brody Elliott that had her wanting to hug him, pat his back and make it all better. ‘I heard you were a cop before you came to Stockton?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘You know what small towns are like. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.’
Laying his wine down on the table after taking a healthy swig, he folded his arms and leaned forward. ‘Yeah, well, I just wish they’d butt out of mine. Being a cop is in the past, and I’d like to keep it that way. What else are they saying about me?’
Bringing over the pasta and sauce, she suddenly wished she hadn’t gone down this track. Perhaps she
