took his coffee, went into the locker room and grabbed a shower. Then he dressed in jeans and an old ATF sweatshirt, signed out his usual cruiser and drove back home through the thin morning light.
Abby’s house was still dark when he turned into his driveway a few minutes later. No signs that they were up and about or that the oatmeal with raisins was in progress.
He went inside and started a pot of coffee and tried to pretend that the house next to him was still sitting empty and cold and unoccupied.
He was no more successful at that than he was trying to decide what to do with his life.
* * *
“Abby, come on.” Dillon was dancing around on his snow-booted feet, impatiently waiting for her to finish putting away the breakfast dishes. “You promised we’d make a snowman. With a carrot nose and everything.”
Her brother was a lot more enthusiastic about trudging around in the snow for a few hours than she was. But she’d promised, so she rounded the breakfast counter and tugged his stocking cap down over his eyes, making him giggle. “You can get started while I put on my coat.”
He pushed his hat back and raced out the front door, so anxious that he didn’t even pull it shut behind him. She followed and stuck her head out. “Stay in our yard,” she started to warn needlessly. Dillon was already crouching down next to the porch, balling up a handful of snow in his mittens to begin the snowman.
Her gaze shifted to the house next door.
It was completely still, not even showing a spiral of smoke from the chimney like most of the other houses on the block. She would have assumed he was gone, if not for the SUV emblazoned with Sheriff on the side parked in his driveway.
“Hurry up, Abby!”
Dragging her eyes away from the house next door, she noticed that Dillon’s snowball had already grown to the size of a pumpkin. She retrieved her own coat and boots and, when she was bundled up almost as much as her brother, went outside.
The pumpkin had nearly doubled in diameter by the time she joined Dillon in the middle of the yard. “How big are you planning to make that?”
He threw his arms wide. “This big.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “You want a fat snowman, then. All right.” She bent over and put her gloved hands against the big ball. “Let’s roll, bud.”
Even between the two of them, by the time they managed to push the growing ball across the yard twice more, they could barely manage to budge it. “This is big enough,” she told him breathlessly as she straightened. Her breath clouded around her head, but warm from their exertions, she pulled off her knit cap and shoved it into her pocket.
“No, it’s not,” Dillon argued. He threw his arms wide again. “This big.”
“Dillon—”
“Kid’s right,” a deep voice said behind them. “It’s nowhere near big enough.”
She whirled to see Sloan standing on his front porch watching them. Pleasure exploded in her veins.
He’d kissed her.
On New Year’s Eve at midnight, he’d kissed her.
Maybe it meant nothing to him, but it sure had meant something to her.
“Happy New Year,” she said brightly. Despite the frigid temperature, he was wearing only a long-sleeved black sweatshirt with his jeans. “Aren’t you cold?”
There was at least fifty feet separating their houses, but she could still see his wry smile from where she stood. “Watching all that work you’re doing’s keeping me warm enough.”
Not entirely sure what to make of that, she felt herself flush. Dillon was bouncing around his snowman base, and she focused on that. “We can’t make this any bigger,” she told them both. “It’s already too heavy to move.”
“Mr. Sloan’ll help,” Dillon said. He peered up at Sloan. “Wontcha?”
“Dillon,” Abby cautioned quickly. She was still surprised at Dillon’s unusual openness where their new neighbor was concerned. “Mr. McCray might have other things to do right now. It’s New Year’s Day, remember? It’s a holiday. People usually spend holidays with their families or friends.”
Dillon’s lower lip pushed out. “We’re not with our family. And maybe he’s a friend.”
She didn’t dare glance at Sloan. “We just met Mr. McCray yesterday.” Kiss or not, it was too early to tell just what Sloan McCray was to them, besides their neighbor.
“Every time you say Mr. McCray, I want to look around my shoulder for my old man.”
“I suppose it really should be Deputy McCray, anyway.”
“You’re a deputy?” Dillon’s voice went up a notch. “Do you got a gun and a badge?”
“I do, though I don’t much care for the gun part.” Sloan had come down his steps. He was carrying a silver thermal cup in one bare hand, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he took a drink of its contents while he crossed the yard. “And I think just calling me Sloan will do.”
Considering the heat rising inside her, Abby wanted to unwind the scarf from around her neck and ditch it, too, but she resisted the urge. Dillon would think he could do the same, and he was plagued with winter colds. “You need a coat,” she told Sloan. She also didn’t want Dillon thinking he could emulate the tall man from next door, either. “At least some gloves.”
“I didn’t get to come out without my coat,” Dillon said. With his stocking cap, his puffy down coat, his scarf and his mittens, his skinny little body was nearly round.
“And we’ve got to do as Nurse Marcum says,” Sloan drawled. He pulled a pair of black gloves from his back pocket. “Think these’ll do?”
She knew she was blushing. “Not unless they’re on your hands.”
His amusement turned to an outright smile, confirming what she already knew. Spectacular. Definitely spectacular.
And she felt entirely caught in the spell of his brown eyes.
“Hold this.” He handed her the thermal mug and pulled on his gloves, his gaze finally sliding away to focus on Dillon.
“Your sister needs to see what the men can do,” Sloan was saying to Dillon, who beamed in response. He crouched next to the boulder-sized snowball. Dillon did the same, and they began rolling the ball, not stopping until it was even more enormous.
Abby dragged her gaze from the view of Sloan’s backside before he straightened. “Good thing you finally stopped,” she offered. “Or there wouldn’t be enough snow left on the ground to make the other two parts of Mr. Frosty, here.” She held out the mug, but Sloan waved it off.
“Dillon, you start on the head,” he suggested. “Your sister and I will work on the middle.”
“He’s gotta have
