Safely Home by Ruth Logan Herne

and masculine, complementing the cut of his gray wool sport coat. Part of her wanted to lean in to the wool, breathe his scent.
    The other part considered raising a knee to a very sensitive area of his body. She desisted, stepping back, keeping the towel snug with her arms. “You’ll drive her?”
    “I always do.”
    “Then why…?” Cress glared toward the staircase as if her grandmother were there, then shook her head. “Never mind. Why don’t you two go ahead? I’ll meet you there.”
    Alex grinned. “She got you, didn’t she?”
    “Shut up.”
    “Rude.”
    She directed her gaze back to the staircase. “Go, will you? Or she’ll be late and that will be my fault, too.”
    He released his hold and raised his wrist. “Twelve minutes. Sure you don’t want us to wait?”
    “What I want you to do is—”
    Two fingers shushed her again as he bent close, so close she could see tiny dots of deeper brown flecking his more sienna eyes. “Be nice, okay? It’s Sunday.”
    Something in his words, his touch, his expression, or maybe the trio combined made her realize he was right. She drew a light breath and nodded, scenting fresh soap on his fingers, liking the feel of them against her mouth. “Okay.”
    His look deepened to awareness before he stepped back, turned and headed downstairs. Cress watched him go, her heart tripping faster, her breathing upgraded to match the pulse.
    She was losing it. What on earth was she thinking? For just a moment, Alex Westmore had looked—
    Do Not Go There. Crossing into her room, she heard the crunch of gravel as he backed toward the road. She shut the door with a bang and rifled her clothes, hunting for an appropriate outfit. Grabbing a skirt and sleeveless sweater, she slipped into them, irate.
    Nothing about Alex was appealing. Not his wavy dark hair or laughing eyes, not the easy way he wore designer clothes as though made for them, not the firm grip of thick, strong fingers holding her upright, cushioning her surprise.
    She ran a comb through the wet tangle of hair, wasted two minutes with the blow dryer on high to initiate the drying process, then raced down the stairs, out the door and half-dove into her car. She got to church almost on time with wet hair, her skirt semi-twisted, and somewhat out of breath for having to walk an extra block-and-a-half because the small lot was chock-full, and still earned a look of displeasure from Gran.
    Alex?
    He acted as if he hadn’t a clue she was there, which suited her just fine.
     
     

 
    Chapter Five
     
     
    Alex needed to steer clear of Cress Dietrich.
    He came to that realization about the time he lightened his grip along the soft curve of her arms, oblivious to anything except the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, inhaling the essence of fruit-soaked soap. He wasn’t sure if the fruit/spice blend wafted from her hair or her skin, and for long moments, he didn’t care.
    Dangerous. First because she was a cop, and Alex Westmore avoided cops for good reason.
    Second, she was Gran’s helper, and he would no sooner risk spilling the beans on Gran’s financial situation than he would on his own mother, and getting too chummy with Cress might encourage him to do just that. No, he carried his weight for Norma Dietrich willingly. No way would he risk her embarrassment or censure.
    Third, Cress was a full-fledged brat, tough and in-your-face, shoulders squared, butt tucked, ready to duke it out with whatever came her way. Tougher-than-nails women weren’t his cup of tea, not now, not ever. He liked quiescent women, soft, easy going. Pliable.
    Didn’t he?
    Obviously not if his reaction this morning was any indicator. He’d done his best to ignore her throughout the service and beyond, then threw himself into his work after a mid-day meal on the run, refusing Gran’s offer of pot roast.
    And he loved pot roast. Especially with those little, round potatoes and long spears of carrot, all roasted in the meat juices. His belly