Part-Time Wife. Сьюзен Мэллери

to that. He’d gone through the same thing nearly six years ago. Krystal had wanted out, but she hadn’t made it easy. He’d hung on as best he could, trying to be both mother and father to the boys. He’d thought he was doing well, until this last year.

      What had gone wrong? Was it the hours he put in? He didn’t usually volunteer for special assignments, but this one was different. There wasn’t a lot of glory involved. No big drug busts, no fifteen minutes of fame on the local news report. Just directly helping those in need. He’d wanted to give something back. Were his kids paying the price for that?

      He knew some of the trouble with the boys was that they’d lost Mrs. Miller. She’d been a part of their lives for nearly five years. Coming on the heels of their mother’s death—Craig shook his head. No wonder the boys weren’t themselves.

      He’d done his best to keep it from happening, but history was repeating itself again. He was gone a lot, as his father had been. He was failing his kids, and he wasn’t sure how to make it better.

      A thunk from the top of the stairs broke through his musings. He walked through the living room and into the hallway. Jill was dragging down a suitcase almost as big as she was.

      “I’ll get that,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time.

      “I can manage,” she said politely, then stood aside to let him pick up the case. It wasn’t very heavy, but she was so tiny, how big could her clothes be?

      “Is this it?” he asked when he reached the first floor.

      She nodded. “I can come back and get whatever I’ve forgotten.” She had a purse over her shoulder. She shook it once, then frowned. “Keys. I need keys.”

      While she glanced at the small table in the entryway, then patted her pockets, he studied her. She’d made a quick change. Her short red hair was still damp from her shower. Bangs fell nearly to her delicate eyebrows. The style left her small ears bare. She’d put on some makeup. With it, she looked older, although not anywhere near thirty, which he knew she was. She wore faded jeans that hinted at the curvy legs he’d seen just a few minutes before. The baggy white sweatshirt dwarfed her small frame. She’d pushed up the sleeves, exposing finely boned hands and wrists.

      He had the uncomfortable feeling that a man as big as himself could easily crush her if he wasn’t careful.

      “My keys,” she muttered, shaking her purse again. “Come on, Jill, you usually have it together.”

      “But do you usually talk to yourself?” he asked.

      She looked startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there. Then she grinned. “Yeah, I usually do. Sorry. You and the boys will have to get used to it.”

      “Don’t worry. I talk to myself, too. A hazard of the job. Too much time alone.” He motioned toward the front door. “Are those your keys in the lock?”

      She turned around and stared. “Oh. Thanks.”

      He pulled them free. “Not a good idea to keep them here. If someone breaks in you want to make it hard, not easy. By leaving the keys in the door, you let him walk out the front, like he belongs here.” He shifted the keys until he held the one to her car. “Not to mention giving him a nice late-model vehicle to steal.”

      “Yeah, yeah, I know. But if I don’t keep them in the door, I lose them.”

      “You lost them anyway.”

      She stared at him, then reached for her keys. He let them fall in her palm, rather than risk direct contact. Her expression turned thoughtful.

      “Craig, do you ever go off duty?”

      “Not usually.”

      “How do the boys feel about that?”

      Her green eyes saw too much, he thought grimly. He raised the suitcase slightly. “Do you need anything else?” he asked.

      “Nope. I’m ready.” She followed him out onto the porch, then locked the door behind them. “What, no patrol car?”

      He pointed to his two-year-old Honda. “Sorry, no. There’s a utility vehicle at the house so you can cart the boys and their sports equipment around, but I use this to get back and forth to the station.”

      Her red Mustang convertible was parked in the driveway. She opened the trunk and he set the suitcase inside. “Get many tickets in this?” he asked.

      “It looks flashy, but I never drive fast. I know that’s disappointing, but at heart I’m pretty boring.”

      He was about to tell her he wouldn’t have used that word to describe her. Cute, maybe. Tempting, probably. Sexy, definitely. But boring? Not in this lifetime. And any man who thought that obviously had his head up his—

      He cleared his throat. “I live south of here. In Fern Hill.”

      “I’m not familiar with the neighborhood.”

      “It’s an independent city. You’ll like it. Just follow me. I’ll go slow.”

      Her gaze widened, as if she’d read more into his statement than he’d meant. Before he could explain, she smiled. “Okay, Officer Haynes, I’ll be right behind you.” She opened the driver’s door and slid inside.

      As Craig started his car and pulled away from the curb, he thought about what Kim had said when she’d phoned to tell him she couldn’t take the job.

      “I have a friend who would be perfect for you.”

      In that moment, on a night when the pressures of the job and raising three kids alone had driven him to the edge of his patience, he’d wanted to believe she referred to more than a baby-sitter.

      “Pretty stupid, Haynes,” he muttered. He’d given up on relationships a long time ago. There weren’t any promises, no sure things. And his ex-wife, Krystal, had taught him the foolishness of trying to believe in love.

      So what if he found Jill attractive? All that meant was he wasn’t as dead inside as he’d thought. Maybe it was time to think about dating. There was only one problem. He came from a long line of men particularly gifted at screwing up relationships.

Chapter Two

      Craig pulled up in front of the house and motioned for Jill to park her car in the driveway. He pushed the button on the garage door opener and got out immediately, but she sat in her red Mustang, staring. He glanced at the two-story home in front of him. It wasn’t all that different from his neighbors’. The area was a more recent development, about six years old. He’d bought the house after his divorce, thinking that making a clean break would make it easier for all the boys. Besides, Fern Hill had a great school system with a sports program that was the envy of the state. He’d wanted that for his sons.

      He tried to see the house as a stranger would see it. The high peaked roof was Spanish tile, as were most of the others on the street. White stucco with wood accents, tall windows that—he squinted and stared—needed washing pretty badly. The front yard was oversized, mowed but not trimmed. He frowned. Since taking his temporary assignment, he hadn’t spent much time at home. The house showed the neglect. He wondered if the boys did, too.

      Jill stepped out of her car and gave him a slight smile. “Cops make more money than I thought,” she said. “This is nice.”

      “It’s south of the city,” he said, “so most people won’t make the commute. For me, it’s closer to work and closer to Glenwood, where my brothers live.”

      “Great.” But she didn’t sound very enthused.

      She walked around to the rear of her car and lifted the trunk. Before she could reach for the suitcase, he grabbed it and pulled it out.

      This time her smile was genuine. “Thanks. Such nice manners. Your