She stuck her tongue out at him but playfully. He could tell she wasn’t really mad, just like she could tell he wasn’t really mad, either. They’d been a team too long to allow petty disagreements to get in the way of their affection for each other.

  Unlike his relationship with Molly Montgomery, which was too new for him to let the sun set on a squabble. He had to make things right with her. But how?

  “What can I get you two for dessert?” Angela, who always worked the Sunday night spaghetti and meatball shift, came up to their booth to ask.

  Katie was still mock pouting. “My dad says I’m not allowed to have dessert.”

  “Come on now, Sheriff.” Angela jerked her pen toward the counter. “Ed made a couple of his world-famous key lime pies this afternoon. You know there’s nothing better than a slice of pie to fix what ails you.”

  John glanced at the counter and saw the pies sitting pristine and covered in peaks of lightly toasted meringue behind the glass display case. Was it really true that a piece of pie could repair all of one’s troubles? Not in his experience.

  But it could certainly make one feel better in the moment.

  “I’ll have one,” John said, and began to dig around in his pocket for his wallet. The Mermaid Café was a cash-only enterprise.

  “Da-aa-aad.” Katie’s expression was stern with disapproval. “You can’t have a slice of pie. Your cholesterol. Remember?”

  “I don’t want a slice,” John said. “I’ll take the whole thing.”

  When Katie’s eyebrows rose in shock, he explained, “It’s for a friend, not me. I owe her an apology, and what better way to say I’m sorry than with one of Ed’s pies?”

  Now Katie began to look slyly knowing. “Her? Her, Dad? Is it a certain librarian you dragged me to meet the other day? Is it? Is it?”

  “That is none of your business,” John said, throwing bills onto the table as Angela went to box up his pie. “Can you find a ride home with someone here? I have to get over to the Gazette offices before they put tomorrow’s paper to bed.”

  “Yes,” Katie said, and nodded at a table a few booths away. “Nevaeh’s over there with Marquis and those guys. They’ll drop me off. Why are you so worried about me walking home alone, Dad? Because of my stalker?”

  “Cut it out. You know I don’t like you walking by yourself after dark. Be sure to put the alarm on when you get home. I might be late.”

  “Because after you visit the Gazette you’ll be delivering your pie to the librarian?”

  John shot his daughter a warning look even as he gratefully accepted the pie, wrapped in an insulated pack to keep it cool, from Angela. “Thanks,” he said to the waitress. To his daughter, he said, “I love you.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Be good. And safe.”

  “Ugh, jeez, Dad.” She pushed him away, but she was grinning as she did it. “I love you, too. And you know I will.”

  Later, John found himself driving to the Lazy Parrot, asking himself if he was crazy. Who brought the woman they were interested in a pie? Let alone a pie and flowers in the same day. If Pete ever found out about this, he’d think he was nuts.

  But John had to do something to show Molly how sorry he was for acting like such a—

  Grumpy dad.

  He didn’t feel very reassured about his decision when he walked into the lobby of the Lazy Parrot and saw no one (as usual) at the front desk. He hadn’t realized it was so late. Probably Molly was in bed already. After all, tomorrow was Monday, a workday, even for children’s librarians. He should have called first.

  But if he called, he might wake her. He could take a gamble, he thought, and hope she was still up and at the tiki bar—though what would she be doing there this late on a Sunday night?

  He went through the lobby and out into the courtyard and instantly regretted it.

  “Hello again, sexy policeman!” The tourist from before was in the hot tub—even though it was close to seventy-five degrees outside—and she was still drinking. How was that even possible? By rights she should have passed out by now from dehydration.

  But no—she had a plastic cup shaped like a coconut in her hand, accompanied by a pink paper umbrella. She was staying well hydrated on something.

  “Hello,” John replied, just to be polite.

  “Are you looking for Molly again?” the woman asked. There were several other people in the hot tub with her, none of whom, unfortunately, was Molly.

  “Well,” John said, trying to figure out the best reply. If he said yes, it might not look good. But if he said no, it would be a lie. “I, er—”

  “He’s looking for Molly,” the woman assured her friends, and they all cackled in a friendly but decidedly knowing way.

  Feeling foolish standing there with his pie, John began to back away. “Maybe I’ll just come back another—”

  “Oh, no, don’t do that,” the woman said. “Is that for her?” She was eyeing the insulated bag in his hands.

  “Um,” he said. “Yes, it is.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s, um.” John could not remember ever feeling so stupid. “It’s a pie.”

  “A pie?”

  “A key lime pie.”

  The women in the hot tub exchanged glances. John couldn’t read them, exactly, since it was dark in the courtyard except for the light from the pool and the party lights strung across the tiki hut. But he thought they were smiling.

  “Don’t worry, hon,” one of the women said, finally. “We’ll get her for you.” Then, to John’s utter mortification, the women began to scream, “Molly! Molly!”

  “Wait,” he said. “You don’t have to—”

  But it was too late. He heard a door being opened somewhere above his head, and turned to see Molly on the second-floor balcony, wearing only an overlarge Denver Broncos T-shirt and what appeared to be men’s boxer briefs. Even more startlingly, she had on a large pair of glasses in tortoiseshell frames.

  It had never occurred to him before that Molly wore glasses, but evidently, she did. Possibly she wore contacts during the day. This would at least partly account for why her eyes always seemed so large and dark.

  “What is it, Mrs. Filmore?” she called down to the women in a slightly irritated voice, then noticed John.

  “Oh,” she said, in an entirely different tone. “It’s you.”

  Their gazes met, and it was as if the rest of the world melted away. The only thing that existed was her, and the smell of the night-blooming jasmine.

  At least until the woman in the hot tub behind him shouted, “He brought you pie!”

  John wished the earth would open and swallow him whole.

  He heard Molly laugh in confusion. “What?”

  He raised the insulated bag. “Key lime pie,” he said. “By way of apology. Can I—may I—come up?”

  It was a bold move, asking to be let into her room, especially with that bubbling vat of tourists behind him, remarking on every little thing he did. Regardless of her answer, there were going to be comments, possibly even catcalls.

  “Sure,” Molly said. “Come on up.”

  The ladies in the hot tub were quick with their “Ooooohs” and “Yeah, babys,” but John did his best to ignore them, mounting the stairs two at a time and feeling glad that the darkness would—hopefully—hide the burning he felt in his cheeks.

  When he reached Molly, he saw that she was grinning.

  “Sorry about the Greek chorus down there,” she whispered, gesturing toward the hot tub below. “They’ve been in there since happy hour. I switched them over to plain tonic water a while ago for their own good, but I don’t think they’ve noticed—or that they care.”

  John nodded. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look as beautiful in glasses as Molly did. Behind the lenses of her glasses, her eyes seemed larger and darker than ever.

  “I’m sorry about earlier.” He thrust the pie at her. “I acted like an idiot.”

  Molly looked down at the object in her hands. It was difficult for him to read her exact expression because with her head lowered, her dark hair cast her face in shadow, and the only light source on the porch was coming from the open doorway behind her, the one leading into her room.

  “A pie?” she asked, in what sounded to him like a skeptical tone.

  “A pie.” He had known this was going to be hard, but he hadn’t thought it would be this hard. “Key lime, from the Mermaid Café. Freshly made this morning by Ed. If you haven’t tried one yet, you really should, they’re delicious. I just saw it and thought of you because . . . well, I thought you might like it, and also because . . . well, you were right.”

  Her head popped up at that. He wasn’t certain because her face was still slightly shadowed in darkness, but he thought he saw her eyebrows raise. “I was what?”

  “You were right. About the photos. I talked to Katie about them, and then I took them over to Meschelle at the Gazette. She’s going to make sure that they run one on the front page tomorrow morning—”

  Molly took a step backward, and at first he thought it was because she was going to ask him to leave.

  But the movement brought her face into the light, and he could see that she was smiling.

  “Why don’t you come in,” she said, gesturing toward the open door to her room, “and have a piece of this pie with me?”

  John glanced at the warm, inviting glow coming from inside the room, and swallowed. He could hear Pete’s voice in his head, urging him to accept her invitation.

  But a stronger voice was telling him that if he did, he wouldn’t come out until morning. There were things he wanted to do with Molly Montgomery that would take all night, maybe days, and he had responsibilities, to his daughter, to his community. He couldn’t throw all of those away just because he wanted to—

  “Okay,” John said, and, smiling, stepped through Molly’s door. “Thanks.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Molly

  Molly couldn’t believe it when she opened her door and saw the sheriff standing down there in the courtyard holding what appeared to be an insulated bag of fried chicken.

  Then she’d been even more disbelieving when she learned it was not fried chicken but pie—key lime pie, her favorite.

  But the absolute kicker was when he’d climbed the stairs to her room and stood in front of her and said the three words she most loved hearing in all the world—the three words she was pretty certain every librarian, or at least lover of knowledge, adored more than any other in the human language:

  You were right.

  They were words she’d never, ever heard her ex utter. Even on trivia nights when Eric had given an answer that was incorrect, he would argue that he was not wrong, that instead there’d been some flaw in the way the question was worded.

  This should have been her first sign that the two of them were not suited for each other, because a reasonable person should always be willing to admit when they’ve made a mistake.

  But she’d been blinded by Eric’s good looks and—she might as well admit it—wealth. He’d not only had a truly incredible two-bedroom loft in LoDo, but a ski condo in Breckenridge, and time shares in both Tulum and Kauai.

  It was a mistake she’d sworn she’d never make again.

  So when the sheriff admitted he was wrong and she was right, what could Molly do but invite him inside?

  “So I know it’s not much,” Molly said, rushing in ahead of him to switch off the TV so that he wouldn’t see what she’d been watching—a marathon of Forensic Files. “But it suits me perfectly fine for now.”

  John took two steps inside, said, “Oh, I’m sure it’s—” then froze, looking around the hotel room with the same horrified expression Molly imagined he might have worn while viewing a particularly gruesome crime scene for the first time.

  Confused, Molly swept her gaze over the room, trying to see what was so upsetting him. True, the room was small. But it was a hotel room! It wasn’t supposed to be huge.

  And true, she had been forced to cram over thirty years’ worth of possessions and belongings into the tiny space, excluding the things she’d left at home with her mother and in storage until she could find a more permanent living situation, like all her furniture and most of her cooking utensils and of course all of her winter clothes.

  In fact, the only things she’d brought with her to Little Bridge, besides her summer clothes, were—

  “Books,” John said in a slightly stunned tone, looking around the tiny space in wonder. “You have so many . . . books.”

  “Oh.” Molly followed his gaze and realized that if she looked at it from his point of view, the number of books she’d brought with her from Colorado might seem excessive. Because hotel rooms came with few bookshelves, her books were piled up all along the walls until they reached almost to the ceiling, stacked in every imaginable nook and cranny, including around the bed and—though John didn’t know this yet—in the bathroom.

  Was this particularly odd, though? Molly didn’t think so.

  “I know it might seem like a lot,” she said, taking the pie to the kitchenette—where she’d stacked her cookbooks and of course cooking-related mystery novels, though she’d left some room for food preparation. “But I couldn’t leave my books in storage until I found an apartment. What if I thought of something I’d read and needed to reread it?”

  Behind her, John was wandering around, looking at the titles of all the books. “You have something against e-books?”

  “Oh, no, they’re fine. Lots of people like them, I know. But I love the smell of real books, you know? And the feel of paper, turning the pages over in my hands. Drink?”

  He looked up from her piles of science fiction, startled. “Excuse me?”

  “I was wondering if you wanted something to drink with the pie. I’ve got everything here.” She opened her mini fridge to show him. “Beer, wine, soda, hard stuff—or I can make coffee, tea—”

  “Oh, no, thanks.” He seemed fixated on the books. “Don’t you work in a library? Couldn’t you check out whatever you wanted whenever you needed to—for free?”

  “Of course. But these are my books. I’ve had some of them since I was kid. They’re like friends, you know? I’ve never gone anywhere without them. Oh, watch the Miss Marples!”

  He looked down just as his foot was about to hit a pile of books that seemed to be supporting another pile of books under one end of the coffee table. “The what?”

  “Miss Marple.” Now that Molly had cut two large slices of key lime pie, she hurried over to give him one. “You must know Miss Marple. She’s one of Agatha Christie’s most famous amateur sleuths.”

  John accepted the pie and sat down on the couch, which was thankfully devoid of books, although there were piles of them on either side. “I don’t really read mysteries.”

  “Oh, I guess you wouldn’t.” Molly snuggled onto the couch cushion beside him. “Why would you? You live them. I bet you never watch Law and Order or CSI or anything like that, either, do you?”

  He shook his head. “Those shows—they never get anything right. Do you know how long it takes in real life to get the results back on a DNA sample?”

  Molly laughed. She couldn’t help it. He was so funny, but didn’t know it. “I can imagine reading mysteries would be a kind of busman’s holiday for you. What do you read, then?”

  He took a bite of pie. “Biographies, mostly.”

  Molly gave him a nonjudgmental smile. She didn’t care what people read, as long as they read something, anything—well, aside from books about how to make bombs or other weapons that hurt people.

  “What kind of biographies?” She wondered what he looked like beneath that uniform and how long it was going to be before she got him out of it.

  “Historical figures, mainly,” he said. He was really going to town on his piece of pie—which was no wonder, because it was delicious. But Molly wondered if his mindless eating was also partly due to nerves. “Athletes.”

  “Which one is your favorite?”

  “My favorite biography?”

  “Yes.”

  He gave his answer some thought. “Your boss—well, not really anymore, because she’s retired, but you said she kind of hired you as her replacement—Mrs. Robinette?”

  Molly nodded. “Phyllis. Yes?”

  “When I was a kid growing up here, I got into trouble a lot. Nothing serious, but I might have been headed down a wrong path if I hadn’t ended up in your library one day and run into your boss—Mrs. Robinette. It was raining, so it wasn’t like I had anywhere else to go, and she handed me a book she said I might like.”

  Molly continued to smile, thinking of Elijah. “What book was it?”

  “An autobiography written by a man named Dick Gregory.”

  Molly’s smile broadened. She’d have to remember to tell Phyllis later. She’d be so pleased. “Good choice, was it?”

  “I loved that book. I had no idea there could be books like that. I don’t think I’d ever read a whole book before, except when required to for school. But that book—I finished it in a day. And then all I wanted to do after that was find more books like it. I even tried out for the school track team a week later because that’s the sport Dick Gregory played.”

  Molly frowned. “But I thought you played baseball in high school?”

  “I did. The baseball coach saw me running track and recruited me for the team. I guess I was pretty good, because our team made it to nationals.”

  She smiled and took his empty plate from him and set it, along with hers, on the coffee table. “I love hearing stories like that. All it takes to get someone to love reading is finding them the right book—a book that could even change their life.”

  “Is that why you’re a children’s librarian?” he asked her. “Did you have a book like that?”

  “Of course. Only I’m sorry to say it was Nancy Drew—but an original copy, not any of those bland reprints. I found it in my great-grandmother’s attic, all crumbling and falling apart, and it was like finding a secret treasure. Original Nancy drove a yellow roadster and wore a cloche and went after real gangsters with guns. I have it here if you want to—”