By this time Molly was on her feet, having hurried closer so that she could watch what appeared to be an old-fashioned—and epic—showdown. She didn’t want the sheriff to see her watching, of course—not because she was shy, but because it would be embarrassing if he caught her staring at him.
So she hung behind Patrick as he narrated the game like a sports announcer to anyone who would listen, which turned out to be basically everyone.
“The score is now seventeen to fifteen in favor of Sheriff Hartwell. The game is close, but I believe the sheriff’s killer cornhole technique will, in the end, make him victorious.”
Molly didn’t know about that, but she did know that the sheriff’s dress pants fit him in just such a way that when he leaned forward to make a toss, her pulse stuttered. She’d also finished her champagne and developed a very powerful thirst. She wanted to go inside and order another drink—perhaps a water, to cool off—but she also didn’t want to tear herself away from the game in case she missed something, like a crucial shot or the sheriff bending over to lift something.
What on earth was wrong with her tonight?
Just then Randy Jamison’s fourth bag of the round swept clean past his hole and skidded into the sand. A cry went up, the loudest of which was Molly’s own. Everyone turned to look at her except, fortunately, the sheriff. He was so wrapped up in his game that no one else appeared to exist to him. This was true sportsmanship.
“Why,” Molly clutched Patrick’s arm and asked, “isn’t there an Olympic category for cornhole? If there was, the sheriff would definitely win the gold!”
Patrick looked down at her with an odd expression on his face, possibly because she’d caused him to slosh a little of his martini into the sand. “My dear girl,” he said, “I’m sure you’re right. You should—”
But then the sheriff’s final toss sailed cleanly into the hole, and Molly screamed loudly enough that Patrick wasn’t the only one who spilled his drink in alarm.
She didn’t care, though. She jumped up and down in the sand, thrilled that John had beaten the dreadful city planner.
“Oh my God,” murmured Meschelle, who’d ended up standing beside her. “Someone’s taking their cornhole a little personally, aren’t they?”
But Molly couldn’t help it, especially when Nurse Dani presented the sheriff with the crystal vase stuffed with bills and announced, “We’ve collected over four thousand dollars from the generous people here tonight, which the Little Bridge State Bank has graciously agreed to match, dollar for dollar.”
This was greeted with hoots and cheers, the loudest of which came, again, from Molly. Dani had to raise her voice to be heard over the applause.
“That makes over eight thousand dollars, which I’m now handing off to our new cornhole champion, Sheriff John Hartwell, to either keep or donate to the charity of his choice.”
Nurse Dani passed the vase to the sheriff, who accepted it with a lopsided smile of sheepish embarrassment, made all the more adorable—in Molly’s opinion, anyway—by the fact that his shirt had become untucked in places by the vigor of the game, and his already too-short hair was sexily mussed.
“Uh,” the sheriff began. “Thanks, Dani. I—”
“Keep!” shouted some of the more inebriated men in the crowd. “Keep it!”
“Shut up,” roared Nurse Dani, in the same voice that Molly imagined she used on drunks in her ER, of which there were many, Little Bridge being known as a party town. “Let him talk.”
“I’d just like to say thanks to everyone for coming out again this year to support this important cause.” The sheriff’s voice was gruff, as if he were unused to speaking much, which was ridiculous as Molly knew for a fact that he used his voice quite a lot, especially when he was disagreeing with her about something. “I’m sure many of you remember all the help the Red Cross gave those of us who were in need last year when we were hit by Hurricane Marilyn, and they continue to do vital work not just in the United States but all around the world. They save lives, and they absolutely need the money we’ve all donated here tonight.”
Oh, Molly thought, a warm feeling growing in her heart. He’s going to donate the money to the Red Cross. That is very sweet.
“And of course there’s a nonprofit very close to my heart, our own city jail petting zoo, where we could certainly use the money,” John went on. “But there’s an individual here in our community who needs our financial help even more, someone who is just getting started in life. I’d like to donate this money you’ve all so generously donated to Little Bridge’s newest resident, Baby Aphrodite.”
Molly was so shocked by this that her mouth fell open wordlessly. Then her knees gave out completely, and she sank down onto the powder-soft sand.
It was only then that the sheriff’s gaze finally met hers.
Chapter Twelve
John
John wasn’t sure what the proper etiquette was anymore when it came to approaching attractive single women in whom he had a romantic interest, particularly at charity fundraisers. They had not covered this topic at the four-hour sexual harassment–awareness training program.
And the Red Cross Ball was still technically a work function, since he had not paid for his ticket himself—it had been comped, as his tickets were to most such functions.
So after his failed attempt at offering her a drink, he’d stayed assiduously away from the librarian, even though he’d been highly aware of her presence, especially during the cornhole tournament, where she’d made a very pretty—and enthusiastic—spectator.
It was gratifying to have anyone appreciate what a challenging and ultimately tricky game cornhole could be. Most people considered it a children’s game, or something to be played only at birthday parties or outside of bars. In Little Bridge, it was generally considered that the more intoxicated the participants, the better.
But if anyone really gave it a moment’s thought, the way Molly Montgomery obviously had, they could see how difficult a sport it was, and how much hand-eye coordination it required. John liked that Molly respected that, and also how closely she’d observed his technique.
But even that didn’t seem like enough of a reason to approach her at what was, technically, a work event . . . until she tripped in the sand in front of him and fell over. As a first responder, it was his responsibility—his duty, really—to go over to her, and make sure she wasn’t in need of first aid.
“Are you all right?” John asked, reaching down with a supportive hand.
“I’m fine.” Her small hand felt warm in his, vibrant and alive as a little yellow finch Katie had once found in the backyard, stunned from a tropical-storm-force wind.
It was only when Molly lifted her head and saw who it was who’d offered her help that her large, dark eyes flared even wider than usual, and she quickly slipped her hand from his, almost as startled as the finch had been.
“Oh,” she cried. “You!”
“Yes,” he said, still concerned. “It’s me. John. Are you hurt?”
“No.” Quickly brushing sand from her knees and strands of her fine dark hair from her damp cheeks, she said, in a shaky voice, “I just feel stupid.”
“You shouldn’t,” he said. “Everyone trips sometimes.”
“Oh, yes. I tripped,” she said. “That’s exactly what happened. So. Baby Aphrodite. That was so nice of you!”
“Well.” Obviously he hadn’t chosen to donate the money to Baby Aphrodite to be nice. He’d done it to get Molly to like him. He didn’t actually believe the kid was going to need the money. The grandparents would call him soon for the good news—it was a bit odd they hadn’t called already, but he’d never been to Alaska, who knew what their cell service was like—and reconcile with their daughter, and in no time, mother and daughter would be back in the Brightons’ mansion in New Canaan, Connecticut (he’d looked up the Brightons’ address on Google Earth—they had a four-car garage), enrolled in some fancy Mommy and Me class that cost more than his monthly mortgage payment, and living happily ever after.
And, of course, if Beckwith really was the father, John would get him—or his family—to pay up as well.
But he couldn’t let Molly Montgomery know that this was something he thought. He had a pretty strong feeling that somehow she wouldn’t approve of his having interfered in the girl’s affairs in this way.
“It seemed like the right thing to do,” he said, instead.
He hadn’t been the only one to hurry over to help the librarian. Patrick O’Brian, owner of Little Bridge’s Seam and Fabric Shoppe and the island’s most popular drag queen (who, John had to admit, was pretty damned entertaining), had also rushed over to make sure she was all right.
Upon seeing John already at her side, Patrick took a quick step back and said, “Miss Molly, I told you, you need to hydrate. In this heat, you have to drink one glass of water for every glass of alcohol.” He looked at the sheriff and rolled his eyes. “Mainlanders. Am I right? Maybe you should take her inside, Sheriff, and get her some water.”