By the time he asked several questions and they shared a few chuckles over the more bizarre calls that had come in, he was pulling into her driveway.

“I’ll walk you to your door.”

He set the brake and circled the car, giving the neighborhood a quick scan. All appeared to be quiet.

As they followed the path to her porch, he took her arm—and when she smiled up at him, his heart did a strange flip-flop.

Funny.

Since Karen’s scathing assessment after their breakup, he’d been convinced he wasn’t up to the job of being a husband. Women needed emotional connections, sharing at the deepest levels, and that had never been his strong suit. How could it be, after the upbringing he’d had?

Karen had never complained much about his reticence until the end, though. Perhaps she’d thought that in time she could change him. And perhaps she could have.

But with Eve, it was already different. In the space of two weeks, he’d shared more about his past than he’d ever revealed to Karen—which was telling.

It also supported Eve’s theory that he had it in him to open up . . . with the right woman.

That didn’t solve the other problem, however.

He stepped back while she fitted the key in her lock, keeping tabs on their surroundings.

It had been a good try on her part to suggest their jobs had similarities, that if she abided by his rules she’d never marry either. Yet that was a stretch. Once they got past this traumatic incident in her life, there wasn’t likely to be a repeat. It was an anomaly, even for a high-profile career like hers.

The danger in his job, on the other hand, would last forever. While detectives weren’t as vulnerable as first responders, no street job in law enforcement was without risk.

Was it possible, though, that because of all she was going through now, Eve would be better equipped than most women to understand and handle the psychological pressures that came with the risks of his job?

That question continued to loop through his mind as he said goodbye, waited until the lock clicked on the other side of the door, then returned to his car.

It was certainly a possibility worth pondering this weekend in the few spare minutes he’d have between bandaging cut fingers, putting salve on minor burns suffered while toasting s’mores, and comforting kids who’d never spent a night in the arms of Mother Nature.

Nor could it hurt to send a few prayers heavenward. Not asking for a specific outcome—he believed the line in the Lord’s Prayer that said thy will be done—but for guidance to make a wise decision . . . and the fortitude to follow through.

Wherever that might lead.

17

SOMETHING WAS WRONG.