Page 30 of No Offense

That’s when Molly knew that she, too, had to get over there. Not to join the games. Molly had always been miserable at games. No, Molly needed to keep an eye on the sheriff in his dress uniform. She simply didn’t have any other choice.

“Excuse me,” she said, quickly abandoning her napkin and chair. “I’ll be right back.”

Then she hurried as quickly as she could after the sheriff, slipping off her heels so they wouldn’t sink into the sand,and bringing her champagne flute along—it was still more than half-full, after all, and it would be a shame to abandon such good champagne.

Lit by tiki torches—though there was still plenty of light in the lavender sky—were several raised wooden platforms sitting well away from the reach of the waves. Cut into each platform was a small hole. Beside the boards were piles of what appeared to be little beanbags. The sheriff was standing near these with a group of men who were smoking cigars.

Molly wasn’t sure what game this was, but she didn’t particularly care, either. Her gaze was glued to John Hartwell, who apparently planned to play... at least if the fact that he was peeling off his well-fitting jacket was any indication.

Molly’s knees suddenly felt weak. She looked around for somewhere to sit, but as they were out on the beach, there was nowhere to sit except on the ground, and she didn’t want to get sand in Joanne’s beautiful sequined dress (which had been too loose on Joanne and was subsequently a little too tight on Molly, especially now that she’d had so many crab claws).

“May I?” asked a voice to her right, and Molly turned to see Patrick—also known as Lady Patricia, the drag queen who volunteered at the library to read at Story Time—offering to lay his tuxedo jacket down upon the sand for her to sit on.

“Oh, I couldn’t!” Molly was mortified.

“Please do.” Patrick took a seat on the sand beside the folded jacket. “I was broiling in that thing, anyway. And I’d hate for you to ruin that lovely frock.”

“Well...” Molly looked down at the tempting folded jacket. In front of her, the sheriff was loosening his tie and undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. It was a white button-down short-sleeved shirt. She could see how closely the darkly tanned curves of his biceps filled those short sleeves.

Molly sat with a thump, spilling a little of her champagne.

Patrick glanced at her with amusement. “See something over there—or should I say someone—that interests you?”

“Not at all,” Molly replied, more firmly than she meant to. She took a restorative sip of her champagne and then asked, hoping to change the subject, “What game is it exactly that they’re about to play?”

Patrick had been taking a sip of the martini he’d brought along with him, which he now nearly spat out in surprise. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of cornhole.”

“Of course I have.” Had she? It was hard for her to remember anything when John Hartwell was standing just a few yards away, looking so tall and attractive in the waning light of the sun. “It’s, uh...”

“I can see that you’ve led a very sheltered life, tucked away behind all those books, Molly Montgomery.”

Molly didn’t feel like correcting him. People always thought this about librarians—that they were introvertswho only wanted to stay indoors and read. Of course, this was true of some of them.

But Molly had always had a very active social life. Even when she’d been studying for her degrees, then working, she’d still made time for fun. That’s how she’d met her ex, Eric, a dark-eyed radiologist with whom she’d been teamed up at a local brewery’s trivia night, and with whom she’d always trounced the competition. He’d known everything about sports and science, and she’d known everything about pop culture and literature. All their friends had been sure they were made for each other.

It was only after they’d gotten engaged and begun discussing their future that she’d realized a talent for trivia was the only thing they had in common.

“Of course, this ischaritycornhole,” Patrick was saying, “notregularcornhole. The object of this particular version of the game is to toss as many beanbags as you can into the hole. Whoever gets the kitty wins the pot, which our generous donor—in this case, the Little Bridge State Bank—then matches. The winner traditionally then donates their winnings back to the Red Cross, or some other charity of their choice. But on one or two occasions”—he sent a dark look in the direction of the men to whom the sheriff was talking—“players have been known to keep it.”

Shocked, Molly raised her eyebrows. “Really? Someone’s kept money meant to be donated for charity? Who would do such a thing?”

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but our city planner.”He pointed at one of the men to whom the sheriff was speaking, and Molly realized she recognized him because of the frequency with which his name and photo appeared inThe Gazette’s“Cheers and Jeers” section—Randy Jamison, who was well known for delaying or even denying building permits for no good reason, including many the new library had needed. For this he often received “jeers.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “That doesn’t sound very sporting.”

“No, but there isn’t much we can do about it, except get in there and beat him. And I’ve never had much of a pitching arm—have you?”

“Oh, God, no.”

“I didn’t think so. No offense. I feel like this sort of thing is best left to the athletes, like our good sheriff there. Did you know he was all-state in baseball when he was in high school?”

Molly shook her head, though she wasn’t surprised, given how strong and sinewy his arms looked. She wondered idly what arms like that would feel like around her....

She haddefinitelyhad too much champagne.

“Oh, yes,” Patrick went on. “Right here in Little Bridge. From what I understand, he would have gone to the pros if he hadn’t gotten his high school sweetheart pregnant and chosen instead to marry her, stay here on the island, help raise his daughter, and become a police officer. He was a good one, too, until he got a criminal justice degree at the local community college and eventually applied for and made detective up in Miami.”

Molly dug her free hand into the sand and found a prettyseashell with which she pretended to be fascinated. “Why did he move back?”