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