Hot Stuff by C. J. Fosdick Page B

décor Evan brought home belonged to that category you call a 10-99…er…some might call it this.” He finally managed to smile when I pulled a handful of candy hearts out of my pocket and singled out the one that said Hot Stuff .
    “Billington knows about all this?”
    “Certainly. Our neighbors are aware of this, too. When something goes missing, they usually show up here first to see if Evan has it planted in his garden . If they can identify it, we simply have a custody exchange, then mollify my brother with a trip to a local garden shop for some kind of a replacement.” I popped a candy heart into my mouth and offered him one after flicking a strand of cat fur off the Kiss Me heart.
    Screwing up his face, he cleared his throat. “Valentine candy in July?”
    “I won a six-month supply after writing new imprints for the company. The candy has a long shelf life,” I added.
    He declined my offer.
    “Bite Me.”
    “Ma’am?”
    “That was one of my slogans. The candy boss wanted something modern. You Know was another one. Kids today can’t get through a sentence without sprinkling it with ‘ you know ’ . ”
    He studied me with a lopsided grin. “Why didn’t Billington tell me all this?”
    “I don’t think he knows I write slogans and ads for a living.”
    Shifting on his feet, he pulled on his ear. “I mean about your brother stealing yard ornaments.”
    “Oh well, I suspect Evan’s fancy may be an inside joke at the precinct.”
    He shook his head and sighed. “With a rookie at the butt of the joke, I imagine. Mind if I check out the tent?”
    I held open the tent flap for him to pass…so I could assess the fit of his jeans from the rear.
    Confusion flattered his dark good looks from the front. His backside was just as fine. Hot Stuff could have been embroidered on the back of his shirt.

Chapter Two
    Sitting in his canvas sling chair, thumbing through a garden catalog, Evan didn’t even look up when we entered his sanctuary.
    “Hey, Bro, I want you to meet…” I looked at Hot Stuff’s shirt pocket to get the name right…“Officer Dallas.”
    Evan flashed him a quick look. “I didn’t do it.” He resumed concentration on the catalog.
    “Hey, buddy, mind if we look around?” Dallas said, flashing his baby blues at me.
    I gave him a weak smile and a shrug. Social graces were almost non-existent for anyone with Asperger’s, but I could never help feeling embarrassed by the rudeness others perceived. I clamped a hand on Evan’s shoulder. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything, Evan. The officer is Captain Billington’s friend. He’s just looking for a lost Dutch boy. Have you seen anything like that lately?”
    “With a windmill,” Dallas interjected. “A lawn ornament with a windmill.”
    Evan shrugged off my hand and noisily thumbed through his catalog, stopping abruptly to stab his finger on a page that was filled with statuary.
    Standing on either side of his chair, we both bent over the catalog, bumping heads with a dull thump. Ignoring the pain, I palmed my forehead and snorted a laugh. The rookie’s head was cushioned by a shiny black forelock with a scent of lime gel—one of my favorite whiffs next to cinnamon and lavender. After another awkward moment, I muttered something inane about hard heads.
    The cop gave me a blank stare before clearing his throat and scraping back his forelock.
    Heat crept up my neck.
    Evan, who rarely laughed at all, must have thought our head-bashing was funny. His belly wiggled the catalog propped on his lap—which, of course, made me giggle, and even the cop grinned wide enough to show off a white porcelain smile.
    I thought of the toothpaste slogan I had worked on last winter. White as a new snowfall hadn’t flown with my boss, but I still preferred it to the white marble analogy. Hot Stuff had great teeth, Sapphire eyes, nice muscles, broad shoulders. Visually, he was topping my mental checklist of the ideal man.
    White marble. As in