“Another beer?” Mickey asked.

Brock nodded.

“So, how’s your mum?”

Mindlessly shelling a peanut, Brock tossed the husk onto the bar in front of him before popping the nut into his mouth and nodded. “Good, good.”

“Maisie’s been meaning to call her. Misses their stitch and bitch since she broke her wrist.”

Brock grunted. “How’s her wrist?”

Mickey’s light-blue eyes twinkled. “Hasn’t slowed her down much. She’s still in the garden every day, still cooking. Only thing she can’t do is stitch, and it’s killing her. Had plans to make each of the grandkids a quilt for Christmas. Doesn’t look like that’s going to be happening.”

Brock snorted and nodded for the umpteenth time when Mickey slid a fresh draft in front of him.

“Tequila, please,” came a strong, feminine voice beside him.

Brock glanced up from where he’d been studying the condensation on his beer glass, only to see a mass of red curls plop down beside him, followed by the sweetest, most beautiful smell. Honeysuckle, maybe? He really had no idea. He only knew that he liked it.

Mickey poured an ounce of tequila, placed a lime wedge on top and set a shaker of salt with the drink in front of the mystery redhead. She did the ritual of salt, shot and lime before wiping the back of her wrist across her mouth and asking for another.

Brock lifted one eyebrow at Mickey. But the Santa Claus-looking bartender-slash-surrogate father just snorted, smirked, shrugged and poured the lady another.

“Hope you’re not driving, sweetheart,” Mickey said as he brought up a bowl of limes and placed them in front of her.

She tossed back the second shot and shook her head. “No. I’m a cop. Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll cab or walk if I have to.”

That voice.

She’s a cop.

Same one?

Couldn’t be.

Brock glanced next to him, but all he saw was curls. Had the cop’s hair been the same color? He couldn’t remember. That wasn’t something he normally paid attention to. He knew she was a redhead. A hot redhead. But was this the same cop? There had to be other redheaded cops on The West Shore. But then what was she doing here in Fern Valley? The West Shore was a good twenty minutes from here.

Finally, after what felt like ages of inconspicuous glancing at the woman next to him, waiting for her to move her hair or turn her head slightly, she reached her pale, slender hand up and tucked a wavy strand behind her ear.

It was her.

“Another one, please,” she said, lifting her head at Mickey.

Brock chuckled to himself. Had the little copper had a rough day? Only sorority girls and people looking to forget their day slammed tequila the way Constable—shit, what was her last name again?—was.

“Rough day?” he asked.

She grunted as she licked the salt off the back of her hand. “You could say that.” She downed the shot and popped the lime into her mouth before turning to face him. And damn if those bright blue eyes didn’t double in size from surprise. She sucked the lime into her mouth by accident and began to choke.

Stifling yet another smile and the urge to laugh, Brock swung his arm out and began pounding her on the back with his palm. “Y’all right, constable? Gonna live?”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she coughed the lime into her hand, reached for the tall glass of water Mickey had placed in front of her after shot number two and chugged it, all the while glaring at him over the rim as she drained the water.

“What on earth are you doing here?” she asked, coming up for air and once again wiping the back of her wrist across her mouth.

“Same as you.”

The corner of her sexy little mouth lifted. “Drowning your sorrows?”

“You have sorrows?”

She let out an exhausted sigh and nodded.

“You should probably eat something if you’re going to continue slamming back the drinks the way you are,” he said.

“Yeah?” She sneered. Brock wasn’t normally the kind of guy interested in chit-chat, but for some reason he wanted to know more about this lively little cop, despite the fact that the vibe she was throwing his way said “leave me the fuck alone.” “You going to buy me dinner?”

“I can,” he said smoothly. “After all, it’s the least I can do after you let me off with a warning this afternoon … Constable … ”

“Matthews.”

Right.

“Constable Matthews.”

She squinted at him. “Thanks … uh … ”

“You don’t remember my name, do you, constable?” He chuckled again, grabbing a menu and pushing it in front of her. “Pick something. I’m buying.”

She rolled those striking blue eyes and opened the menu. “Deluxe burger with bacon, mushrooms and extra pickle.”

Brock caught Mickey’s eye and held up two fingers. The bartender nodded.

“Do you remember my name?” Brock probed again, scooting his barstool just a tad closer to hers.

“I pulled over a lot of people today. Issued a lot of citations. I can’t remember everyone’s name.”

“Brock Hart. And you’re Constable K. Matthews. What does the K stand for? Kantakerous?” His chest and shoulders bobbed at his own mirth and, as hard she was trying to fight it, because that was obvious, a bubble of a laugh leaped from her throat.

“Krista,” she whispered, raising her eyebrow and nodding at the bartender when he asked if she wanted another shot.

“You live around here?” he asked, rolling her name around in his head and deciding it suited her.

She nodded. “You?”

“You live around here?” he asked in surprise, ignoring her question. “Doesn’t a cop’s salary pay well enough for you to live … I don’t know, not around here?”

She lifted one slender shoulder and shrugged, thanking the bartender when he placed another shot in front of her. “I grew up in a small town. On a dirt road, out in the middle of nowhere. This is home to me. I’m not used to the big-city life. I like peace and quiet. I like the idea of having bears and deer in my backyard. Plus, I’m a rookie. I make peanuts.”

“Bears?”

She nodded. “They used to raid our apple trees all the time.”

“Do you rent some property around here?”

“I rent a basement suite in a big house on a chunk of land a few kilometers or so down the road.”

Mickey ambled over and plopped two big, beautiful greasy burgers in front of them, the plates piled a mile high with thick, wedge-cut fries. Krista’s eyes went wide, and he smiled to himself at her childish glee. The burgers were awesome. She had a right to be impressed.

Brock reached forward and took a bite of a still-steaming fry. “Eat up, otherwise you won’t be able to walk home given how much tequila you’ve just slammed back.”

She shot him a surly glare but dove in anyway. “And I plan on having more.”

The bar was located pretty much out in the middle of nowhere in a municipality known as Fern Valley, which was part of the Greater Victoria area. Not far, but at the same time far enough from the prestigious and comely homes on Prospect Lake. This part of town wasn’t exactly where doctors and lawyers were buying their 1.2 million-dollar homes. It was more where rednecks parked their double-wides and drove their pickups into the bushes for burial when they stopped working. But that suited Brock just fine. He liked his solitude and the quiet. And the seedy dive bar located in the middle of the middle of nowhere was half his. He’d co-bought it with Mickey when the old guy retired, and Brock served as a silent partner. He checked in and handled the business side while Mickey managed the staff and tended bar. It was a biker bar, a redneck bar, but it was home, and Brock liked it.

He watched in the mirror behind the bar as Krista chewed her food slowly, a small, sexy smile on her face. She closed her eyes and hummed softly. Jordy in the kitchen always made a killer burger. Brock’s taste buds were just as happy as Krista’s. And fuck what he would give to be that burger right now, rolling around on her tongue and in her hot little mouth.

“So, Brock Hart, if that’s your real name?” she finally asked on a swallow. “Where do you live?”

A smile jogged on his lips as he methodically chewed his fries. “Around here,” he finally said. “Walking distance.”

“Stumbling distance?” She snickered, digging into her own fries. “’Cause that’s what we’d do, stumble there. Or at least me. That tequila’s hit me hard. Good call on the food.”

Brock didn’t say anything. He simply studied her face. She had a tiny bit of mustard at the corner of her mouth that he wanted to wipe, lick, or suck off for her. Preference on the latter.

“You want to get out of here?” he finally asked.

“I … uh … ”

He lifted one shoulder cavalierly and then shoveled fries into his mouth before taking a healthy sip of his beer to wash it all down.

She eyed him curiously before nodding at Mickey for yet another shot. “I had an awful day,” she said quietly. “I’m drinking to forget.”

“Did you have to stand out in the rain and issue tickets all day?” he asked, his volume matching hers. He drained his beer and lifted an eyebrow at Mickey for another.

She nodded but then shook her head. “I didn’t issue any citations. And then there was a fatal accident on the highway we had to deal with.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Those are never easy.”

She shook her head again. “No, they’re not.”

It seemed like she was avoiding his gaze on purpose now, swirling her last remaining fry around and around in a big puddle of ketchup until it was limp and covered in red. “I don’t want to be a traffic cop,” she finally managed to whisper. “I didn’t want to be out there. Besides you, I pulled over two little old ladies and didn’t have the heart to cite them.”

He snorted. “Yeah, my dad was a cop, said it was tough when he’d have to pull over a car for speeding only to find a wrinkled little blue hair behind the wheel. For the most part, they drive slow as fuck, but then once in a while you get an eighty-five-year-old Mario Andretti with a medical alert bracelet, going sixty in a school zone.”

To Brock’s surprise and delight—which also surprised him—she burst out laughing, nodded and then slammed back the shot in front of her. Damn, she was cute. And she smelled incredible.

He nodded, signaled Mickey and told him to put everything on his “tab.”

Krista finally finished that last fry and drained the water glass in front of her. She let out a loud and satisfying ah before lifting her head and batting her lashes at him.

“You look different from the picture on your license,” she said. “I like your hair longer. And your face has filled out.”

His skin prickled. He hoped to God she didn’t ask anything personal. Brock never got personal.

She leaned forward so their faces were only six inches apart. Her breath smelled of tequila and ketchup, but it was quickly overpowered by the most divine scent—floral and sweet with a hint of spice. It wrapped around him and he had to force himself not to shut his eyes and inhale deeply.

“Hmm?” he hummed, wondering what she was looking at.

She blinked those diamond blues at him and smiled coyly. “You have beautiful green eyes. And the scruff beard is hot, definitely better than the clean-shaved look of your picture.”

She’d remembered that much about him? Was she coming on to him? Was she always this forward, or was the tequila making her brazen? Either way he didn’t care. She was hot as fuck, and if she said the word, he’d have her home and clawing up his back before the clock struck twelve.

“You owe me, you know,” she said with only a slight slur to her words.

He decided to play along. “I do, do I? I bought you a burger and covered your tab. I’d say we’re square for whatever it is you think I owe you.”

With a sultry little lip bite and a head shake that tousled those untameable curls of hers, she said, “Nuh-uh.”

“Nuh-uh?”

“I let you off with a warning. And we both know you were speeding right up until you saw me. You tossed on the brakes at the perfect moment.”

Well, she had him there.

“So I owe you then?”

She nodded.

“I’m not sure you should be drinking anymore, and I’m not a fan of dessert. How do you propose I owe you … constable?”

Her pink tongue darted out between her lips and ran seductively along the seam. “Stumbling distance?”

A growl built at the back of his throat. He hadn’t gotten laid in ages, and this little sprite had him sporting a half-chub since earlier in the day. Did she have her handcuffs with her still? Maybe an officer’s hat?

Sliding off the barstool, he slung his leather jacket on and held out his hand. “We’ll be there in less than ten.”

She was all grins as she hopped off the barstool. Did she not have a coat? It was freaking cold outside. All she seemed to have was a worn and weathered gray hoodie. The woman needed a coat.

She followed him to the door, which he held open for her. The wind hit them both in the face like a wet slap, and she immediately shivered, pulling her hood up and shielding her face with her hand.

Brock grabbed her other hand again and pulled her along, only to stop when they were shielded from the wind. He pulled off his leather jacket and held it out for her with nothing but a grunt. She slipped her slender arms into it and then, without a word, he grabbed her hand again and pulled her into the night and the wicked autumn weather.

It was like something out of a movie. He unlocked the door to his house, revealing nothing scary or remarkable, just your run-of-the-mill dark and cold foyer, with a shoe rack, a coat hook, and a bowl for keys. Then, before Krista knew it, he was on her. His hands in her hair, his warm, hard, delicious body pressing up against hers. Their lips and tongues danced and dueled as they furiously fought to relieve one another of clothes. It was their first kiss. They hadn’t said a word, or more like he hadn’t said a word on the ten-minute jog through the rain. It’d just been a series of grunts as he let her know which house was his and fished his keys out of the massive leather jacket she was wearing.

But maybe that’s the way it was supposed to go. No pleasantries, no mindless chit-chat or get-to-know-you bullshit. Because she didn’t really care who this Brock guy was at the moment. All she cared about was that he was promising to help her forget her shitty day with orgasms, and that was good enough for Krista.

At least for tonight.

Moaning from how good he tasted, from the ferocity of his kiss, she leaped up and wrapped her legs around his hips. With a moan of his own, he stalked up the stairs and down the hall to the bedroom. His tongue held power, thrusting in and out of her mouth, swirling and diving with such animalistic force, such primitive need, that all she wanted to do was bite him, every hard inch of him. Bite his lips, bite his chin, bite his pecs, bite his abs, bite his ass.

He tossed her onto his bed and then quickly started to strip, so she did the same. He’d already relieved her of his jacket and her hoodie on their way from the door to his room, so all that was left was her blue T-shirt, jeans, and underwear. She was down to her panties and bra in seconds, and when she glanced back up, there he stood. Godlike, but so very, very real. Not just a beautiful figment of her inebriated imagination. Big, hard, toned and so goddamn gorgeous all she could do was stare. The rain had ebbed on their jog over, the fierce wind pushing away the dark bulbous clouds. So now the moon was out, high and bright and peeking in through the blinds at them like a dirty voyeur. Its bright light cast his body and face into menacing shadows, forcing harsh angles to be chiseled even sharper, but they only made him look all the more handsome. Fearsome and mysterious. His square jaw was set into a determined scowl, and even in the moonlight she could tell his eyes were the fiercest emerald green she’d ever seen.

She reached for him. “Help me end my day right,” she purred. Hoping it sounded as sexy out loud as it did in her head.

His grin was salacious. Then slowly, ever so slowly, as though he thought he might crush her, he lowered his body down onto hers. But his mouth wasn’t nearly as gentle. He plundered her. Took and took with his lips, teeth and tongue. Stole the air from her lungs and demanded moans from the back of her throat. Was he trying to make her come just from his kisses? Because with the way things were going, that wasn’t entirely off the table.

He tasted like beer, but she probably tasted like cheap tequila, and in the end, it didn’t matter. They both knew what this was. It was hot, sweaty, need-driven, make-each-other-feel-good drunk sex with a stranger. The fact that there was beer on his breath as his tongue massaged hers into passive submission only spurred her on, made her want him, made her want his body and this night even more. She wrapped her legs around his waist and bucked up into him, feeling the granite hard length of him press into her pelvis. She ached to touch it, to feel him in her palm, to watch his face as she brought him pleasure.

But she hardly had time to finish that thought before his mouth left hers and began traveling down her body. His hands roamed and unlatched the front clasp of her bra, allowing her breasts to spill out. Warm, wet kisses were dropped along her chest and nipples, her ribcage, her belly button, her mound, and then lower. His fingers made deft work of removing her panties.

“No, no!” she protested, having had enough one-night stands in her day to know that oral sex was not always expected in this sort of situation. It was a bump-uglies, scratch-an-itch kind of situation, right?

But he just grunted and flicked out his tongue, hitting her clit in just the right spot, which caused her leg to jerk and practically knee him in the skull. He chuckled diabolically but didn’t lift his head or stop his delicious torment. Instead he spread her wide with his big fingers and dove in deeper. Lips, tongue, nose and fingers all brought her insane pleasure, coaxing and thrusting, lapping and kissing. She was wild for him, wild for an orgasm, but as he continued and the tequila seeped deeper into her body, she knew she’d only be able to manage one climax for the night, so it had to be a good one.

“Oh God … ” she moaned, grinding up into his face. She caressed her breasts, tugging on her hard, achy nipples. Unlike earlier, when she was chilled to the bone, now she was scorching hot. Her hands moved down her body to rest on top of his head. His hair was soft. A bit of a longer buzz cut, but he pulled it off. It tickled her inner thighs as his head continued to bob up and down, his mouth doing despicably wonderful things. In drunken curiosity, she continued to explore his head, traced the outer shell of his ear with her fingers, felt the muscles of his forehead and brow pinched in complete and utter concentration. Damn, even a blind woman would know this man was sexy.

His teeth grazed her inner thigh. He nipped gently, making her squeak. All the while, his fingers continued to plunge, coaxing the orgasm from her until she was within an inch of her sanity, her head thrashing wildly on the bed, pleas for more spilling from her lips.

“Fuck me!” she demanded, knowing she wasn’t going to last much longer but also knowing she wanted more than just his head buried between her legs. She wanted all of him buried there.

He gave one final sweep up between her folds with that masterful tongue of his and then reared up like a proud lion ready to pounce; his big, muscular arms bulged with the weight of him on either side of her head.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, not quite wondering why she felt the need to inquire about his sobriety, but somehow feeling it was pertinent information at the moment. The moment where the head of his cock was getting ready to impale her.

“Yes,” he said gruffly, the strain and frustration of not being inside her evident in his tone. “But no beer goggles. I’d fuck you sober, too.” And then she wasn’t allowed to talk anymore. His mouth found hers again as he sank balls-deep inside.

He was a big, feral force within her, pushing her body to the edge, only to churn his hips just right and pull her back before she tumbled over the ledge, riding that paper-thin line for what felt like forever. Her nails raked down his thick, hard back. She relished the way he shivered when she squeezed his flexing butt cheeks. The man was pure muscle, rock beneath her fingertips. Brock the Rock. His teeth fell to her neck and shoulders. He began to bite and lick. His lips found her nipple; he suckled, bit, and she lost it.

The climax raced through her. She clenched around him, savoring every charge and quivering on every draw as he slid his thick length across her sensitive channel. She was lost to the sensation of it all, lost to his passion, lost to the way he made her feel.

Guttural moans filled her ear as he found his own release, clamping down hard onto her swollen and needy breast, flicking the bud with his tongue as his hips continued to thrust and punish.

He was heavy on top of her, not frighteningly so, which was surprising, given his size. But as the euphoria of her climax slowly dissolved, she realized that she was tired and wanted nothing more than to go pee and then curl up into bed.

Reading her mind, Brock pulled out, helped her to her feet and pointed to the bathroom. A man of few words but a multitude of talents elsewhere.

When she came back out, he had gotten her a glass of water and pulled the sheets and duvet down. She didn’t even bother looking for her underwear. She just drained her glass, wiped the back of her wrist across her mouth and snuggled into his pillow. She was asleep almost instantly to the scrumptious smell of him, his warm body inches from hers across the bed.

The next morning, Krista woke to the sound of a bear, or perhaps a dragon, roaring in her ear while a big, thick, hairy tree trunk lay draped across her stomach and beer-scented wind ruffled the hair on the back of her neck. Afraid to open her eyes, she grimaced as the memories of last night came flooding back.

She knew what she’d done.

Knew where she was.

She’d gone home with Brock. They’d had incredible sex and then subsequently passed out. But she just wasn’t ready to see it. To see the reality of her sad, drunken choice.

Who was a fan of the walk of shame?

No one.

It was called the walk of shame for a reason.

The words “for shame” screamed at her in her mind, competing with the headache.

She’d done it once or twice before, the walk of shame, and it was always embarrassing. At least this time she had worn running shoes and not strappy hooker shoes. Slowly, quietly, she pried open her eyes, only to come face-to-face with the man who’d rocked her world and then some just a few hours earlier. His eyes were closed and his mouth partially open, giving him almost a childlike look. Devastatingly handsome, and now rugged too with a five o’clock shadow of sexy scruff. And it was the first time he didn’t look on edge or high alert. The lines in his forehead had relaxed, and his eyebrows were no longer pinched. He was at ease, at peace.

She studied his face a little bit longer; small white scars dotted his chin along the left side, most likely where stitches or staples had been at one point, while another, redder scar in the shape of a sickle and about the size of a raisin ran up into his right eyebrow. How old was he? It was hard to tell. She glanced down at his arm as it draped across her belly. Soft, dark hair covered freckles, while a big, calloused hand gripped her ribs.

He made a noise as if he was about to wake up, and she braced herself for the awkward morning chit-chat. Instead he just rolled over, leaving her devoid of his touch and, for some strange reason, melancholy because of the loss. But she took her opening and silently slid out of bed, tracked down her clothes and then, like a stealthy ninja, left his house, hoping to God that it wasn’t pouring rain outside.