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Scott Hansen hadn’t always hated St. Patrick’s Day.

He’d been a kid and had worn green to school so he wouldn’t get pinched, and had eaten cupcakes with green frosting that had turned his teeth and tongue green too. He’d been a college kid and had gone to parties and drank green beer and kissed girls who wore Kiss Me I’m Irish T-shirts. Hell, he’d worn a Kiss Me…I’m not Irish but so what? button himself a couple of times—and it had worked, incidentally. He’d even helped spray paint the town gazebo green one year. And then repaint it white after he got caught. That was one of three times he’d been arrested. Two of those three had been in his tiny hometown of Sapphire Falls.

But he was the cop now. In his tiny hometown of Sapphire Falls. And he now hated St. Patrick’s Day.

There was just something about the day that made people do stupid things. It wasn’t the only holiday of which that was true, of course. But the green beer and whiskey did not help St. Patrick’s Day’s reputation. In Sapphire Falls, the holiday also included green Booze—the locally made, secret-recipe moonshine that tasted suspiciously like lime Kool-Aid and made people especially stupid.

It was his penance. He knew that. Even if Ed didn’t remind him of it on every holiday where alcohol and poor decisions reigned. Since Ed had been the cop to arrest Scott those two times in Sapphire Falls, the older man got particular joy out of Scott having to deal with the shenanigans now. But Scott’s past hell-raising actually made his job easier in some ways. He knew the party traditions very well.

Like the “Shamrock Streak” where guys painted themselves green, wore only a decorated paper shamrock over their junk, and streaked up and down Main. That was followed by a vote for best “shamrock” from those who’d lined the sidewalks on both sides. Scott had won three years in a row, thank you very much.

There was also the Leprechaun Launch. Contestants built catapults and went to the baseball diamond. There they launched green balloons filled with green Jell-O to see who would win the title of Leprechaun Grand Master by sending their “leprechaun” the farthest. Scott also had two Grand Master titles.

And then there was the snake pit. Since St. Patrick—the real St. Patrick—was supposedly responsible for ridding Ireland of snakes, the party committee would gather nonpoisonous snakes, put them in a plastic kiddie pool, and whoever could sit in there with them the longest won the snake charmer trophy and a hundred Sapphire Bucks. Which were essentially pieces of paper printed on someone’s home computer, yet honored at the town’s businesses, for reasons no one seemed to really understand, but everyone respected. Scott had not won that one. He hadn’t even participated. Because there weren’t enough Sapphire Bucks in the entire town to get him that close to a snake on purpose.

Of course, while all of those activities were generally harmless on their own, they were accompanied by vast quantities of alcohol. So it was now Scott’s job to be sure no one drove drunk, no one vandalized anything—like the town gazebo—and no one got into any fights. He made sure the streaking didn’t detour off of Main, that there was no green Jell-O anywhere but the baseball diamond, and that the snakes were not mistreated. Which was by far his least favorite part. Even compared to the house parties and the pranks that all had the tendency to get a little out of hand.

So yeah, he hated St. Patrick’s Day.

Thankfully his busy night was mostly over. Not that everyone was home in their pjs and sound asleep, but it was almost two a.m. and things were winding down. He’d given two of the streakers a ride home after their friends stole their clothes. He’d stopped a plan to turn the river that flowed past the town green. He didn’t think the idea to dump bottles of green food coloring in the water would have worked anyway, but it couldn’t be good for the fish and wildlife either. And he had three college-aged girls sobering up with the help of IV drips in Kyle’s office. Scott figured if he had to be out dealing with all of this, then his buddy, the town doctor, could also be up and at the service of the people who overdid it. Derek, his friend and the bartender at the Come Again, the only bar in town, was in charge of cutting people off and making sure they all had sober rides home—or that Scott got called.

But finally things were getting quiet and Scott was ready to hang up his cuffs for the night.

Scott slowed as he turned onto Lavender Lane to make his final party check of the night. Heather Wilson was the third house down on the north side and she was hosting one of the many costume parties. Hers hadn’t been too loud or wild when he’d checked earlier, but it didn’t hurt to do one more pass. Just one more harmless, meaningless pass.

But as he got to Heather’s curb, a woman stepped out onto the porch.

And Scott inadvertently hit the brake, throwing his shoulder hard against his seat belt.

But it wasn’t his fault. Any man would have braked hard for her. The gorgeous brunette who had just walked out of Heather’s house was in an extremely skimpy leprechaun costume, thigh-high white stockings, and three-inch green heels.

And in that moment he had to admit that he was a damned liar—he did not hate everything about St. Patrick’s Day.

The tight green dress that zipped up the front, showed lots of cleavage, and bared inches of smooth skin between the bottom of the dress and the top of the stockings was just a perk of doing his duty as Peyton Wells’ unofficial babysitter.

And damn, what a perk. The girl had a killer body and she rarely covered it all up or hid it. There were no baggy sweatshirts or loose yoga pants in Peyton’s wardrobe. But this was a huge departure from her usual cut-off denim shorts and fitted tank tops and even the short sundresses that left lots of skin uncovered. This… Well, he hoped she didn’t plan on bending over to pick anything up off the ground. Or if she did, he hoped he was behind her when she did it.

He pulled up at the curb. Now that he’d seen Peyton, he wasn’t going anywhere without talking to her. He needed to see how much she’d had to drink and how she planned on getting home.

One of the three guys who’d stepped out of the house behind her crowded close and leaned in to put his mouth near her ear. He also put his hand on her hip as he did it. Scott gritted his teeth and threw the car into park. It wasn’t his business who put their hands on Peyton. But he was going to butt in anyway.

He shut the car off and got out, rounding the front bumper as Peyton and the guys started down the porch steps. She saw him as her foot hit the sidewalk and she wobbled slightly. The guy beside her—the handsy one—caught her elbow, but she didn’t look away from Scott.

“Officer Hansen,” Peyton said, with the touch of sarcasm she always used.

“Miss Wells.”

She gave him the grin he always got when he called her that. He only did it in public with other people around but it was a million times more formal than anyone got with Peyton. In private, and in his head, he called her Trouble.

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day,” she said. She looked him up and down. “Are you wearing any green? If not, I get to pinch you, you know.”

“I guess I don’t have to ask you the same question,” he said, taking his time running his gaze over her from head to toe.

Her grin grew. “I’ve definitely gotten some compliments on my outfit tonight.”

Yeah, he could imagine.

He could also easily imagine pulling that zipper down on the front of her dress. Slowly. With his teeth.

He just had to be crazy about the town’s biggest troublemaker, didn’t he?

It didn’t surprise him, exactly. Peyton was everything he was drawn to—sassy and smart and confident and full of life and energy. And very able to fill out a tiny leprechaun costume. He wasn’t sure he’d ever met a woman more comfortable in her skin. Peyton wasn’t without her faults and issues, of course, but she didn’t know the definition of self-conscious as far as he could tell.

She did, however, know the definition of commitment. And she was adamantly opposed to it.

Which meant that they were at an impasse. He wanted a relationship. She wanted booty calls. Hell, he wanted the sex too—more every damned time he saw her— but he wanted more. He’d told her that and he meant it. And Peyton needed at least one person in her life to tell her something important, mean it, and then stand by it. Even if it wasn’t what she thought she wanted to hear. Even if his entire being screamed that he was a dumbass whenever he was near her.

But he could be patient. Hell, he’d been patient. Going on a year and a half now. She teased him, flirted with him, gave him tempting gifts, but he’d held out. No sex until she was willing to give a full relationship a try.

And it was probably okay, considering he hadn’t quite figured out how to handle kissing her goodbye with a “have a good day, babe” in the morning and then locking her in the holding cell and writing her tickets at night. That could make things awkward at home.

A lot of her mischief was just that—fun and mostly harmless. And even when it wasn’t harmless, it was well-motivated. Like when she’d gotten into a fight and split a guy’s lip right after taking a baseball bat to his headlights and windshield because he’d bought the car with money he’d stolen from his girlfriend—a friend of Peyton’s.

Everyone knew that you didn’t mess with people Peyton Wells cared about. And the split lip had been the guy’s own fault. You don’t grab a woman who’s so pissed off that she’s willing to smash up your windshield in a very public parking lot with the town cop sitting only a hundred feet away.

Peyton Wells was a force of nature…and Scott didn’t want to change that. She was fierce and loyal and proud and fun and he wouldn’t have her any other way. So until she decided it was time to have a relationship that went beyond flavored massage oil—like the stuff she’d given him for Christmas—and chocolate body paint—like the stuff she’d given him for Valentine’s Day—he’d be content being there for her when she was in trouble and just absorbing the energy that seemed to pour off of her.

Or he’d try to be content with that anyway.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” Scott asked the group.

And where were Peyton’s girlfriends? It seemed like she was always looking out for them, but rarely did anyone have her back.

“We definitely have,” Peyton told him. She leaned in and put a hand on his forearm. “Wanna smell my breath?”

Hell yeah he did. He wanted to smell a lot more of her than her breath. He also wanted to take her mouth in a deep, wet kiss with lots of tongue and taste the liquor on her.

Those kinds of thoughts had been alarming when they’d first started. But over the last several months he’d gotten used to them. He’d be an idiot if he didn’t want Peyton. And he was one of the smartest guys he knew.

“Are you all walking to your next destination in that case?” he asked, rather than leaning in for a sniff of her breath…and her neck…or the valley between her breasts.

“I’m the Designated Driver,” one of the guys piped up.

Scott finally turned his attention to the men. Matt Evans, the supposed DD, Nate Travers, and Chase Martin. All of whom were painted green. Clearly they’d been a part of the Shamrock Streak. Their shirts were all also green and said I’m magically delicious, Drinks Well With Others and The leprechaun made me do it. Scott didn’t want to know if Peyton was the leprechaun.

“I’m going to have to test you,” Scott said to Matt.

Matt shrugged. “Okay by me.”

“But he’s not driving me,” Peyton said. “You want me to blow too, right?”

Dammit. Blowing into the Breathalyzer to test a person’s blood-alcohol level was casually referred to “blowing”. But, of course, from Peyton it didn’t sound casual. And he knew she knew it.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s go.”

He led all four of them all across the street to his car, his hand on Peyton’s elbow so that she wouldn’t stumble again. High heels and booze didn’t go well together, and frankly, he didn’t want the other guys helping keep her upright. It was stupid, but he was also pretty used to the possessiveness he felt toward her. It didn’t make sense, but it was real. The first time he’d ever grabbed her around the waist at a party and pulled her away from the girl she’d just slapped, he’d felt it. Protective—even though she’d started the fight—and possessive—even though he’d barely known her and she had been, in no way, his. Since then, he’d stopped wondering about it…and trying to fight it. There was nothing he could do to diminish the feeling and so he just lived with it. And tried not to let it show. Too much.

At the car, he gave Matt the test. He passed and Scott looked at Peyton. “You want to blow or not?”

“I’m always willing to blow for you, Officer Hansen.”

Scott’s whole body tightened, but he kept his expression firmly stoic. He held up the Breathalyzer.

“But I’m already pretty sure I shouldn’t drive,” she told him.

He nodded, grateful she was being smart about it. “So, are you going with them?”

“Well, I called my dad, but he and mom are in Langley at a party and are spending the night there. And it’s too late to call Hope.”

It was so typical for Peyton’s mom and dad to not be there for her. And Hope, her half-sister, would have gladly come but she was pregnant and it was the middle of the night. Scott knew that Hope and her husband, TJ, wouldn’t actually mind the phone call, but he understood Peyton’s reluctance.

“I’ve got you,” he told her. He nodded toward his car. “Get in.”

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d gotten into the backseat of his squad car, but it was the first time she wasn’t in trouble.

Scott took in the skimpy costume, the wild tumble of her dark hair, and the tipsy smile she gave him and thought that he was very likely the one in trouble tonight.

“You sure you don’t want to go with us?” Matt asked, stopping her as she stepped toward the back door of the car.

“Nope,” she said. “I’m done for tonight.”

“But it’s early.” Matt put a hand on the top of the car, blocking her way.

Scott worked to stay cool. There was no reason for him to intervene. Peyton could take care of herself. But damn, that possessiveness was never far below the surface.

“I’m done,” she said again, more firmly this time. “I’ll see you later.”

“We were just going to go down to the river,” Matt said. “Some people are talking about midnight skinny dipping.”

Peyton shrugged. “Not interested.”

“Or Jake’s having a party at his place too,” Nate said. “Let’s go over there for a little bit.”

Peyton shook her head again. “No, thanks.”

“But it’s past midnight now. That’s when the good stuff happens,” Matt told her with a big grin.

She lifted an eyebrow, then reached out and took Matt’s hand off the car. She bent his wrist and thumb back, making him swear and twist away from her sharply. She dropped her hold on him, opened the back door, and got into the car.

Scott fought his grin. “’Night guys. Be good. Make good choices.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Matt said, shaking his hand and scowling at the back window of Scott’s patrol car.

The dad thing made Scott’s smile fade as he headed for the driver’s side. He wasn’t old enough to be Matt’s dad. Or Peyton’s. They were twenty-four and he was thirty-one. Still, it was a big age difference and there was no question that Peyton had some issues that stemmed from her relationship with her dad. Dan Wells was inattentive and absent, emotionally if not physically. Peyton had, essentially, been in competition with her mother for her father’s attention all her life.

Was that what she saw in Scott? Was he just an authority figure she could depend on? Of course that was it. How could it not be? He was older. He took control. She needed someone she could count on to have her best interests in mind and that was Scott.

He climbed behind the wheel and watched as the guys headed for the red truck down the block. Once he saw Matt get behind the wheel and pull out, Scott shifted into drive.

“Hey, Scott?”

He tensed at Peyton’s use of his first name. When they were alone, she’d call him Scott, but around other people it was always Officer Hansen. Even when she said it sarcastically, he thought he preferred it to how intimate it felt when she used his first name.

But one of the reasons he checked up on her all the time was because he really loved it when she needed a ride home. Because she’d let down on the good-time-party-girl vibe a bit and, especially when she was tipsy, she liked to talk. And she often needed a ride home. He preferred to think it was because she liked these drives as much as he did. But it could have also been because she had no one else in her life who could be consistently counted on.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly and coughed. “Yeah?”

“Can you…take the long way to my house?”

He tipped the rearview mirror down to find her lying on her back on the seat, her shoes off, her feet propped in the corner of the back window, ankles crossed. The position gave him a great view of the expanse of her legs, silky white stockings and all, right up to the hem of her dress. Which rode very high on her thighs. Her brunette hair spilled over the seat and she was popping something into her mouth and staring up at the ceiling.

She lived only ten blocks from here. “Yeah, I can drive the long way.” Hell, he was off duty and he had a gorgeous woman in the backseat of his car. Why would he make that trip short?

“I need to make another pass around town anyway,” he said. He didn’t actually have to do that. He was off duty and Ed would make the final town pass tonight. “You okay with that?”

“Very okay.” Her voice sounded soft and a little sleepy and…contented.

He smiled. Contented was not a common state for Peyton. He liked being a part of making her feel that way.

They drove for a few minutes without talking.

“Adrianne wants me to go to a class for wedding cake decorating.”

Okay, so that was not a topic he would have expected. Scott glanced into the mirror again. “Yeah?” He wasn’t sure what to really say to that.

“I love decorating cakes.” She tossed something that looked like Skittles into her mouth and chewed for a minute. “But I’m not sure about wedding cakes.”

“Why not wedding cakes?”

She didn’t respond right away and he just let her be.

Finally she said, “When I decorate little kids’ birthday cakes or retirement party cakes or congratulations cakes, I enjoy it. They make me smile and…” She trailed off. “Never mind.”

Scott frowned. “They make you smile and what?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.” She turned on her side and nuzzled her cheek against something she was using as a pillow. “Is this your sweatshirt?”

He was distracted for a second by the fact that the new position pressed her breasts higher into the V at the front of the dress. “Um, yeah.”

“It smells amazing.” She opened her eyes and met his gaze in the mirror. “I guess you must smell amazing.”

Heat shot through him and he had to shift on the seat. She was drunk. Or at least tipsy. And trying to sidetrack him.

“Why don’t you think you would like decorating wedding cakes, Trouble?” he asked.

She sighed, as if he was being a huge pain in the ass. “It’s just that if you don’t like doing something, you might do a shitty job. Even if you don’t mean to. You know?”

He nodded. “That makes some sense. But you’re awesome at cakes.” She worked at the local bakery, Scott’s Sweets, and while Adrianne, the owner, was a master at all kinds of candy, if someone wanted a cake decorated, they asked for Peyton. “You don’t think you’d do a good job with wedding cakes?”

“Maybe not.”

“Why would they be different?” he wanted to know.

“Because I’m not a huge fan of weddings,” she said. “Or marriage, I guess,” she mumbled.

It didn’t take a genius shrink to know that was all about her parents’ dysfunctional relationship. And Scott had no idea how to respond to that either. Surely her sister’s marriage showed her that those relationships could be strong and positive and happy.

He loved seeing Hope and TJ Bennett together. Everyone did. They were one of those true love stories. And then there was Peyton’s boss Adrianne and her husband Mason. And Adrianne’s best friend Phoebe and her husband Joe, and…hell, all of the happy couples in Sapphire Falls. Sapphire Falls was a haven. A place where people really did look out for one another, fell in love for real and forever, and valued family and friendships and hard work and faith and community. He’d come back because of all of those things. He’d needed those things. Even if he was just watching some of it as it happened to other people. He’d needed to know those things did actually exist and that they could last.

He stared at the road. He was no relationship expert and he certainly wasn’t some eternal optimist. He’d seen a lot of shit in his line of work. He’d worked in Omaha for a couple of years after graduating from the academy and knew for a fact that all of the bad things people did to one another in the huge cities on the coasts also happened in the supposedly boring Midwest.

He’d also been recruited for a special task force on human trafficking up and down the main interstates that cut through those same boring Midwestern states. The work had been horrible, hard, and very rewarding. It was also what had finally driven him back to Sapphire Falls. He missed the simple sweetness of his hometown. And he’d been hell-bent on keeping the evils he’d seen lurking not that far from the borders, out of the small towns he’d grown up in and around. He was still on the task force and had performed a number of undercover operations. It was important work and he still wanted to be a part of it. He just couldn’t do it all day, every day anymore. Which made him grateful that the biggest problem he encountered in Sapphire Falls was…well, the woman in his backseat right now.

But it was also part of why he was so attracted to her. In a world where bad things happened every day and darkness seemed to lurk around every corner, Peyton Wells was…not a ray of sunshine. That was too mellow. She was a great big party piñata—bright and colorful and, while it might take a while to break through, inside she was filled with sweetness and goodness. She’d had a hell of a childhood, but instead of letting that make her sad and withdrawn and introverted and distrustful, Peyton made everything she did into a party and everyone she met into a friend. Unless, of course, that person had made someone she loved cry. Then she’d stand up and defend that person no matter what the risk to herself. She didn’t shy away from the truth about her parents or her childhood or even the other crappy things that happened in life. She faced it all. And she kept on partying. She was brave and strong and bright and she just fucking made him smile. He wanted that, her, in his life. And if the only way was giving her a ride home after the party, then he’d take it. For now.

“You know what I wish?” Peyton asked after a moment.

Scott pulled his eyes from the road and to the mirror again. Her eyes were closed and she yawned big and buried her face deeper into his sweatshirt as he asked, “What?”

“That just once you would act like a regular guy with me.”

Desire slammed into him and he gripped the steering wheel tightly as he forced his attention to the road. He swallowed hard. “What’s that mean?” he managed. But he was pretty sure he knew.

“Just once, I wish you would dance with me at the Come Again, instead of only showing up to be sure I don’t get into trouble. Or I wish you’d show up at a river party and instead of busting it up, you’d get drunk and make out with me. Or I wish you’d stop by the kissing booth at the festival when I’m working it. Or that you’d sit down in the bakery and flirt for a while instead of just getting your stuff to go.” There was a pause and then she added softly, “Just once.”

Jesus. His heart was thudding so hard against his ribs, he had to force air into his chest. So she wasn’t talking about sex. That’s what most guys wanted from her. But these things were…what he wanted too.

But not just once. That would never be enough.

He glanced at her again. Her eyes were closed and she looked beautiful and peaceful.

Damn. She was a gorgeous woman and they had an undeniable chemistry. And now she was being vulnerable and sweet and his backseat had turned into a sort of confessional.

“Where’d your love for cake decorating and parties come from?” he asked, trying to divert the conversation. Desperately. He knew from experience that some of the best parties in town—Ron Thompson’s retirement party, Kaelyn Spencer’s birthday party, Theresa and Tom Gordon’s anniversary party—had Peyton’s touch beyond the cake. She often gave suggestions for themes and decorations and other food besides the cake.

“Birthday parties as a kid probably,” she said softly.

“Yeah? You had some good ones?” He was grateful that at least her parents had gotten that right.

“I went to some really good ones,” she said, bursting his bubble instantly.

“You didn’t have any yourself?”

“My grandma had parties for me until she died,” Peyton said. “She always made sure I had a special day. It sounds crappy probably, but that’s what I missed most when she died. My birthday parties.”

Scott felt his heart squeeze. Her grandma had thrown her parties? Not her mom and dad? They couldn’t even do that much? And she felt guilty for missing the one day a year when she felt like she was the center of attention? That was bullshit. “How old were you when she died?”

“Eight.”

Jesus. “You haven’t had a birthday party since you were eight?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

“Oh, sure I have. As soon as I was old enough to throw my own, I did,” she said. “And I made sure they were epic.”

Scott felt relieved, then suspicious. “How old were you when you started to throw your own, Trouble?” he asked.

He looked up to see her grinning, even though her eyes were still shut. “Fourteen.”

“And what did this party consist of?”

“Inviting my friends over while my parents were out.”

Uh, huh. “And?”

“My first beer, my trip to third base, and my first time punching someone.”

Scott rubbed a hand over his face. Maybe he should just be glad she hadn’t done all of those things before she was fourteen. That was a very, very thin silver lining.

“I love parties,” she finally said. “I got a taste of what it was like to have someone put thought and energy into something that would make me happy. And I missed it like crazy when it was gone.”

How was he supposed to not want this wounded-but-sweet woman who loved to cause trouble all in the name of fun because she wanted to make other people happy in a way she’d never been? “You’re a natural party planner, Trouble,” he said, his voice a bit husky.

“My Halloween party was awesome this year,” she agreed.

Yeah, it had been. Her parties always were. But the thing about parties at Peyton’s house—she didn’t need a ride home.

“Do you remember my costume?” she asked.

He shifted on his seat. Did he remember? Seriously? She’d worn a similarly skimpy costume in October. But that tiny tight dress had been white and part of a naughty nurse ensemble. “Definitely.”

“I’ve dressed up like a nurse probably ten times for Halloween. I used to think I wanted to go to nursing school. Like since I was little.”

He could admit, that surprised him. “A nurse, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you do that?”

“Because sometimes people don’t get better. And you can’t make them get better. That’s depressing.”

Scott’s chest tightened again but not with lust this time. Peyton’s mom had dealt with mental illness and alcoholism all of Peyton’s life. And no, it didn’t seem that she was getting better. Or that she really wanted to get better.

“But cake and candy are not depressing,” Peyton added. “It’s the complete opposite of depressing. So I love working at the bakery.” She sighed deeply. “I’m going to take that cake decorating class.”

Scott swallowed. He wanted to hug her. The urge was as strong as any urge he’d felt toward her. And he’d felt many very strong urges toward Peyton.

“I think you’ll be great at that class,” he said, sneaking a peek at her.

Her eyes were still closed, but she smiled softly at his words. “You have to say that.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. You’re a nice guy. And that’s what a nice guy would say.”

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He was a nice guy. But he wasn’t sure that was a compliment from Peyton. She definitely tended to go for the bad boys.

“I’m not always a nice guy,” he heard himself say.

“You’re right. When you get pissed at me, you’re not nice.” She paused and he opened his mouth but she wasn’t done. “You’re really hot then.”

Scott closed his mouth. She did this all the time—distracted him by coming on to him. It was better to just keep his mouth shut, he’d learned.

“Your whole big, bad cop thing is really hot. And that uniform…” She gave another sigh, but this one wasn’t a tired or sad sigh. This one sounded turned-on. “I love that uniform. And your handcuffs.”

Lust slammed through him this time. She’d said that about his uniform before, but it never failed to make him hard.

As was typical with Peyton, he’d been with her for about thirty minutes and he’d bounced through as many emotions as she had conversation topics.

“That’s what I really wish for,” she said. “Being handcuffed. On the hood of your car. Naked.”

Holy shit.

Okay, maybe the drive was over. It felt like his handcuffs were suddenly burning against his hip. He would never take advantage of her when she was drunk, but he was going to have a hell of a time getting those images out of his head now that she’d put them there.

“Hey, naughty leprechaun, maybe put that sweatshirt on, huh?” he asked as he drove down a dark country road on the north side of town.

“Then I won’t have a pillow,” she said, not opening her eyes.

“Yeah, well, I might wreck the car if you don’t.”

She smiled, her eyes still shut. “Feel free to pull over and park somewhere.”

He almost didn’t blame all the people she got into trouble with. How could they help it? She was very hard to say no to. And she had a way of making a person think it would all be worth the consequences—whatever they were.

“So, you like this costume?” she asked.

When he looked up this time, her eyes were open and their gazes collided in the mirror.

“Love and hate it equally,” he admitted.

“You have some aches you need help with?” Her voice was huskier now. “I can play a leprechaun nurse.” She had a naturally husky voice that always seemed to stroke over his skin like a physical touch. And sometimes she dropped it lower on purpose, to mess with him. But now it seemed real.

He had a couple of aches, in fact. One right behind his pants’ zipper. And one in the neck.

He could not let her make him say to hell with it all. He wasn’t saying that he would never take her to bed—and handcuff her pretty ass to his headboard for the weekend—but not now. Not…yet.

She rubbed her cheek against his sweatshirt and Scott found himself hoping that the shirt would pick up some of her scent as well.

“I think you’re the one who needs taken care of tonight, Trouble,” he said gruffly.

“You’re the best one for the job, officer,” she said.

Yeah he was. And right now he didn’t want to take her home. He wasn’t worried that she was too drunk to be safe, but she’d be…alone. That was one thing that Peyton had been too often in her life according to the things he’d heard. Even when her parents had been in the same house, she’d essentially been on her own. Peyton liked to party because she liked to have a good time. Hell, she liked to make a good time for the people around her. But she really didn’t like being alone. So he kept driving.

And the conversation thankfully turned to recent gossip about other people.

They talked about Lucy and Dean. And Carrie and Chase. And April and Steve. There had been a lot of hook-ups last weekend. They didn’t even get to the current weekend before he looked up in the mirror after a particularly long silence and found her asleep.

His heart thumped in his chest again. She really was sweet underneath the don’t-mess-with-me vibe. And the put-me-up-against-the-wall-and-fuck-my-brains-out vibe. Scott cleared his throat again and reluctantly pulled into the alley behind her house where her garage sat. There was a walk leading to the back kitchen door that she used most often.

“Hey, Trouble, we’re home.” He put the car into park and turned to look over the seat.

She didn’t move.

Knowing it was a terrible idea to touch her at all, he reached back and poked at her knee with one finger. Even the pad of that single digit registered the heat of her skin through the silk of the stockings. “Peyton.”

She groaned softly and turned her whole face into his sweatshirt.

Scott wanted nothing more than to throw the car into drive and whisk her off to…anywhere else. Or to take her inside. And stay.

Usually when she mentioned them sleeping together, he promptly asked her on a date. That usually shut down the seduction quick. She always said she was allergic to relationships. But once she’d told him hotly that the last thing he should want was her doing anything for him that didn’t involve her mouth and his dick—in exactly those words. He’d pressed her about that and she’d finally told him that she wanted nothing to do with trying to make or keep someone else happy. It was too much pressure and the world would be a better place if everyone was just in charge of their own happiness.

But he didn’t believe her.

Because of her cakes. He attended a lot of the birthday and anniversary and surprise parties in this town. Peyton was responsible for over ninety percent of the cakes consumed in this town and it was obvious she spent a lot of time designing and decorating each one to make them special. And she lit up when someone complimented her.

Besides that, she would throw herself in front of a bullet for a friend. And she might seem happiest on a bar stool at the Come Again but he suspected it was less about the liquor and a lot more about the people. She was the one that led the karaoke, got people onto the dance floor, told the best jokes and always convinced everyone to stay for “just one more.”

She was something. And he wanted her with an intensity that was becoming a problem. He could be stubborn and patient. But damn if Peyton wasn’t possibly even more stubborn.

“Come on. I’ll walk you up to the door.” He got out of the car before he decided to take her to his place. He wanted to just tuck her into his big bed so she could sleep somewhere safe with someone in the next room. Where she wouldn’t wake up alone. And then he wanted to make her breakfast in the morning. And maybe lunch.

What he wanted was to fucking take care of her. And that was a very bad idea.

Besides, taking a drunk woman home to his bed without her consent was not cool. Even if he didn’t plan to be in that bed with her.

Her door was still shut when he got around the car and she didn’t move when he pulled the door open.

“Trouble?”

“I don’t wanna go in.” She hugged his sweatshirt tighter and rubbed her cheek against it.

“You have to, babe.”

She shook her head, her eyes still shut tight.

He really wanted her to get out on her own. Because touching her was risky.

“P, come on.” He reached for her ankle and squeezed.

“You should just come in here with me,” she said, drawing her leg up…and taking his hand with it.

Too fucking tempting. They were behind her house at just after two a.m. She shared the alley with the whole block, but there was no house to the east and the west side of her yard was blocked by a huge hedge. The house behind her belonged to Mrs. Tardin and the almost ninety-year-old had likely been in bed with her hearing aids out for a good four hours now. There was no light other than the full moon and there was a beautiful woman in the backseat of his car inviting him in with her. If this wasn’t a perfect scenario he didn’t know what was. Other than the fact that she’d been drinking. And that he actually was a nice guy who didn’t act like all the other guys did around her. On purpose.

When her foot got to the level of her opposite knee, he let go of her. Reluctantly and with plenty of regret. Because she could have been wearing baggy, ratty sweatpants and he’d still want to continue running his hand up her inner thigh.

But she was definitely not wearing baggy, ratty sweatpants tonight.

The silky stockings ended at mid-thigh. And the silky skin started. And now he was wondering if she was wearing panties.

Scott blew out a frustrated breath, grabbed her other ankle and pulled. She slid across the seat and he stoically kept his eyes off of the way her skirt hiked up. When her butt was on the edge of the seat, he grabbed her around the waist with both hands and pulled her out of the car. She wobbled slightly as he set her on her feet and she grabbed the front of his shirt to get her balance.

She sighed. “Okay. Fine. Thanks for bringing me home, I guess.”

“I always will.” His hand was still on her hip. He knew he should move it. And he would. Soon.

She looked up at him. “You know what I like best about you?” she asked.

He caught the faint whiff of her breath, but he didn’t smell liquor. She smelled like fruity candy. And he had to fight the urge to wrap her hair around his hand and tug her head back so he could ravage her mouth and get a really good taste. “What?” he asked gruffly.

“That you still like me after all the stupid shit I’ve done.”

And that wasn’t helping with the take-care-of-her urges he was feeling. “I’ll always do that too,” he promised, dropping his hand from her hip and curling his hands into fists.

She moved her hand, spreading her palm against his chest and rubbing back and forth, right over his heart. “You really are so fucking hot in this uniform.”

Her heels lifted her high enough that she was able to put her lips against his before he realized what she was thinking. She moved in until her body was up against his, one hand at the back of his head, the other gripping his shirt where she’d been rubbing a second before.

Then she kissed him. For about five seconds.

It was actually a sweet kiss. It wasn’t deep or wet or crazy. But it was the promise of all of that. And made him want to take her hips in both hands, press her up against his car, and kiss her long and deep and not-sweet-at-all.

But he kept his hands clenched by his side. He didn’t open his mouth. He didn’t even close his eyes. Instead he watched hers slide closed and then, when she leaned back, in the millisecond before she opened those big green eyes, he saw the soft smile on her lips. Just before she looked up at him as if he’d just rocked her world.

Even though he hadn’t grabbed her and tongue-fucked her mouth while letting his hands roam all over her gorgeous body the way he wanted to.

The way every other guy would have.

God he loved being one person who always did what she expected him to do, who was always there for her, who she could trust and depend on. Because showing her she could trust him to be the guy she expected him to be was more important than getting her naked.

In spite of the way his body was now screaming at him.

“Perfect,” she said softly after a moment.

And that kind of rocked his world. He couldn’t help giving her a smile that was probably a little cocky. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Oh, yeah.” And then she kissed him again. Her arms snaked up around his neck and her fingers slid into his hair and she opened her mouth further.

He pressed his lips together more firmly. He dug his fingernails into his palms. He thought about Conrad and Larry—two of the seventy-year-old men who played basketball down at the community center, shirtless. That always worked to deflate his erection.

But then Peyton pressed closer and gave another of her little sighs and well, there and nothing that could have kept his hands at his sides.

He was a good guy. Loyal and ethical, a protector by nature, strong and full of self-control. One little woman in a leprechaun costume shouldn’t have been able to shake any of that.

And any other little woman in any kind of costume wouldn’t have.

But this was Peyton. Peyton who threw parties for other people because she hadn’t had enough of her own. Peyton who also loyal and a protector by nature. Peyton who had everyone else’s back but was so often on her own. Peyton who needed to be loved and who needed to know that she was wanted.

“Please, Scott,” she whispered against his lips. “Just once.”

Her words sucked all the air from his lungs.

Just once, I wish you would dance with me at the Come Again, instead of only showing up to be sure I don’t get into trouble. Or I wish you’d show up at a river party and instead of busting it up, you’d get drunk and make out with me. Or I wish you’d stop by the kissing booth at the festival when I’m working it. Or that you’d sit down in the bakery and flirt for a while instead of just getting your stuff to go.

No one wanted her more than Scott did. And he was going to show her that. Just once.

He clasped her hips in his hands, feeling relief at being able touch her flood through him. He turned her, put her back against the side of his squad car and crowded close.

Her tiny sigh turned into a full out moan and he was lost. He opened his mouth and knew in the milliseconds before her tongue touched his that he wasn’t leaving her house unscathed tonight.

Then her tongue did touch his and he quit knowing much of anything except that holding her, touching her, really truly kissing her finally was relief and torture at the same time.

Well, he’d come this far.

He stroked her tongue firmly with his, drinking in the feel and the taste of her, the silky heat of her mouth, the way her fingers curled into his neck, the way her breasts felt against his chest.

He’d never been this close to her and yet this felt comfortably familiar and thrillingly new at the same time. She fit against him perfectly and as his hands learned the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the slope of her back and the swell of her ass, he felt like he was coming home.

And most importantly, she didn’t taste like liquor or beer or booze either. If she’d been drinking earlier in the night, it had been long enough ago that water or soda had washed the taste away. And she wasn’t acting drunk. She seemed completely sure about what was happening. Her hands roamed down his back around to his ribs, up his sides, then down to his belt where she hooked her fingers and held on as she pressed even closer.

He was sure that she knew it wasn’t his gun digging into her stomach as she arched against him.

Scott moved his hands to her face, tipping her head to the side and slanting his mouth over hers, giving in fully. He’d wanted to kiss her like this for so long. Holding her in place, taking control, pouring all of his need and want into it so she felt every bit of what she did to him.

But in his imagination, she just took it. Let him do what he wanted, overcome by desire and submitting to his control. That was far from reality. Sexy sounds came from her throat, ratcheting his need higher and higher, as her hands gripped him. One leg wrapped around his, anchoring him against her as she ground against him. Her hips moved against his and all Scott could think was there was too damned much stuff between them.

He reached down, unhooked his gun belt and let it fall to the ground. Without the belt between them, he was able to press into her more fully. The feel of her against his aching cock, only the fabric of his pants and the thin material of the costume between them, elicited a moan from her and sent a deep, heartfelt groan rumbling up from his chest.

He pulled his mouth from hers, sucking in air.

Peyton’s lips were parted, her breathing ragged and she was staring up at him, but it wasn’t with a liquor-induced haze. Surprise mixed into her expression, but the desire was clear and bright.

“Damn,” she said softly. “That was worth the wait.”

“You’re not drunk.” His tone was sharper than he’d intended, but his brain was having a hard time focusing on words other than take her and now.

She wet her lips and took a breath.

“Peyton,” he said firmly. “You are not drunk right now.”

He wasn’t asking a question but he knew that she knew he expected a response.

“I have been drinking,” she said. “I told you.”

“You did,” he said. “But I don’t think that has anything to do with this.”

Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth and she took a little shaky breath. He wasn’t sure she was even aware of it.

“Peyton,” he said again, low and firm. “You have to say it.”

He felt her hands slipping away from his back and felt a moment of panic. He wasn’t done having her hands on him. He sure as hell wasn’t done having his hands on her.

“I’m…sorry. That was…” Then she frowned and her eyes bounced back up to his. “You’ve never done that before.”

He knew exactly what she was talking about. He’d never kissed her before. Even the couple of times she’d gotten her lips against his, he hadn’t kissed her back.

“You know why,” he said, his voice softer now.

She rolled her eyes. “Because I won’t marry you.”

Okay, not exactly how he would have said it, but… “Something like that.”

“Fine, let’s go on a date,” she said.

He lifted a brow. “You want this so bad, you’re willing to sit through dinner and movie with me?” He actually knew that was a big deal and couldn’t help the satisfaction that coursed through him thinking he was finally getting to her.

“Sure. Whatever. Just put your hand up my skirt, please.”

Heat and images and want flooded through him at her words. He wanted to reach up under her skirt and feel how wet and ready she was. He wanted her breasts in his hands, the hard nipples in his mouth. He wanted to hear yes, Scott. More, Scott. I want you, Scott from her lips. Then he wanted her legs wrapped around his waist as he eased into her hot, tight, ready body.

He suddenly needed her to see that he wasn’t playing around. This wasn’t flirting, this wasn’t her pushing his buttons, or him teasing her. He would be there for her, over and over again. He would be the one man in her life to be there no matter what crazy shit she said or did. But he wasn’t always going to be easy-going about it, and he wasn’t always going to just drop her off in front of her house with a quick kiss on the lips, and she wasn’t going to be the one pulling the strings forever.

He lifted a hand and threaded it through her hair, then he made a fist and tugged, tipping her head back. Her eyes flared with heat he could see clearly even in the dim light and satisfaction and a strange mix of conquer-her and take-care-of-her flooded through him. “Are you drunk?”

“Does that really matter?” she asked. She wasn’t teasing him or being sassy now.

“It definitely fucking matters.”

She pressed her lips together, her eyes on his lips. She knew. She knew if she didn’t want this to happen she only had to say no. She also knew that if she didn’t want it, she could say that she was drunk and he’d let her go right now.

Finally she shook her head. “I’m not drunk. I had one drink. Four hours ago.”

Relief, sharp and hot, washed over him. But he needed more. “And do you want this?”

“What are you offering?” she asked, a bit of sass back in her tone.

He gave her a slow grin and tugged on her hair again. “Well, I do get three wishes for catching a leprechaun.”

Her eyes widened and he knew she could see every bit of his hunger for her in his eyes. She gave him a slow smile. “And what’s your first wish?”

“To show you exactly how I feel about you.” He crushed his mouth to his, kissing her as if making up for every single night that he hadn’t. He let loose everything he’d been feeling and wanting and holding back.

And she was right there with him, arching close, moaning, clutching at his shoulders, unable to move her head, but meeting his tongue stroke for stroke. It quickly became clear that his mouth wasn’t enough. Scott dropped his hands to her hips, gripping her tightly, pressing her against the car, his rock hard cock against her softness.

He slid his hands from her hips over the few inches of material until he met her bare thighs. He absorbed the silky softness, running his rough palms up and down from knee to the hem of her skirt, each time inching it higher.

Finally Peyton, being Peyton—the most impatient and impulsive person her knew—gave a frustrated little growl and ripped her mouth away from his.

She pushed him back, slid to her left, hiked her skirt up and boosted herself up onto the hood of the car. “Come here.” She grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and tugged.

Scott stumbled the two steps it took to put him between her knees, distracted by the full view of her panties. Tiny. Gold. Panties.

She reached for the zipper tab that was nestled between her breasts and pulled in down, parting the front of her green dress and allowing the two most gorgeous breasts he’d ever seen to spill free from the tight bodice. No bra. Just naked breasts.

Scott realized he was staring like a dumbass, but he simply didn’t have enough blood feeding his brain cells at the moment to do anything else.

The full moon shone down on her like she was a goddess sent to tempt him. She was on the hood of his squad car, a sexy leprechaun costume now bunched at her waist, her hair tousled around her shoulders from where he’d had his hands in it, her lips swollen from his kisses. She was the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

“Damn, Peyton, this is so not what I saw happening.”

“Really?” she asked, reaching for the buttons on his shirt. “Because I’ve seen this happening in my daydreams over and over and over.”

“Yeah?” He knew she’d said she wanted him but he had no idea when that had gone from her being a mouthy rebel trying to push his buttons to sincere.

“You in uniform doing dirty things to me on the hood of your squad car?” she asked. “Are you kidding? I’m about to come just from sitting here like this, with you looking at me like that.”

Her mouth. He’d heard her tell people off, he’d heard her fight with her dad, he’d heard her offer him a blow job, he’d heard her yell at the television at the Come Again while watching football, and he’d heard her cuss like a trucker. But he’d never heard her say something hot and dirty…and mean it.

She meant this. He could tell. And that was almost enough to make him lose it too.

“If you handcuff me, this could be over in about a minute,” she added as she spread his uniform shirt open and stroked her hands over his bare chest.

He shuddered from the impact of the emotions rolling through him.

He was aware that this was inappropriate. They were outside. Behind her house. And he was in uniform and this was his squad car and his handcuffs weren’t sex props, they were real. But he was off duty and it was St. Patrick’s Day… and he’d had to release thirty snakes out in the countryside earlier.

He fucking deserved some St. Patrick’s Day fun.

And was that all just a really great excuse to do exactly what he wanted to do right at this moment?

Absolutely.

And was he going to regret the decisions of the next few minutes in the morning?

Very likely.

Was any of that going to stop what was about to happen?

Hell no.

“You want handcuffed?” he asked her.

“I want handcuffed so much,” she said with typical Peyton enthusiasm.

That was enough to make him reach for the cuffs.

“Hands behind your back, Trouble,” he said gruffly.

She complied, the motion thrusting her glorious breasts with the hardened tips closer. And he had every intention of taking full advantage of that.

He leaned in to reach around her, trailing his lips over the side of her neck and loving the little catch in her breath. Then he clipped the metal rings around her wrists and heard her soft “oh damn” in his ear. He dropped the tiny metal key on the hood next to her so he wouldn’t lose it in the dark.

“You okay?” he asked.

“So okay,” she breathed.

Only then did he lean back and take in the view.

Peyton Wells was mostly naked and handcuffed on the hood of his car. Oh damn was right.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he told her.

“So are you.”

Her eyes raked over his bare chest and abs and Scott felt heat everywhere she looked.

“Take it off, okay?” she asked.

He shrugged out of his shirt. She sighed. “Yeah. I should have touched you more before you cuffed me.”

He ran his hands up and down her arms and then around to cup her breasts. She gasped and he brushed over her nipples wanting to hear it again. He did.

“Yeah, well, too bad. Looks like I get to do all the touching. And that happens to be my second wish—to run my hands all over your gorgeous body.”

“So get on with it,” she told him arching into his hands.

He let go of her. “I think I’m in charge here. If you hadn’t noticed.”

She tipped her head to the side, watching him. “And you love that. The in-charge thing.”

He did. But that wasn’t the most important part here. “You love when I’m in charge,” he said.

She nodded. “Definitely.”

“Then we’re on the same page.” He reached for her hips, dragging her butt closer to the edge of the car. Then he slipped his hands up under the dress, caught the edges of her panties and pulled them down and off, dropping them on the grass by his shirt.

She wet her lips and widened her knees. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Instead of responding to her ribbing, he simply dipped his knees and took one nipple into his mouth.

“God, Scott,” she moaned. “Only you can make me feel this way.”

Damn.

This woman, in spite of all her craziness and trouble and mischief, was smart as a whip and she saw everything. She saw him. She knew exactly the buttons to push to get what she wanted.

He reached into his back pocket for his wallet, tossed it onto the hood of the car and with one hand withdrew a condom all without letting go of her. He stepped back only enough to unbutton and unzip his pants, push them and his underwear out of the way and then roll the condom on.

Her gaze took in every detail and she licked her lips. “Finally,” she breathed softly.

That was all it took for him to step close, grip her butt, pull her close and slide home.

They moaned together and Scott literally had to stop for a moment and just breathe. She was…perfection.

He pulled back to look down at her, stunned for a moment. How could one thrust feel this amazing?

“And this is wish number three,” he told her gruffly.

Then he couldn’t help but move. And move. And move. He took long, slow, deep thrusts, but soon it wasn’t enough. His body wanted more and wanted it fast and hard. A year of pent-up want seemed to be rushing through him and he gripped her harder and moved faster.

“Yes. Oh, yesss,” she hissed

“You with me?” he asked between gritted teeth, hoping he could hang on, needing her to come first, desperate to hear her cry out his name, but his climax was closing in on him like a freight training barreling toward the station and he was very afraid he was going to get plowed over.

“I’m so with you,” she breathed.

He willed himself to slow down. There was no way she was getting there already. He should have taken care of her first. He should have just taken his fucking time. It’s not like he didn’t want to kiss and touch and taste every damned inch of her.

But thinking about that—about all of the inches he hadn’t even really seen, not to mention enjoyed thoroughly—was no way to slow his pending orgasm.

“Damn, Peyton, hold on.” He grabbed her hips and tried to hold her still, tried to stop or even pull back, but she wrapped her legs around him tighter, linked her ankles at his low back and seemed to pull him in deeper.

“Don’t stop,” she panted, her breath hot against his neck as she squeezed him everywhere she had a hold of him—with her thighs around his waist and her sweet heat around his cock. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

It was her voice, her needing him, finally having her in his arms, knowing that he was what she wanted and needed right now—all of that spun into one huge, fist that squeezed his heart and wouldn’t let go.

He moved, thrusting deep, unable to hold back and as a hot, perfect, absolutely shattering orgasm rolled up and through him, he knew he was going on without her. And he couldn’t have stopped if his life depended on it.

Several long moments after the best orgasm of his life, his breathing finally began to slow and he became aware of their position. Peyton’s face was against his neck, her legs still around his waist, her chest against his, as if she was trying to keep every available inch of her against him. He reached behind her and unlocked the cuffs. Immediately her arms went around his neck. She was hugging him, holding him, not letting go, clearly not willing to let a centimeter of space between them, in the aftermath of his orgasm.

His orgasm. Not their orgasms. Just his.

Fuck. This was bad.

A cold ball settled in Scott’s chest and he was amazed at how quickly and completely his sanity had left, and how quickly and completely it was coming back to him.

Fuuuuck.

He had messed this up. So, so badly.

And he did not want to let her go either. Because she felt amazing in his arms.

And because he was afraid he wasn’t going to have her there again for a very long time.

So he held her. He couldn’t be the one to pull back first. He couldn’t let her go until she was ready to be let go. He couldn’t go home and mentally beat the shit out of himself until she was ready to be let go.

That would all happen way too soon.

A few minutes later, she sucked in a huge breath. “Holy crap, Hansen,” she said, letting it out. Her arms slowly relaxed from around his neck.

Scott reluctantly released his hold on her, taking his hands off of her hips and clearing his throat. She leaned back and looked up at him with a soft smile that almost broke his heart.

“That was definitely worth the wait,” she said.

The wait. It had been long and hard. He’d fought himself and won. Over and over again. He’d told her he wanted more. He’d worked to show her that she didn’t have to put out to ensure he’d be there for her. He’d tried to be her friend.

Then he’d thrown it all out the window, hiked up her skirt and done her on his car.

One night. One stupid full moon. One skimpy leprechaun costume. One “please Scott” and he’d thrown it all out.

What. The. Fuck.

He gave her a smile that he was sure looked less than sincere. He had to handle this well. He had to let her know that in spite of the fact he’d easily agreed to this and had only taken what he wanted without giving anything back, he wasn’t this guy. He wasn’t with her because she had the best breasts he’d ever seen.

“Peyton—” he started, tucking himself back into his pants and trying to act and sound like he knew what the hell to do next.

But she tucked her hair behind her ear and then pushed him back, sliding to the ground. “So glad I didn’t do those Irish cream shots with Ashley,” she said, giving him a grin.

No, not just a grin. The grin. The I-got-away-with-something grin he’d seen many, many times. She pushed her skirt down, zipped up the front of her dress, then scooped up her panties from the ground and started for the house.

“P—”

She turned, but kept walking, taking long steps backward. “No, you can’t keep my panties. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Officer Hansen.” Then she waved the panties at him and disappeared inside the house.

Scott watched her go, understanding perfectly the definition of dumbfounded.

She’d acted like she’d gotten exactly what she’d been after from him. But he’d just been the worst lover, the worst friend in the world. But she was grinning at him?

Because she’d gotten what she wanted?

Scott shrugged into his shirt and shoved a hand through his hair. What had she wanted? To prove that he really was wrapped around her little finger? To prove she could finally make him crumble? That he was just like the dozens of other guys she knew?

He grabbed his belt from the ground and tossed it into the front seat through the open window, then stalked around to the driver’s side of the car. He got in, slammed the door, and started the engine, feeling…he didn’t know what he felt.

Except that he really fucking hated St. Patrick’s Day.