How could I be so stupid?
How could I have been so wrapped up in making sure I understood everything needed for my loan that I missed the signs Chris was giving off?
I press the pedal down harder. The speedometer hits seventy miles per hour, but it isn’t fast enough.
First Chris.
Then the realization that I have no other options but to deal with him and his creep factor.
The needle hits eighty.
Nothing will ever be enough to outrun that feeling I get every time someone expects me to bend to their will. To be subservient. To play the victim.
Never again.
No way. No how. Screw that.
The long road is stretched out before me. Just fields, grape vines, trees, and flat asphalt, making me feel as if I were the only person on the face of the earth.
Hitting the outskirts of town, I push the envelope of safety, but when you jump out of airplanes for a living, that envelope is harder to breach than for most.
With each mile I put between myself and the restaurant, I feel the stress begin to shed. The pressure of making sure all my documents are in order so I don’t lose the loan because of some stupid mistake eases. And with the clearing of my mind comes the clarity.
Despite it being so much easier to pick up and move when people started asking too many questions about my past, I let Desi talk me into coming back to Sunnyville. My need to put away the gypsy life I have been living and settle down to plant roots for myself was just a thought back then, yet, I’d been willing to try.
Then I found Blue Skies, which was in desperate need of some TLC, and decided that the girl, who liked to go where the wind blows her, suddenly wanted something permanent. A business. A fixture. Something to be proud of.
My desire to own Blue Skies and make it one hundred percent mine had made me stay to fight for something.
And fighting is what I’m doing.
The sirens come out of nowhere. Blue and red lights flash to tell me my fun—my reprieve—has been compromised and is about to be shut down.
“Shit.” I pound a fist against the wheel, knowing this will be my second ticket in six months. The monetary fine. Points on my driving record. The increase in my insurance. All the consequences ghost through my mind as I pull to a stop and wait for Officer Asshole to walk up to the driver side and read me the riot act. I may even pull up the hem of my shorts some so when he’s met with an eyeful of tanned and toned thighs, he might be distracted.
It’s worth a shot.
“License and registration, please.”
I look up to the gravelly voice standing outside my window and am met with my own reflection in his mirrored lenses. “Hi, Officer. How is your day going?” I’ll try sweet-talking. I’m not good at it, but at least I’m not going down without a fight.
“License and registration, please, ma’am.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
“How about going ninety in a fifty mile an hour zone.”
“Oh. Was I really going that fast?” I feign innocence.
“Are you in a hurry?” I stare at him doe-eyed, unable to make my synapses fire so I can come up with some kind of brilliant excuse. “That’s considered reckless driving. Endangerment of others. Should I go on?”
With each offense my eyes are seeing dollar signs that my wallet doesn’t have.
The radio handset strapped to his shoulder sparks to life, and he responds in some kind of code that sounds like a foreign language. “No, Officer. The thing is I left my house in a hurry—”
“I think we’ve established that fact.”
I look in my rearview mirror as another police car pulls up behind his, and my palms grow sweaty. Am I that dangerous that they need two units to handle this call?
“Anyway, like I was saying, I left in such a hurry that I didn’t grab my wallet. I don’t have my license.”
He angles his head, and even though I can’t see his eyes behind the lenses, I can feel them dressing me down. “Then your registration?”
“This isn’t exactly my car.” I hear the door of the second unit shut behind us.
And the award for Flake of the Year, ladies and gentlemen, goes to Emerson Reeves.
“Whose car is it then?”
“Blue Skies—the company I work for.”
“Do you need any help, Off—Emerson?”
That voice. His voice has my whole body wanting to seize up and melt at the same time.
“You know this woman?” Officer Asshole says as I look to where Grant stands in his dark blue uniform with the setting sun at his back.
“I do.”
“You want to handle this call?”
“Sure,” Grant says, and after how things went between us the last time I saw him, I’m not sure if I’m relieved or worried.
“Thanks. You’ll be saving me from John’s wrath, coming home late from shift again.”
“Husbands,” Grant plays along and shrugs.
“Exactly.” He lifts his chin toward the back of the car, and the two men step back there for a few minutes. They speak in hushed tones, before Grant steps toward me and the other officer climbs into his car.
“Christ, Emerson. Ninety?” There’s a disapproving tone to his voice, but under it is something akin to amusement. “Seriously? You’re lucky Lyle didn’t haul you off to jail for reckless driving.”
“We weren’t quite done, but I’m sure that might have been an option.”
“It is pretty serious. And hauling you off is a valid option for the safety of not only you but also everyone else on the road.”
“But there is no one else on the road. No harm. No foul. Can I go?”
“You could have gotten yourself killed.”
He takes off his sunglasses and hooks them in his shirt. I stare at them hanging from his neck because it’s so much easier than looking him in the eyes. But he stands there, hands braced on the frame of my window and waits for me to meet his gaze.
While I had been certain sweet talking would have worked with Officer Lyle, at least until Grant mentioned the other officer’s husband, I have absolutely no idea what to say to ease the situation.
“You always had a flair for the dramatic.” The words are out before I realize it, and I hate myself for being the first to bring up the past when I don’t want him to do the same.
“Dramatic is one thing, Em. Doing my job is another.”
“Oh, I see what you’re doing here. You’re mad at me for the other night when you have no right to be and—”
“This has nothing to do with the other night and everything to do with the law and me enforcing it.”
He always was a stickler for the rules. The longer this conversation goes on, the more irritated I become, and a big part of me wants it to continue. If I’m pissed at him, then I’ll want him to go away instead of wondering what it would be like to see him again like I have been.
“Are you seriously going to arrest me?”
“Give me a good reason why you’re in such a hurry you need to go ninety miles an hour.”
Because I can.
The truth almost escapes but I stop myself before it does. Our eyes meet. Hold. Assess. Ask. And then I answer.
“I’m having a female emergency.” I ignore the fact that I’m wearing skimpy white shorts no woman on her period would be caught dead wearing and give him the number one response guaranteed to make a man uncomfortable.
His lips quirk for a moment before he leans down so that his elbows rest on the door. “And?”
“Well, I was rushing to the store.”
“And that’s why you were going so fast?”
“Yes.” I nod, hating that he isn’t shying away like any man in his right mind would.
“What were you going to the store to buy? Tampons? Monistat? Astroglide?” he deadpans.
If I could die a thousand deaths right now I would. My cheeks burn, and I’d give anything to crawl under the steering wheel to avoid having to make eye contact with him. “Yes.”
“All three? That’s a feminine emergency if I’ve ever heard of one.”
Already invested in my lie, I have no choice but to continue it. I clear my throat, but my voice comes out in a broken rasp. “Tampons. Just tampons.”
“I see.” He nods slowly. “Funny thing is, your car is heading in the wrong direction. All the drugstores are back that way.” He throws his thumb over his shoulder as I cringe at my mistake. “But being new in town and all that, maybe you got turned around, huh?”
There’s a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth while my embarrassment only intensifies. “Yes, that’s definitely why.” I squirm in my seat to try to sell it when I know he’s probably not buying any of this. “Can I go now, please?”
“Go? To the drugstore? Of course you can. I wouldn’t want your situation to worsen because of all this time we’re wasting. Tell you what, Em, if it’s such an emergency that you were willing to risk life and limb to get there, I think I should give you a police escort.”
“No! That’s okay—I—”
“Lights and sirens. The whole shebang all the way to . . . CVS, or is it Rite Aid? Which store has the brand you prefer?”
“A police escort, Grant? Really?” Irritation mixes with disbelief.
“Now that you’re a resident of Sunnyville, I’m at your service. Here to protect and to serve.” He flashes a grin that tells me he knows exactly what I’m doing and plans to make me pay for it.
And pay for it I do. With lights and sirens. Parading me the long way through town until we pull into the CVS parking lot.
His cruiser parks beside me, and I have every intention of running inside and buying some damn tampons I don’t currently need just to get him off my back. So, I’m completely mortified when he climbs out of his car as I get out of mine.
“What are you doing?” I ask, eyes flicking toward the random people who are staring at the flashing lights and the police officer standing in front of me.
“Let’s go.”
I stiffen when he places a hand on the small of my back and starts ushering me closer to the entrance. He nods and murmurs a few hellos to people who address him by name, all the while I’m trying to figure how far we’re going to carry on this charade. He’s obviously trying to prove a point while at the same time, willing to make my life miserable in retaliation for my rudeness the other night.
When we enter the store, I immediately begin to scan the directory signs above the aisles to see where the feminine hygiene products are located. Anything so I can put distance between myself and him and this asinine predicament.
“Not so fast. Where are you going?” he asks as he grabs my bicep, keeping me in place.
“To find what I need.”
“No worries. I have you covered. It’s an emergency after all,” he says, leading me to the front of the store.
“What are you—”
“Shh. It’s under control.” He points to his badge and smiles.
“No. It’s okay. I can find them on my own—”
“Excuse me, where are the tampons?” Grant asks the service clerk at the front of the store. Some teenage boys waiting in line snicker, and the young clerk’s face immediately turns bright red as he stutters a response. “Better yet, we’re in an emergency situation here. A ninety mile an hour type of emergency. Can you get on the PA and ask one of your associates to bring up a box for us so this young lady doesn’t have to search them out.”
Oh. My. God. Is he seriously going to do this?
Yes, he is.
That irritation I was hoping for just hit full force.
“I can get them myself,” I grit out between clenched teeth.
“Oh, no need to. He’s got it under control.” He lifts his chin to the cashier, who looks less than thrilled to be asked to do this. “Go on,” he urges the clerk.
“Can I get some assistance to the front please?” the clerk asks, his teenage voice cracking on the overhead speakers. “I need a box of tampons brought up.”
“Tell them it’s an emergency,” Grant says as the kid looks over to me and then down to my pelvis before realizing what he’s doing and snapping his head up, more flustered than ever.
“It’s an emergency.” His voice booms over the PA system and draws the eyes of some of the customers waiting at the photo counter.
“Thank you.” Grant flashes a huge grin his way. “Oh, wait. What brand do you like, Emerson?”
“You’re joking, right?” I sputter.
“Only if you’re joking.” He lifts his eyebrows as he throws down the gauntlet to see if I’m going to come clean or keep lying. The problem is that I think if I don’t continue, he might really haul me off to jail to prove a point. “I don’t think generic will do for such a dire situation. Brand?”
“Tampax,” I say defiantly.
“Tampax,” he relays to the clerk, whose cheeks are burning brighter with each second that passes. When the clerk continues to stare at Grant as if he’s crazy, which I’m beginning to think he is, Grant points to the phone in his hand. “Go on. Let them know so they don’t bring the wrong one and then we have to start this whole process all over again.”
The clerk goes to protest and then realizes that it’s in his best interest to relay the message. “To the associate in the, er, woman’s aisle . . . please make it Tampax.”
I stare at Grant and his smug grin and know there is no way I’m going to let him get away with this. Funny thing is, I’m a woman, tampons don’t embarrass me . . . but I know something that sure as hell will embarrass him.
“Are you still having that problem?” I loudly ask Grant, getting the blank look from him I was banking on.
“Problem?”
“Yes. You know . . .” I cringe and give him a sympathetic look before turning to the clerk. “While your associate is at it, can they grab one more thing for Officer Malone?”
The clerk’s eyes widen. “Can’t he go and get it himself?”
“No. He can’t. He has a suspect in the car, and department policy says he can’t be more than one hundred feet away from him at all times.” I push Grant back as he tries to step forward and interrupt. “Please?”
“Yeah. Sure.” The clerk looks at Grant and then back to me, uncertain how he became the ball in our ping-pong match.
“He needs his Viagra.”
“Viagra?” The clerk’s voice is suddenly soprano.
“Emers—”
“Don’t be embarrassed, Grant. A lot of guys have trouble getting it up.” I pat Grant’s arm and return the smug smile as the muscle in his jaw clenches.
“Em,” he warns.
“Viagra,” I reiterate to the clerk ignoring the hand Grant squeezes on my bicep. “He’s really embarrassed. I mean I wore lacy lingerie, high heels . . . everything, and he still couldn’t get hard.”
If the clerk’s cheeks could get any redder, they would. “Th-that’s a prescription. The phar-pharmacy—”
“Emers—”
“The urologist already called it in.” I cut Grant off again, smile sweetly at the clerk, and point to the phone. “So just get on the PA and tell the pharmacy that you need the prescription of Viagra for Grant Malone to be brought up to the front.”
Grant’s hand tenses, and I swear I hear him mutter son of a bitch as the clerk stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. I nod in encouragement to him.
He picks up the phone and keeps his eyes on mine the whole time he speaks on the PA system. “Uh, pharmacy, I need the prescription of Viagra to be brought up to the front.”
“For Grant Malone,” I say.
“The Viagra is under the name Grant Malone.” His voice booms overhead.
Snickers of laughter from somewhere in the store echo up to us. The teenagers in line shift their feet and try to hide their smiles. The older lady standing at the Hallmark cards glances my way and then shakes her head in sympathy. I can only wonder if the sympathy is because I’m having a period emergency while wearing white shorts or because my assumed boyfriend can’t get it up.
“Nice try, Malone, but I think I won this round,” I mutter under my breath.
“Excuse me, Brian, is it?” Grant says to the clerk after looking at his nametag.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell your associate that Emerson here needs the largest box of tampons you have?”
“The extra-large size box on the tampons?” he asks and looks at Grant with wide eyes.
“Yes.” Grant smiles.
“Associate, please make that an extra-large box of tampons.” Brian hangs the phone up and is about to turn his back when I speak.
“Brian, one more thing.”
“You’re joking right?” he asks exasperated.
“No, it’s important. Pretty please?” I turn on my charm and bat my lashes.
“What?”
“The Viagra, can you make sure it’s the extra strength?”
Poor Brian looks at Grant and then back to me for what seems like the tenth time. “You two are crazy. I don’t want to be in the middle of your weird fight. Use the PA yourself if you need anything else.” He holds the phone out to me. I’m more than tempted to make my request but figure we’ve caused enough of a scene, and by all accounts, I think I won this round.
“Thank you for your assistance, Brian, but we’re good now,” Grant says as he eases his grip on my arm and slides his hand down to the small of my back. I step away from him with the low hum of his chuckle in my ears.
Asshole.
The awkward tension only builds between us as the seconds tick by. Grant chats amicably with the cashier about how nice the weather is while the poor kid fidgets restlessly and refuses to meet his gaze. I glance around the store, waiting impatiently for the associate to bring the Tampax to the counter and wondering what is going to happen to my Viagra request.
Finally, the associate makes her way down the main aisle with the familiar blue-and-green box and holds it up to the male clerk. “Is this what you were looking for?”
Poor Brian blushes a darker red as Grant steps forward and takes the box from the associate. “Thank you, Eileen. You’re looking wonderful as always,” Grant says, prompting her to pat down her mass of gray curls. “How are the grandbabies? Is little Mario still as rambunctious as ever?”
Impatient to get the hell out of here, I force myself to watch the exchange between the two. Grant is holding the box of tampons in his hand, casual as can be, which is both surprising and unnerving. Not only am I privy to his personable skills with the nice lady who works at CVS but also I’m in the position to notice how perfectly well Grant’s uniform pants hug his ass.
And what a mighty fine ass it is.
Stop it. Here he is dragging me through this stupid charade, and instead of being mad at him, I’m checking out his ass? Again.
But it’s not just his ass. I’m also admiring the way his uniform sleeves hug his biceps and how broad his shoulders are.
But this is Grant Malone. He’s the little boy I used to giggle with and play cops and robbers with. He was like the brother I never had . . . so how is it possibly okay to find him this damn attractive?
It isn’t.
That’s the plain and simple answer. I can’t find him attractive. I can like him, but he’s off limits. He knows too much. Him just being here reminds me of before too much.
He’s too close when I’ve never allowed anyone to be.
I can be mad at him. I can be pissed as all hell that a little while ago he was threatening to haul me off to jail because I was a smidgen over the speed limit. I can also be livid that he called my bluff.
That’s all I can be.
Oh, and I can be damn proud that I just met him tit for tat with his little plan to embarrass me.
“Right, Em?” His gravelly voice cuts through my thoughts—of him.
“Right, what?” I must look like a deer caught in headlights, and Eileen just smiles softly.
“He’s such a good boy, isn’t he?” Eileen says as she pats my arm.
I smile with so much saccharine that my teeth are going to rot. “He is.”
And then she steps into Grant and lowers her voice. “No need to be embarrassed, dear. Having trouble getting an erection can sometimes be caused by stress.” She pats his arm much like she did mine. “Try some good old fashioned pornography. I may have experience in knowing it does the trick.” She winks and gives a knowing smile that leaves me biting back my snicker before she walks off as if she didn’t just talk about porn.
Way to go, Eileen!
Grant blushes for the first time during this whole charade and blinks as if he’s trying to make sure he actually heard her say what she said. I take his stunned silence and use it to my advantage by pushing a ten dollar bill across the counter to Brian. The poor kid is standing there trying to act like he didn’t hear the exchange when he clearly did.
“I got it,” Grant says with authority, taking my money off the counter and shoving it back in my hand.
“I can pay for my own—”
“No one said you couldn’t.” His lips quirk into a cocky smile, a clear indication he’s regained his footing. “But it’s the least I could do to help out with your . . . situation.”
“Apparently, porn is what will help you with yours,” I say nonchalantly, needing to get one last cheap shot in, before I turn and walk outside to wait for him in the fading daylight.
Within minutes, Grant strolls out of the drugstore with a bag in his hand and stops before me. We stare at each other for a moment.
“Viagra, Emerson? Really?” he asks, disdain owning his tone.
“I can go back in and wait for your prescription, if you’d like?” I bat my lashes.
“Cute. Very cute.”
“You’re not the only one who can dish it out.”
“So it seems.”
A new set of looky-loos slow their pace as they walk by, curious what crime I committed, and despite my little show inside, I’m not a fan of being the center of attention.
“Are we done now?” I huff as I hold my hand out for the bag.
We wage a visual war on the sidewalk in front of CVS. The lights on his squad car are still flashing and lighting up his face as he looks down at my hand and then back to me. “You tell me, Emerson. Are we done yet?”
“It’s just a box of tampons.”
“Oh, this is about so much more than just a box of tampons,” he says, voice serious, eyes locked on mine. We stare at each other for a minute more, both of us wondering who will give in first. My wanting to believe the lie I tell myself that this is only about feminine hygiene products against his waiting for me to realize I’m wrong.
“May I have the bag, please?”
“Of course you can, so long as we get one thing clear.” He steps closer to me and leans in. “Nothing’s changed, Em. Don’t you remember? I can always tell when someone is lying. Especially you. That’s one thing about me that’s still the same, so it’s best you don’t forget that. Otherwise, next time will be a whole lot worse than a box of tampons you don’t need.”
I grit my teeth as he leans back, those brown eyes of his laden with humor as he places the bag in my hand. “Is that a threat, Officer?”
“No. It’s a promise.”