CHAPTER 4
Zoe
I saw red and blue lights flashing in my rear-view mirror and my stomach flipped, catapulted and dropped so hard I thought it might fall out of my ass.
No way. No fucking way could I be getting pulled over. Not today, when I had the biggest order in the history of my shop to wrangle. That just didn’t make karmic sense. Shit like that didn’t happen to good girls like me. Hell, I hadn’t even got a parking ticket before, let alone been flagged by the police. This was almost legendarily bad timing on their part. I would’ve thought it was a prank show, if any crew in their right mind would film in the boonies.
Couldn’t a girl just catch a break?
That thought gave me an idea. I’d seen women do it in movies before, and theoretically I knew it was a tool in my arsenal, but… could I manage it? Moreover, was this a great moment to test out what was an iffy theory to begin with? I reminded myself that I needed to get the trunk of groceries back to the bakery so I could begin working on the order. I was on a mission, as it were, and failure was just not an option. My life, quite literally — okay, like, sort of literally — depended on it.
I had no choice. I had to flirt my way out of this ticket.
In my rear-view mirror, I saw a man get out of the passenger door of the cop car, and even with the ‘objects in mirror may be closer than they appear’ distortion, I could tell that the flirting wouldn’t be too much of a burden.
Because this cop was hot. Like, male stripper, Vegas revue hot. James Dean hot. Paul Newman hot. Except he surpassed the strippers, and Dean and Newman. He was in a class all his own. Saliva pooled in my mouth, and I swallowed it rapidly. Wouldn’t do to actually drool over him — not very flirtatious.
His black denim — was that regulation or was he just a badass? — clung tightly to his thighs and was slung low on his hips, supported by a belt that also had a holster, which butted against his thigh. A cowboy hat dipped down, covering his eyes, but I could still make out a strong jawline with a small cleft in the chin that showed through his medium stubble beard, not to mention cheekbones higher than Mount Sinai. An aquiline nose and full lips rounded out the face.
After a walk that seemed to take long enough for me decide that I was going to have to tone down the flirting I was thinking of, he arrived at my car.
He leaned in with a grin and nudged the top of his cowboy hat up, revealing a dazzling set of ice blue eyes framed by full, chocolate lashes.
Ah shit. For the second time that day, I had the distinctive thought — I’m screwed.
“Hey there, officer,” I mumbled under my breath, physically incapable of making eye contact. I worried that if I gazed too closely, I might never be able to see another man as attractive so long as I should live.
No, no! my inner angel voice shouted. Remember the cakes! Good voice. Smart voice. I’d do that. Or at least, I’d try my darndest.
I shook my head free of sensual distraction, and righted the mental train, guiding it awkwardly back onto the metaphorical tracks. I had a business to save. Time to boss up.
So, I gave it another shot. I lowered my voice, and enunciated each word, as I said, “Hey there, officer.”
Much better, Zoe. Well done. Indeed, he did look momentarily taken aback.
“Miss,” he began. “Pardon my manners, what’s your name?”
“Zoe Reynolds. But friends like you can call me Zoe.”
“I wasn’t aware we were friends,” he returned in a low, humor-filled voice.
“Well, not yet we aren’t. But I’d like to change that.”
His grin grew wider, and my breath caught in my throat. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up the pretense of being in control. Especially when I was thinking about all the ways I wanted those thick hands to control me.
He continued on in a drawl, the kind that told you he’d fished on an open lake in the summer and cooked the bounty over a fire he had made himself. It was the drawl of a self-possessed man.
“Zoe,” he said languidly, “you know why I pulled you over?”
I rallied my strength. “To get to know me better?” I asked with a wink.
Did I just do that? Oh shit, I think I did. When had I grown so brazen? A small part of me sparkled with pride, though I figured I shouldn’t get too big of a head over something as basic as flirtatious chitchat.
“I wish, darlin’. I sorely wish.” He sighed, and I could see real regret filter throughout his face, that familiar masculine strain of trying to resist a pretty woman. “‘Fraid I gotta talk with you ‘bout that brake light.”
Fuck. The brake light, of course. It had been out since, well, pretty much since the first day I got it. But I didn’t have the money to fix it, and I’d figured that if I could just hold out until the bakery was on its feet, I’d be able to take the car to an auto repair shop. Guess I didn’t make it quite that long. I guess the cops noticed the broken brake light as I was slowing down due to a squirrel crossing the road. Of all the luck.
“Right, of course,” I replied hastily. “I’m planning on getting it fixed next week.” The lie came out more fluidly than I’d anticipated.
“Well, that sounds good by me. What other plans have you got for next week?” he inquired, his eyes twinkling, almost coaxing me further into the banter.
“Not so many that I couldn’t squeeze you in there,” I fired back. Was I about to dodge a ticket and get a wickedly hot date? Man, oh man, had my luck turned.
“So, what’s your name, officer?”
“I’m Officer Dylan Robertson, ma’am.”
He sidled up closer to the window, and I had to remind myself to breathe. This guy was all-American rugged, and I wondered what it’d be like to ride a cowboy cop. Would he buck beneath me? Was he hung like a bronco? That last thought was so overwhelming that my ears began to burn.
“I’m gonna need to see your license,” he said.
I snapped out of my daze. Shit. Did this mean I was still on the hook for the brake light? Here I’d thought I was doing so very well.
“And registration. Got to do things by the book,” he added smoothly with a cocky smile.
I hadn’t given up yet. This was the first nibble I’d had in months and I wasn’t going to let a broken brake light or a broken heart stand in my way a moment longer.
Trying to match his calm seduction, I slowly leaned over to my console, popped it open — jerked it open when the button caught — and pulled out my registration. I turned around to the back to grab my wallet and pivoted just enough that my thong rode up over the edge of my jeans. I heard a deep breath behind me. Good. He’d clearly noticed the lacy strip of pink.
I palmed my wallet and unzipped it to riffle through the contents. Coupons, membership cards, spare change. It was a hoarder’s wallet. I landed upon my license and thumbed it up to the top of the wallet. Grasping the plastic and paper, I reached my hand out the window and put the documents in his outstretched fingertips. Time to play the game. I let my skin rest on his, which was warm to the touch, like a patch of grass warmed by the sunshine in summer.
His hands were truly mountainous, the kind of hands made for building log cabins. They were rough, and thick but not meaty. They held great promise in regard to what rested in his pants. I grinned internally at the image that flitted across my mind’s eye.
And then I noticed the ring on his left hand.