“You only have one mechanic?” She looks at me quizzically.
“Small town.” I shrug, not bothering to explain further. “Ma’am, you need to leave the car so I can try to get it out.”
“What are you going to do, Sheriff?” She quirks a brow. “Press the gas pedal? I’ve already done that.” She turns toward the road, rolling her eyes.
I sigh—again—a bit louder this time and try reasoning with her. “It’s protocol.” I don’t add that it’s also common sense.
“Protocol my ass,” she mumbles and opens the door.
The first thing that I see as she gets out is her shoe. A black, shiny, sharp-nosed shoe polished to a level of perfection military guys would envy. My eyes freeze at the damn thing. I’ve never had a shoe fetish, so who the fuck knows what’s happening. When she stands to her full height, her eyes are level with my chest. But her defiant chin pointed upward and straight shoulders make her somewhat taller. She has bright, shiny, red pants that match her car, tightly hugging her luscious thighs, and a black, loose sweater hanging off one shoulder, revealing the lacy strap of a black bra.
When my eyes adjust to her unexpected beauty, she does the unspeakable—she bends over and sticks the top half of her body inside the car, trying to grab something from the loaded passenger side, her back arched, her lower half directly in my line of vision. And what a half it is.
My dick cries out in pain as it stirs in my pants. I squeeze my jaw shut, annoyed with myself at the inappropriate response and at her for causing it in the first place. When she finally fully emerges from the car, I’m standing in front of her with a boner that itches like crazy. Scratching my dick probably won’t be the smartest idea now, so I try to discreetly shift my legs to offer the poor fucker some relief.
Turns out, it’s not so discreet after all because I see the exact moment she notices it—her eyes widen just as her face twists in disgust. She backs away a touch and crosses her arms over her chest.
Great. Now she thinks I’m a pervert.
I walk past her—not a difficult task since she’s giving a wide berth—and climb into her car. And I mean ‘climb.’ The seat is so close to the wheel I can’t even fit one of my legs. I push it all the way back and still can barely squeeze in. I have to bend my neck at an unnatural angle, hoping it will return to normal when I’m done.
The car is junk, and I mean it. Every single surface is covered with some sort of bag, package, or something else entirely. There’s even a half-dead cactus in a small pot. Which spawns my next question: what is she doing here with all this stuff?
I attempt a couple of tries forward and reverse while my knees pretty much push into my nose, but the car is stuck.Great.She came here in a rear-wheel drive car. It won’t be a problem to pull it with my cruiser, but I don’t want to leave half of its carcass in here, so I climb out and walk to the nearest bush. Breaking thick twigs off the evergreens, I head back to the car and throw them under the tires.
She stands to the side, watching me warily. By now, the situation in my pants has been resolved. To be honest, it was resolved the moment I saw her disgusted face. I’m the local law, a person who’s supposed to take care of the local citizens, even the ones just passing through. I can’t make anyone feel uncomfortable in my presence. That’s not why I’m here.
Even though I wouldn’t mind her being a bit happier seeing me…
Fuck.Fuck!I forcefully shake my head, trying to will the lower part of my body to behave.
“I’ll go get my car,” I tell her as I walk toward my cruiser.
Backing it up in front of her metal tin, I hook it up to mine.
“Put your car in drive and press the gas pedal just a little when I start pulling.”
“Okay.” She scurries inside, thankfully not arguing with me this time.
She’s out of the mud on the first try. When I see that she stopped and shifted into park, I go to unhook her car and put my gear back in my trunk. Then I walk to her and lean toward the passenger side, gesturing for her to roll the window down.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, giving me a small, sincere smile for the first time. It makes her appear younger, and if not for the driver’s license I’ve seen, I’d be treading very carefully.
I just nod and ask, “What are you doing here?”
“I’m going somewhere.” Her chin lifts up.
“Where exactly are you going?” I pointedly look around—we’re surrounded by trees with a visible opening far ahead of us. Where the Ghost House is.
“Did I do something wrong?” She presses her lips so tightly I can barely see them.
“I need to know where you’re going.”
“Why? Is this road private property?” Her little nostrils flare, making her look like an angry chipmunk.
“No,” I say through gritted teeth because I can’t argue with that—the road isnotprivate property, but the land where the house standsis. “But there is nothing around here to be interested in.”
“There’s something around here I’m very interested in. So are you, if I’m correct.” Her right brow lifts suggestively, and I instantly back down, feeling caught.
