“No, it’s Mark.”She giggles, making me giggle too. But only for a moment.
They just started living together a few months ago, and I’m not sure it’s the right move for me to pop up and stay at their place for a few weeks. I know she offered, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not a good idea. I know I’ll be imposing even if they don’t say anything. Young love needs its own space without spectators.
We say goodbye as she goes to see Mark off, and nerves settle like butterflies in my stomach, refusing to vacate. It’s hard not to feel like the new kid at school. I’m so nervous about meeting Alicia for the first time. We’ve been friends for years but have never actually met face-to-face. Well, besides video chats. Those we do on a regular basis, but it’s still not the same. What if we don’t have any chemistry and end up not liking each other? I’m not ready to lose my best friend. Some things are better left untouched if they’re too good as they are.
How we met is actually quite the story. A few years ago, we both were going through a lot. Both lonely, we sought help in an online community designed for people healing from trauma or suffering from depression to meet others. It was in that community that we met.
Alicia used to be very shy but eventually opened up to me and shared her story, and I shared mine. Since that moment, we’ve been inseparable, long-distance friends. Recently, after eight years of feeling alone, she found herself a dreamy, perfect firefighter boyfriend. While she used to look so sad whenever we would chat, she glows with happiness now. I can’t ask for more for my friend.
So, when I called her the other day saying I accepted Archie’s offer to build them a house, she squeaked and offered me a place to stay. I refused at first, but she seemed genuinely offended, so I promised to stay with her for a few weeks until I sorted out my living situation.
My first call before Alicia was to their local bed and breakfast, Dancing Pony, but they were out of rooms. When I told Alicia about that, she laughed and said she’d never seen them with any availability, so I’d better stop wasting time and come stay with them. When I asked her what the point of a bed and breakfast with no vacancy is, she just laughed again, leaving me wondering.
Now that I think of it, a few weeks is too long. I need to hurry up and figure out my living arrangements within days and smoothly remove myself from the premises without making it a big deal.
Anyway, I’m sure I can find some cute—and cheap—little house to rent in that town. I’ve watched a lot of movies, and there’s always a charming little cottage surrounded by trees and hot neighbors around my age.
Relationships are the very last thing on my mind, but a girl can dream, can’t she?
* * *
Many hours and pee stops later, I hum about scrubs and how they’re not good enough for me—maybe a bit too loud and enthusiastic, throwing a middle finger in the air, imagining my jerk of an ex—and don’t hear the cop car behind me.
As I yell “Hanging on the passenger side” with all my might, the siren behind my car blares louder, and I instantly shut up, looking around in fear. I’m not sure how it feels for everyone else, but I spent too many teenage years in the back seat of cop cars due to my negative popularity in high school. So I’m always jittery when I hear a siren, half expecting them to be after me.
This time, they are, indeed, after me. A cop car rides my ass, siren blaring and lights flashing. I quickly lower the volume and slow down, pulling off to the side of the road.
When I come to a full stop, I look at my belongings. They cover every possible window, and I can only see the left side of the windshield ahead of me. Everything else is shrouded. Is that illegal?
The police cruiser pulls up behind me, and although they thankfully turned off the god-awful siren, the lights still flash. I peep out my side mirror at the vehicle, waiting to learn my fate.
I look down at myself, noticing blotches of sweat soaking my shirt, turning it a dark shade of crimson. Particularly under my boobs. When I left New York, I felt sexy but quickly became too hot in the cramped car and abandoned the restrictive leather jacket I threw on in the back seat somewhere between Connecticut and Massachusetts. Now that I think of it, I let my fear of first impressions cloud my judgment. My favorite tight, red shirt and black leather pants are not exactly the comfiest for a road trip.
After what feels like ages, the cop finally decides to leave his cruiser and grace me with his presence. When he carefully shuts the door, I take a second to take him in.
Hot damn.
The man isfi-i-ine. The widest shoulders I’ve ever seen stretch his uniform like nobody’s business. His thighs are thick in the best way like he enjoys doing squats with five-hundred-pound weights for breakfast—I’m not sure how that material doesn’t give out under the power of his quadriceps or whatever those things are called. He turns to look at the road behind him, and I’m greeted by the most perfect bubble butt on planet Earth. Yeah, the man most definitely does squats. The gun holster on his right thigh squeezes his leg with every step he takes, which tightens his pants even more. Endless possibilities flash through my mind for what’s under those pants.
I swallow at the idea of those reallyhugepossibilities.
I don’t even have a chance to look at his face because I’m too busy ogling his fine physique. Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to hot cops walking the streets of New York, but the graceful swagger of this one makes me believe he can take on a bear with his bare hands and won’t double over carrying a thick girl like me.
I must have zoned out imagining the mentioned possibilities—and they look really big up close—because the sudden knock on my window startles me. I blink away the stupor and look at the man.
God damn.
If I thought his butt was fine, it has nothing on his face. His hair is a soft brown color and cut slightly shorter on the side before growing longer on top, slightly tousled. His nose is a bit crooked, probably broken from a few fistfights. Something about his confident stance tells me he’s a winner, which only makes him more interesting. One-day scruff covers his square jaw, which is so perfect, it’s almost annoying. The same scruff runs down half of his wide neck, and my eyes find his Adam’s apple. I’ve never found an Adam’s apple so sexy.
“Sheriff Benson, ma’am.” My eyes drop to his pouty mouth as he speaks. “License, registration, and proof of insurance, please,” he requests in a clipped tone as he fixes his mirrored sunglasses on his nose, not reacting to the flirty smile plastered on my face.
Great, I managed to piss off the local sheriff before I even reached my destination. I subtly look around, trying to figure out how ‘local’ I am and find only mountains. No signs with the name of a town or a road. Nothing. I don’t even remember what the last town or turn was because I’ve been driving for what feels like forever. The GPS on my phone has been frozen too many times to count, so I just gave up, hoping for the best.
Reality smacks me in the face as he loudly clears his throat, his brows raising so high I can see them over the large glasses he’s hiding behind. So much for a hot fantasy.
“Sure.” I pull my bag from the passenger seat, awkwardly attempting to dislodge it from the tower of my possessions.
When it’s finally in my hands, I pull out my cards and pass them to the angry cop, who’s turning sterner by the second. He carefully takes them without touching my fingers and stares at them for a moment before he presses the radio on his shoulder.
