Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“Mr. Hot.”
“Dawson.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Dawson. You don’t know when to quit.”
“True,” I admit, nodding. “I won’t ever quit.”
She leans in, hazel eyes full of fire. “What do you actually want?” I can see a little flash of interest in her stunning hazel eyes before she’s able to mask it. Finally, a sign I’m not fighting a losing battle.
I open my mouth, but the first answer that comes to mind is so over-the-top even I have to swallow it. All I manage is, “I just want to get to know you. You knocked me on my ass the first time I laid eyes on you. Then you cuffed me and stole my goddamn heart.” Pathetic much? Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. It’s time to lay my cards on the table.
“Your heart?” Suspicion replaces the interest in her hazel eyes as I press on.
“That’s right, and now I plan to steal your heart in return.”
"Sorry, Dawson." Her rejection is locked and loaded, delivered with the practiced efficiency of someone who doesn’t take any shit. "But I don't date criminals." The up tilt at the corner of her full, pouty lips betrays her. The tiny crack in her professional armor sends a jolt of electricity straight through my chest. Her hazel eyes, flecked with gold in the morning light streaming through the coffee shop windows, hold mine for a beat longer than necessary.
Now, it’s time to convince her that I don't just want to date her—I want to marry her, wake up to that stern face softened by sleep, hear her laugh without restraint. But first, I have to find a way past the deputy's badge and the walls she's built around herself, just to convince her to give me the time of day.
“I paid my ticket, and the judge let me off with a warning not to show up in her court again,” I tell her, watching the wheels spin. “And I promise my life of crime is over. Next time you cuff me, it’ll be in the bedroom.” That gets her. Her mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.
She stares at me, and for a second, I’m sure she’ll shoot me down. Then I get the shock of my life.
"You aren't going to give up until I go on a date with you, are you?" Her voice has that official deputy tone, but there's a new softness around the edges. My heart does a full gymnastic routine in my chest, and I grip the edge of the table to keep from fist-pumping the air like an idiot who just won the lottery.
"Not likely," I manage, trying to sound cool while my pulse hammers in my ears.
"I'll go out on one date with you." Her hazel eyes lock onto mine, those gold flecks catching the light like tiny sparks. The corner of her mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough to send electricity down my spine. "If I can pick the restaurant."
Hell fucking yes. When she turns to walk away, I fist-bump the air.
CHAPTER FIVE
ISLA
It’s almost nine when I finally drag my ass through the front door, one arm loaded with takeout containers, the other juggling my purse, my keys, and a bag of cat food that’s leaking some kind of radioactive orange dust. There’s a new sticky note on the apartment building’s front door that says, “Please keep the noise down after 10 PM—Management.” Joke’s on them. The only party in 3B is me, my pets, and whatever episode of true crime happens to be playing.
Oreo’s perched on top of the bookshelf, a loaf of black-and-white judgment, and she immediately starts in with her wailing meow, like she hasn’t eaten in days. Alfred, my crusty old Shih Tzu, musters a little half-bark from his donut bed by the couch but doesn’t bother actually standing up. I try not to take it personally.
I kick off my shoes, dump the cat food in the pantry, and set the takeout on the counter. The Chinese place down the street knows my order by heart now—Kung Pao Chicken, chow mein, and a Diet Coke the size of my forearm. I spend the next five minutes changing out of my uniform, carefully hanging it up because dry cleaning costs an arm and a leg. After a quick detour to put Alfred’s arthritis meds in a piece of hot dog, I feed it to Alfred and give Oreo a scratch under her chin. Then I head straight to the bathroom and turn the shower on until it’s one notch below boiling.
By the time I step in, my brain is so fried from the day that the hot water barely stings. I tilt my head back, eyes closed, and count down from twenty, trying to let the scald burn off all the crap I dealt with on shift. I spend an extra minute exfoliating my face, as if a little microderm can scrape away all the bullshit.