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“Everything alright, sir?” the middle-aged officer, with his muffin top visible in the headlights, asks.
“Yeah. Car trouble. These new damn GMs aren’t built like they used to be,” I answer.
“You’re telling me. Our new Tahoes in the fleet are garbage. I’ve been a Chevy guy, but I switched to Ram.”
I smile widely. “My daily driver is a Ram dually. Gorgeous truck.”
“Ahh! I bet. Now, I’m jealous, but my little fifteen-hundred does the job,” he says and laughs. “Um, sorry, this is a formality, but can I get your license and registration?”
“Oh, of course,” I answer. I shift my hips to reach my wallet in my back pocket. I pull my license out and reach for the glove compartment.
“You have some nice ink,” he adds.
“Thank you. Worth every penny,” I call over my shoulder as I search through the clutter in the glove box. “Got it.” I straighten in my seat and adjust my seat belt where it’s digging into my neck. “This car is registered to my mom, Sophie Valenti. I’m just borrowing it for the evening,” I explain, handing over the documents.
“That’s all right. I ran your plate, and nothing came up,” he says, viewing my license. “Valenti? Any relation to the wine?”
Bingo.
A grin spreads across my lips. “I run the winery here in town.”
“Really? Wow! My wife loves, um, one of your reds. It’s expensive stuff, but her favorite.”
Fucking fantastic.
“That’s awesome, man. I appreciate you supporting local. It doesn’t compare to that mass-produced crap, right?”
“We try to support local as much as we can. Is there anything I can help you with? Did you call roadside assistance?” he asks.
“My brother’s on his way with my truck,” I lie. “Faster than calling AAA.”
“Good, good.” He lightly taps the side of the car. “Well, I’ll be back through here in an hour if you’re still stuck.”
“Thanks, man. He should pull up anytime, though,” I reply. “Hey, why don’t you stop by our vineyard Monday if you can? It’s a couple of miles from here. I’ll hook you up with whatever red your wife likes.”
The cop grins wide. “That’d be great. Our anniversary is next week!”
“Just paying it forward. You guys keep Napa safe. I appreciate it.”
“I’ll do that. I think I know where it is.”
“Just ask for Enzo,” I say.
“I will, thanks.” He hands my license and the registration back. “Have a good night, Mr. Valenti.”
“New text from Tilly,” the car speaker says. My breath catches—she’s thinking of me.
“My girlfriend. Probably wondering where I am,” I half-lie.
“You should answer her then,” he laughs. “Goodnight. Get home safe.”
I nod. “Will do.”
He turns back to his Ford Explorer, and I roll my eyes.
Fucking Napa police with nothing better to do.
The only thing I don’t like about my tattoos is the stereotypes that surround them. I get profiled as dangerous at first glance. And I kind of am. But once they see my watch, my high-end jeans, or even my Italian leather boots, they back off. Tilly could attest to that. I know I intimidated her the first time we met, but she quickly warmed up.
