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One
MARCI
A siren whoops behind me,and I glance in the rearview mirror.
“Oh, balls.”
One of the sheriff’s lackeys is on my tail. I’m not over the speed limit. In fact, this is a leisurely drive by anyone’s standards, even mine, but the cops in this town love to mess with me, and they’ll take every opportunity they can get.
I pull over and put my brand new cherry red Hyundai in park, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, my eyes narrowing.
There are two things I hate in this world.
Authority figures and books with third-act breakups. The first, because ofreasons, and the second because they’re going to get together in the end. Save me the heartbreak and throw in an extra spicy scene instead. I haven’t gotten any in literal years, so I need that smut, like I need rechargeable batteries.
A door slams and Jesse Taylor gets out of the patrol car behind me.
Make thatthreethings I despise.
I huff out a breath as he saunters over to my window and stops, removing his sunglasses from his stupidly handsome face and peering at me with those Taylor blue-blue eyes. Blue as a poison dart frog.
Jesse taps on my window, and I stare at him, stubborn as hell.
“Open the window,” he says.
I inhale through my nose and release a breath. Because this asshole is the last person I want to see today. Out of all the deputies in this town who could pull me over, he’s the one who I want to talk to the least.
“Come on, Angel,” he says.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap.
Jesse smirks at me. I’ve known him since we were kids because I’m friends with his little sister, Hannah, and with June, who’s dating his younger brother, Cash.
I press a button, and the window descends, allowing in more of his presence and that fuck boy cologne he wears. Spicy, cinnamon, vanilla, a little smoke. I’m a sensory person, and I hate that he smells good.
“License and registration, Angel.”
“Have you no shame?” I ask. “You realize you’re wearing a body cam, right? So anyone who reviews that footage will hear you calling me that.”
“That’s an added bonus.”
“You’re right. What a dumb question,” I say. “You have zero shame and never have.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.” He leans his tan, muscular arms on the top of my car door, his uniform straining over his biceps. “License and registration.”
I hold his gaze for a second longer, unwilling to back down.
This asshole and I havehistory.Jesse Taylor has caused my family literal trauma.
That devilish grin doesn’t leave his face as I lean over and open the glovebox. I hand over my license and registration, then fold my arms and stare out at the street. I barely get time for myself these days. Between running the diner and dealing with my brother, Billy, I’m usually swamped. This morning’s drive is part self-care, part errand.
“Is there a reason you pulled me over?” I ask. “Because I’ve got to get to work.”
I’m not usually this rude, but Jesse brings out the brat in me.
He’s frowning, his blue eyes flitting to focus on my face and then back to my license.
“Was I speeding?” I ask.
