Sergeant Sexypants

by Tawna Fenske

  “Sure.”

  He turns back to a massive pile of lumber and grabs an axe I’m glad I didn’t notice before. The guy doesn’t seem violent, but he’s definitely got some issues.

  I turn and make my way toward a pair of double doors that must be fifteen feet tall. The building is massive, constructed to look like an old cedar barn, but with huge banks of windows and a fancy-looking fountain at the head of the paver-stone walkway.

  The doors swish open as I approach, making me feel like some kind of royalty. The entryway is done in weathered slate and rustic-looking barn wood, and there’s an enormous hammered copper bar in the restaurant off to my right.

  I hang a left like Mark told me, heeding the warning not to break anything. Not that I’m in the habit of smashing vases of dried cornflowers in the foyers of luxury lodges, but I shove my hands in my pockets anyway. The space smells like warm cedar and fresh sage, and I wonder if it’s natural or some high-tech air freshener. The artwork is sparse but mostly tasteful-looking Native American pieces that might be the real deal. There was something in the paper last month about the Ponderosa Resort folks working closely with the Warm Springs tribe to honor local culture and heritage, and I wonder if that’s Bree’s doing.

  I glance at the reception desk that’s unmanned at the moment. Signs crafted with cast iron and copper point the way to the restaurant, the lodge rooms, and the Desert Lily Float Center. I’m wondering what the hell that is when Bree walks through the door.

  “Austin.”

  Her voice is breathless, which makes two of us. Damned if she doesn’t take my breath away. She’s wearing a tight black skirt with a shiny-looking gray blouse tucked into it, and her cheeks are flushed. “Please, come in.”

  She gestures toward her office, and I follow, inhaling the scent of expensive perfume. Not that I know what expensive perfume smells like, but it’s flowery and delicate with a hint of something like oak-moss. I order myself not to stare at her ass as she rounds the corner of a sleek walnut desk that’s bare except for a fancy-looking laptop and a chrome pen holder. I lower myself into the leather chair on the opposite side of the desk, grateful there’s a piece of furniture between us. That’ll keep me from staring at her legs.

  Bree folds her hands on the desk and licks her lips, which gets me staring at her mouth again. She’s wearing some kind of glossy lip stuff, and I wonder if it tastes like raspberries.

  It takes me a second to remember why I’m here. “I came to give you a fork.”

  Bree blinks. “Pardon me?”

  I fumble into my pocket, hurrying to produce the small silver utensil. “I think it’s yours,” I say, holding out a flattened palm to offer it to her. “My dad walked off with it by accident. Figured I’d bring it by since I live just down the road.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” Bree hesitates, then reaches out to take it. Her fingertips brush the center of my palm, lingering longer than required for such a simple task, but I don’t dare break contact. I don’t dare breathe. Her hand feels warm and delicate, and I’m not sure what’s happening here.

  Bree gives me a shy smile and draws her hand back. She curls her fingers around the fork but makes no move to usher me out. “You live close?”

  “On a couple acres just south of here. Log cabin with a red roof?”

  Surprise flickers in her green eyes. “Oh. I’ve seen that place. The one with the big front porch?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiles and threads her fingers through her hair, or at least tries to. She seems to forget the fork, and the tiny utensil winds up tangled in her curls.

  “Ow. Shit.” She yanks at it, and I worry she’s going to pull out a hunk of scalp.

  “Let me.” I stretch across the desk to untangle her, careful not to tug too hard. Her hair is even softer than I expected, and I order myself to hurry up and stop fondling her curls. “Got it.”

  I draw back and hand over the fork again. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” She gives a nervous little laugh and plucks it from my palm a little quicker this time. “Sorry, I’m a little out of it. I’ve got this crazy FAM trip running right now, and it’s nonstop with these guys.”

  “FAM trip?”

  “Familiarization tour.” She sets down the fork and picks up a pen, though it doesn’t look like she plans to write anything. Just turns it over in her fingers as she speaks. “It’s PR-speak for bringing in a bunch of influential journalists and bloggers and giving them the royal treatment.”

  “You guys aren’t open to regular guests yet, right?”

  “The restaurant is, but not the lodging side,” she says, still flipping the pen. “I wanted to get a couple FAM groups through first to make sure they have the best experience possible.”

  “And then they write about it,” I say, earning a nod from Bree. “Or post on Instagram or Facebook or whatever travel journalists do these days.”

  “Exactly,” Bree says. “I’ve got a mix here at the moment—some traditional print media, some digital influencers. One of them’s actually my best friend from college here with his husband. They have this super-popular travel blog called Nomadic Dudes with more than eight-hundred-thousand page views a month. They’re normally booked out years in advance, but I got lucky and lured them here on short notice.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “Congratulations.”

  She watches my face like she’s expecting more. A reaction of some kind, maybe a homophobic remark or some condescending quip about nepotism or social media.

  Not my style. Not even close. “So you manage all of that?” I ask. “The FAM tours and the marketing and stuff?”

  She nods, her expression softening ever so slightly. “I have a marketing assistant, but I’m pretty hands-on with these first few trips.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  She tilts her head to the side like she hadn’t considered that. “I suppose so. I don’t really mind.” A funny little smile crosses her face, and she stops flipping the pen. “I guess I’ve sort of trained for the happy hostess role my whole life.”

  “You have a marketing degree from Purdue, plus an MBA from Northwestern.”

  The pen drops from her fingers, and she fumbles to grab it again. “Oh. Yes. I—did you look that up in some kind of police database or something?”

  I laugh, which I probably shouldn’t. She seems flustered. “Nothing that high-tech. It’s on your website.”

  “Oh. Duh.” Her face reddens, and she glances down at her hands. “Right, I forgot about the bio page.”

  And I forgot that I only looked at Bree’s section and totally skipped the brothers. I hope there’s no quiz later.

  I definitely checked out Bree, though. Born in Connecticut, she went to some elite boarding school in Rhode Island before heading off to college. Loves fine wine, art history, and dogs—the latter evidenced by a photo of her frolicking with a trio of pups from the Humane Society when they christened the new dog park here at the resort.

  Gotta admit, my dog-loving heart sat up and panted when I watched the YouTube video of her passing a check for ten grand to the folks at the animal shelter. I love the altruism, sure, but not as much as I loved seeing Bree in blue jeans with wind-tousled curls talking about how she wants a dog of her own once she’s settled in.

  Would it be wrong to woo her with mine?

  I order myself to stop being a dick and stick with the conversation at hand. “What did you mean by that?” I ask. “About training for the happy hostess thing your whole life?”

  Her smile is guarded, and I wonder if she didn’t intend to use those words. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s confessed something they didn’t mean to tell me. It’s a fringe benefit of the cop thing.

  “I guess I meant my mom,” she says slowly. “She’s one of those society ladies who’s always hosting elaborate events and charity balls. I learned to throw an eight-course dinner party in grade school.”

  “Seriously?”

&n
bsp; She smiles, but there’s an odd wistfulness to it. “I was the only twelve-year-old with her own collection of Robbe & Berking French Pearl flatware to serve three dozen. Suffice it to say, I was an awkward middle schooler.”

  A flicker of sadness lights her eyes, but it’s gone fast. I feel an urge to fill the silence, to keep us from stumbling over something dark and melancholy. “I think it sounds pretty impressive,” I tell her, not sure what the hell Robbe & Berking French whatever means. “My mom coached me for days about which fork to use on prom night, and I still screwed it up.”

  “Prom night.” She says the words like they’re a foreign language. “I always wanted one of those.”

  “You didn’t go to prom?”

  “We didn’t have a prom.” She folds her hands on the desk, and there’s that wistful look again. “I went to an all-girls’ prep school. The closest we came was when we’d have formal dances with the boys’ school nearby, but I didn’t go to those, either.”

  “Too busy hosting dinner parties?” I’m aiming for lighthearted teasing, but it’s clear I missed the mark. Her green eyes flicker, and she looks down at her hands again.

  “I wasn’t exactly the most popular girl in school.”

  Damn. Why the hell did I say that?

  “If it makes you feel better,” I offer, “I got a lot of shit from guys in high school. When your dad’s a cop, you’re the last guy people want at their keg parties.”

  She looks up, those green eyes assessing. “Were you bullied?”

  I shake my head, almost ashamed to admit that’s not my story. Was it hers? “I was never the big man on campus like Brandon Brown, but I got along with everyone. Lettered in three sports, went to all the dances, that sort of thing.”

  I shut my mouth, hoping I don’t sound like some douchebag who’s stuck wallowing in his glory days as a teenage letterman. Bree looks at me strangely, but I can’t read her expression.

  “Were your parents—” She stops there and shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m not trying to be nosy.”

  “Nose away.” I get the sense it freaks her out when I’m the one asking questions, like it’s cop interrogation mode or something. If it keeps her talking, I’d cheerfully sit here all day letting her quiz me on my favorite yogurt flavor or what size boxer briefs I wear.

  But she asked about my family. “My parents have been married thirty-five years,” I tell her. “Very happily. And I have three sisters.”

  Bree laughs and rolls the pen between her palms. “That’s a lot of estrogen in one house.” She shakes her head. “I pretty much grew up an only child.”

  She must notice the surprise on my face because she hurries to explain. “My brothers and I have different mothers. Same dad, but different moms.”

  “Ah,” I say, struggling to wrap my brain around that. “So you and Mark don’t have the same mother?”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “No. My dad actually left my mom for Mark’s mom, which was only fair since my mom stole him from Sean’s mom, who stole him from James’s mom, and—well, anyway. You don’t need the whole sordid tale. Long story short, Dad got around.”

  Holy crap. And I thought my family had issues.

  “Sean is the chef,” I say, remembering him from the event the other night. “What does Mark do?”

  “Vice President of Grounds Management, but he hates that title,” she says. “And James was a lawyer, and he’s technically the CEO, but we all have the same ownership. And I guess Johnathan isn’t here, so—”

  “Wait, how many brothers do you have?”

  She presses her lips together. “A lot.”

  “And you didn’t grow up together?”

  “Nope.” She makes a face, but at least now she doesn’t look uncomfortable. Not like she did a few minutes ago. “I might see a brother or two when our visits with Dad overlapped, but mostly we were raised separately.”

  “You seem pretty tight now,” I observe, thinking about the protective look on Mark’s face. “I suppose you’d have to get along well, running a business together.”

  “Our dad dying brought us closer, I guess. How’s that for dysfunctional?”

  I’m not sure how to answer, so I settle for making a noncommittal grunt-hum as I try to recall if I ever met her father. I remember a photo in the paper of a tall guy in a pressed shirt shaking hands with the mayor. He made a huge donation to some local charity, and there’d been talk of a run for political office before he died.

  “Your dad owned the ranch for a long time?”

  “Yeah, but he wasn’t here much,” she says. “He bought and sold property like baseball cards, but this one he hung on to. He came out here a few times a year to play cowboy.”

  “I don’t remember seeing you around.” And I definitely would have remembered her. Those green eyes alone would have burned themselves into my memory.

  “My schooling kept me away a lot.” She looks down at her hands, and there’s that discomfort again. It’s pretty clear Bree doesn’t like talking about her childhood. Her dysfunctional family, sure, but not herself.

  When she looks up, she’s got her PR professional mask back in place. “Did you always want to be a cop?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “Always. My dad and I are pretty tight. I never considered any career besides law enforcement.”

  She smiles, and there’s a warmth in her eyes again. We’re back on safe ground. “You mean besides chicken sexing or iceberg moving?”

  I laugh. “Besides that.” There’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask her, but I’ve probably exceeded my limit. Still, I can’t shake the urge to know. “Did you have a bad experience dating a cop or something?”

  Her mask falters, but Bree does a good job shoving it back into place. She picks up her pen again like it’s a magic wand, and she’s poised to wave away the uncomfortable subject. “No,” she says, but there’s hesitation. “It’s just a personality thing.”

  I wait for her to elaborate, to say more about why we won’t be going out for dinner and getting married and having babies and—wait, why am I thinking like this?

  “So you’re with the police department, but your dad is the sheriff,” she says, clearing her throat along with our conversational slate. “How’d that happen?”

  “Guess I wanted to forge my own path,” I admit. “To get out of his shadow and make my own place in the world.”

  “That’s very noble.”

  “I’m a noble kinda guy,” I tease. “My sisters used to joke that I have a lousy sense of direction because my brain’s entire navigational system is made up of moral compass. Prince Goody Two-Shoes, they called me.”

  I’m trying for lighthearted joking, and again, I fail. There’s that flicker in Bree’s eyes, and I can’t figure out how I keep missing the mark with this woman. I’m a people person, dammit. Total strangers confess things to me, and I can make the surliest asshole smile.

  Maybe not Bree’s brother, but most people.

  She sits there in silence, rubbing her lips together, and I catch myself thinking about raspberries again. Is her mouth as soft as it looks? What would it feel like to press my—

  “Did you want something?”

  I jerk my gaze off her mouth and back to her eyes. Busted. At least I wasn’t staring at her breasts. “I’m sorry?”

  “To drink.” Bree smiles, and I can’t tell if she knows I was thinking about kissing her, or if she’s being polite. “Sean makes this great cucumber-infused water with fresh mint and lemon. It’s really refreshing. Or there’s soda or beer or wine or—wait, no.” She drops the pen again, and it rolls to the edge of the desk. “You’re in uniform, and you’re driving, so obviously I’m not offering alcohol.”

  I laugh and lean back in my seat. “I’d love some of that water. I wouldn’t mind checking out the restaurant, actually.”

  “You didn’t get the tour the other night?”

  “Nope. I saw the golf course and the ballroom and the event center, but I got tied up t
alking to people and missed the rest of it.”

  Bree stands up and rounds the desk. “I’d love for you to see it. Come on.”

  I stand and follow her back through the lobby. Her hips sway as she rounds a rustic-looking sign that spells out “Juniper Fine Dining” in weathered copper letters.

  “I really like the way you guys decorated,” I offer, determined to admire the décor instead of her ass.

  “Thanks.” She stops beside the hammered copper bar and smiles. “We were going for rustic Northwest with a touch of luxury.”

  “I didn’t know that was a thing, but you nailed it.” I run a palm over one of the live-edge juniper tabletops. “These are amazing.”

  Bree doesn’t respond, and I glance up to see her staring at my hand. Her throat moves as she swallows, and she gives a funny little laugh. “Sorry, I—I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with such big hands. I noticed earlier with the fork and um—”

  I lift the right one and give a magician-like swoop. “Makes it tough to find gloves that fit, but I could palm a basketball from the time I was twelve.”

  There I go sounding like a dumbshit jock again. Bree stares at my hand for a few more beats, and I wish I could stop thinking about running my palm down the curve of her back.

  She clears her throat. “Right, well, my brothers and Brandon made all the tables. And we built this space so every table has a view of the Cascade Mountains. Lots of high desert eye candy to go around.”

  I glance out the window, rewarded by breathtaking views of South, Middle, and North Sister laid out like snow-capped gems on green felt. “I’ll bet the sunsets are killer.”

  She nods. “Our sunset dinner hours have already booked up months in advance, and we’ve been scheduling weddings pretty steadily.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I say. “The place is great. The food the other night was amazing.”

  “That’s all Sean,” she says. “He makes this salt-cured lamb that’s positively mouthwatering.”

  My eyes drop to her mouth again; I can’t help it. As my heart stutters, I force myself to look away, to study anything in this bar but Bree Bracelyn’s beautiful mouth. A glass water dispenser sits on one end of the bar, half full and shimmering with ice cubes and flecks of mint and thin cucumber slices. It looks icy and cool, and I’m suddenly thirsty as hell.