Sergeant Sexypants

by Tawna Fenske

  “We’ve got a media library of images from around the resort, so let me know if you need access,” I say, sticking with my normal, professional spiel. “I’m looking forward to reading your coverage about Ponderosa.”

  She laughs and waves a hand. “That wasn’t what I meant. I mean, coverage will be amazing. I’ve got Twitter posts ready to roll, Facebook, Instagram, blogs, yadda yadda yadda.”

  “We appreciate that,” I say carefully, wondering if I can ask one of my brothers to review them this time. I’m not sure I have it in me to spend an afternoon leafing through love-infused photos and paragraphs about romantic dinners under the stars. “I’ll let the rep at Travel Oregon know how great you’ve been to work with.”

  She tosses her hair and leans forward just a little. “Thanks. That’s not why I wanted to come talk with you, though. I know what you did.”

  My heart stops. The blood drains from my face, and I wonder how she found out about the accident. “I—um—”

  “Sending Chris and me on little day trips while you sent that other couple—the ones from Lovebird Journeys?”

  “Gigi and Graham.” Oh, thank God. That’s what we’re talking about? I shift gears and prepare to apologize for meddling in someone else’s love life. “It seemed like a good idea to give you your own separate adventures to write about.”

  “And to keep Chris from checking out Gigi’s ass by the pool?” She laughs and waves a dismissive hand. “Of course I noticed. And I’m grateful you made sure I got all that alone-time with Chris. Because that’s what it took for me to realize he’s a self-centered prick. We broke up this morning.”

  “What?” I stare at her, not positive I’ve heard right. “Come again?”

  She just laughs. “I suspected he was an asshole for a while, but you helped me figure it out for sure. I’m better off without him, trust me. He’s already on his way back to Melbourne.”

  I stare at her. “Shawna. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Congratulations would be a start.” She reaches across the desk and squeezes my hand. “You look like you’re freaking out, and you shouldn’t be. I’m happy about this, I am.”

  “Okay.” I swallow hard, not sure what to make of this. “The blog—”

  “Was mine to start with,” she says. “I own the domain, the content, the Twitter and Instagram handles—I registered all of it before I even met him. He can start his own if he wants.”

  This isn’t the outcome I hoped for when I found out about Chris and Gigi flirting, but Shawna seems so happy that I force a smile. “Congratulations,” I offer. “I’m glad for you.”

  “Thanks.” She bounces out of her chair, long hair flying like she’s posing in front of a fan. “Gotta run. I’m catching a plane to the Bahamas.”

  I grab my phone off the desk, still reeling from her news. “You said you just saw my brother in the bar?”

  “He’s polishing the glassware or something.”

  “I’m texting him right now.” I key in a few quick words to Sean. “Go pick out any bottle of champagne you want, on the house.”

  “Whoa! Thanks!”

  I stand up to see her out the door, and Shawna pulls me in for a hug that smells like sunscreen and the expensive herbal shampoo we stock in all the guest cabins. Usually I stick with handshakes for professional FAM tours like this, but the hug feels right, and I’m grateful for it.

  “Seriously, Bree—thank you for everything.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I say. “Happy travels.”

  “Thanks.” She pulls back and beams, then turns and flounces out the door. Her flounce halts right in the doorway as she collides with Donovan of the Nomadic Dudes travel site.

  “Hey, you.” They slap palms in a friendly high-five, and I remember they’ve done dozens of the same media trips. “Loved your piece on the top five unique spots to grab a beer in town. Sam and I are going to check out that barber shop today.”

  “Yes, do it!” she says. “Get the Pinedrops if they still have that on tap.”

  “Will do.”

  Shawna high-fives Donovan’s husband, Sam, then jogs off toward the restaurant and her free bottle of champagne.

  “Cute girl,” Donovan says, stepping into my office as Sam leans against the doorframe behind him. “If you’re into that kind of thing.”

  Sam rolls his eyes. “How about not referring to women as ‘things,’” he suggests. “Or ‘girls.’”

  “You’re forgiven,” I assure Donovan as I pull him in for a tight hug. God, it’s good to have friends. “Are you still having a good trip?”

  “The best.” He draws back and waves Sam inside. “Come on, I want to get a photo.”

  “Of what, my office?”

  “Of us, silly.” Donovan slides an arm around me and strikes a pose. “I want something to show our fellow Boilermakers how you’re doing.”

  “This isn’t going on the blog, right?” I lean into him, surprised by how grateful I feel for the human contact. I might have sucked at the friend thing when I was sixteen, but I’m glad I figured it out in college. Glad this friendship with Donovan has survived the years.

  “Cross my heart, it’s just for us,” he assures me as Sam clicks the shutter. “And Sam’s a whiz with Photoshop. He’ll wipe out those bags under your eyes in no time.”

  “Hey—” I try to protest, but there’s no point. He’s right, I’ve been sleeping like crap lately.

  “It’s all right, sugar.” Donovan plants a kiss on my temple and releases me as Sam flips through the images on his camera. “Man trouble will do that to you.”

  I can tell he’s fishing, since I haven’t said a word about breaking things off with Austin.

  Austin.

  My heart twists, and I wonder what he’s doing. Mark said he stopped by a few days ago, but I haven’t heard from him since. No phone calls, no text messages. I guess he finally got the message and backed off.

  It shouldn’t bother me. I’m the one who ended things. I’m the one who believes it could never work. It couldn’t, right?

  “I almost forgot!” Donovan claps his hands together and Sam and I jump. “You’ll never guess who sent us a present.”

  “Who?”

  Sam lets go of his camera and smiles. “Our favorite homophobic cowboy, Bob Mosley.”

  “No kidding?”

  “He apologized for the incident at the café,” Donovan says. “Sent us a very nice note and a bottle of rye from Oregon Spirit Distillery.”

  “The note was my favorite,” Sam adds. “It said, ‘sorry I was a redneck asshole.’ Isn’t that sweet?”

  “That’s unbelievably sweet.” I swallow back an unexpected wave of emotion and channel some secret thanks to Austin. And no, he’s not the one who sent the rye. I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t been the one to answer the call from Bob yesterday.

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way before,” he muttered over the phone, and I could practically hear him scuffing his boot through the dirt. “Austin’s a damn smart guy. He’ll make a good chief.”

  “That he will,” I agreed weakly, wishing those words didn’t sock me in the gut.

  I know I made the right choice. Even though the court ruled against a retrial in the Zonski case—it was front page news this morning—there are still dozens of reasons Austin and I can’t be together. In what world can a police chief make a life with an ex-con? No world I’ve ever lived in, that’s for sure. Did I really think there was even a slimmest chance that could work?

  “So we’re taking off now.” Donovan waves a hand in front of my face like he knows I was a million miles away. The sympathy in his eyes tells me he has a good idea who I journeyed there with. “Congrats on the resort, Bree. It’s amazing.”

  “Thanks.” I give him one more fierce hug, closing my eyes as he pulls me close. “Thank you for coming out to see the place.”

  “My pleasure. We’ll write lots of nice things.” He draws back and plants a kiss on my forehead.
“I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I move to hug Sam, and that’s when I see him.

  Austin, standing just over Sam’s shoulder, a look of surprise on his face.

  He recovers fast, slipping the cop mask back into place. “Bree.” He straightens up, hands behind his back like he’s at parade rest. “I can come back another time.”

  “Oooh, you must be the cop.” Donovan eyes him up and down. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

  Sam grabs his husband’s hand and shoots me an “I’ve got this” look.

  “We were just leaving,” Sam assures us. “My husband and I have a cave tour to get to. Thanks for everything, Bree.”

  “Have fun, guys.” I wave at them both until they’re out of sight, then turn back to Austin with my heart thundering in my ears.

  He’s here. He’s actually here.

  And he looks ridiculously hot in his cop uniform. I can’t believe I never appreciated the aesthetic in my years of not dating cops. Broad shoulders, medals and ribbons gleaming on his chest. He’s off-limits, obviously, but I can still admire. It’s no wonder Children’s Welfare Society ladies have been hounding him to do that cop calendar.

  “Your other journalists got all checked out.”

  “Yeah,” I answer, wondering how he knows. “It’s just Donovan and Sam now. I’ve got a couple writers coming in next week from—”

  “But you’re free now.” He steps closer, and I can smell the piney scent of his soap. I wish I didn’t still want him. “You’re free for the next twenty-four hours, if I’m not mistaken?”

  I blink away the haze of lust. How the hell does he know this? I open my mouth to ask, but he catches my hand in his and stops my tongue in its tracks.

  “Bree, I need you,” he says as my heart lurches into my throat. “For the next twenty-four hours, I need you to come with me.”

  I’m confused by the bigness of his hand around mine and the dizzying heat pulsing up my arm. “Come with you where?”

  “Your brother already threw a few things in a bag for you.” He’s so matter-of-fact, like we’ve been planning a getaway for months. “You and I are taking a little road trip. You can come willingly, or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the car. Which would you prefer?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Dead serious.”

  The steel in those blue-gray eyes tells me he is. My stupid, traitorous libido leaps at the idea of being slung over Austin’s shoulder like the heroine in some bizarre caveman romance flick. I shouldn’t like this. He’s being bossy and presumptuous, and any woman in her right mind would probably slap him.

  But I’m not in my right mind, and I haven’t been since I walked out of Austin’s house last week. And the truth is that this whole domineering cop thing has my girl parts clenching with want.

  “Austin.” I use my most professional PR voice, determined to be responsible. To do the right thing instead of following my base urges. “Even if we had anything new to say—”

  “I’m counting to three before I carry you.”

  Good Lord, he’s serious.

  But so am I. About a lot of things, not the least of which is that I can’t tether myself to a guy who’s so goddamn good. For crying out loud, this morning’s article had a sidebar about a new community service project he’s heading up with local schools. How can I drag a guy like that down to my level? I’m not that selfish. Not even if I want to be.

  “Austin, I don’t think—”

  “One.”

  “We’re too different, you and me. If you’d just—”

  “Two.” He takes a step forward.

  I fold my arms over my chest and try to ignore the thudding of my heart, the clamminess in my palms. “We can’t possibly—”

  “Three.”

  He doesn’t wait for a response. Just grabs me around the waist and hoists me over his shoulder like a sack of laundry.

  Holy shit, he really did it.

  “Your bag is already in the car.” His tone is all business as he carries me across the lobby, where, thank God, there are no guests or journalists milling around. He pushes through the door, and I twist my body to look behind us. Sean’s standing next to the bar, and he waves like it’s the most normal thing in the world to see his sister forcibly carried to a cop car.

  “Have fun,” Sean shouts as the door swishes shut behind us.

  “You’re a dick,” I growl, not sure if I’m talking to Sean or Austin. Or Mark, who probably packed the damn bag Austin mentioned. “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Threatening an officer,” Austin says cheerfully as he strides across the parking lot. “That’s a crime, you know.”

  “You are such a jerk.”

  “You want me to put you down?”

  I should say yes. I know he’d do it in a heartbeat if I did. But oh my God, it feels so good to have his arms around my waist, to have my palms pressed against the muscled plane of his back. Is it wrong to like this so much?

  “Where are we going?”

  “Over the mountains,” he says, unlocking the door of his cop car to sling me into the front seat. I guess I’m grateful it’s not the back, the part with the iron bars and doors that don’t unlock from the inside. “We’re going to Portland.”

  “I just came back from Portland.”

  He tucks my limbs inside and pulls up the seatbelt for me before shutting the door and jogging around to the driver’s side. For a guy who just orchestrated a kidnapping, he seems downright jolly.

  “It’s only three hours,” he says as he jams his keys into the ignition. “Buckle up.”

  He waits for me to comply before easing out of the driveway, signaling like the upstanding citizen he is. I look around the cop car, not surprised it’s immaculate. “You’re kidnapping me using taxpayer resources?”

  “I’m going to a statewide police conference.” He adjusts something on the dash, then turns the air conditioning so it cools my heated face. “We’re having a special guest speaker this year.”

  “You’re taking me to a police conference?” Okay, that’s not what I was expecting. I don’t know what I thought was happening here, what with this being my first kidnapping and all. “Why a police conference?”

  “You’ll see.” He glances at me, his expression softening just a little. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll turn back around now. Say ‘fish fork’ as your safe word or something. I might be a bossy prick, but I’m not a total asshole.”

  I bite my lip and glance out the window. “I know.”

  I do know, and it hurts my heart to realize he’s such a great guy. I have no idea what he’s up to, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued. I settle back in the seat, adjusting the strap between my breasts. There’s a quick spark in his eyes, and I wonder if he’s remembering the way he trailed a line of kisses through that channel, dotting my skin with flecks of chocolate left over from our s’mores. My face heats up, and I reach over to crank the air conditioning.

  “What are you thinking?”

  It’s Officer Velvet Voice. I cross my legs, hating the fact that it turns me on.

  “I don’t know.” That’s true enough. But it’s time for total honesty.

  “I’m afraid,” I whisper. Austin taps the brakes, and I shake my head. “Not about this.”

  He accelerates again. “What are you afraid of?”

  I consider that for a second. “When I walked into your house and realized you knew about what happened, do you know what went through my mind?”

  His eyes stay on the road, but frown lines etch his brow. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I could have handled that better.”

  “You were fine. You could have handled it like a professional shrink and I still would have had the same thought.”

  “Which was?”

  “It’s over now.” My breath catches in my throat when I say it, and I realize how much I don’t want that to be true. “I thought, ‘oh,
sure, he’ll be a nice guy and say he still likes me. But deep down, he’ll always wonder. About what kind of person I am or whether he knew me at all.’”

  “I know you, Bree.” He reaches over and rests his hand on my knee, eyes shifting to me for a few seconds before he looks back at the road. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Except to Portland.”

  He smiles. “With you.”

  “With me.” I study the side of his face. “You know this can’t work, right?”

  “I wouldn’t have kidnapped you if I believed that.”

  That is either the sweetest or weirdest thing anyone’s ever said to me. How is he not giving up? My throat tightens as I remember my mom’s response the night my father called to tell her about the accident. About the fact that I’d be going to juvey.

  “She’s a lost cause now,” she muttered, unaware I was listening on the downstairs extension. “I always knew she’d disappoint us like this.”

  Austin doesn’t look disappointed. He looks like a man on a mission, and apparently that mission includes me. I should fight this. I know I should, for his own good.

  But it feels so good here with Austin by my side, steady and stable and everything I used to wish for. Is it wrong to savor that just for a while?

  “Open the glovebox,” he says.

  I swallow back the lump in my throat. “What?”

  “The glovebox. There’s something in there for you.”

  Perplexed, I do what he says. I pop the latch and pull out an envelope with my name on it. The handwriting is loopy and feminine, and I don’t recognize it at all.

  “You can read it out loud if you want,” he says. “But you don’t have to. I know what it says.”

  I shoot him a questioning look, but he keeps his eyes on the road. His expression reveals nothing. My hands are shaking as I tear open the envelope and a single piece of lined paper falls into my lap. I pick it up and unfold it slowly.

  * * *

  Bree,

  You dumb bitch.

  * * *

  I jerk my gaze to Austin. “What is this?”

  His eyes stay glued to the road. “Keep reading.”