The Funny Thing about Love: Feel Good Sweet Romance stories

by Laura Burton

  “You don’t look like you hate running.”

  Trent smiled. He got compliments on his appearance from plenty of beautiful women, but knowing Angie found him attractive jolted his nerves with excitement.

  “I play basketball and softball for cardio. Running bores me. And it aggravates my asthma.”

  “Oh, then we met at the park.”

  Trent smiled as he imagined an alternate universe where he’d met Angie running past him in fitted yoga pants. “I like that lie.”

  “Well, what can I say? We police informants are trained to lie.”

  Chapter 4

  Angie didn’t like going to this Walmart at night. Or any Walmart at any time, for that matter. Yet, if Trent had never pulled her over and told her about the drug dealings, she might think nothing of meeting Mario here.

  As soon as she pulled up to their agreed meeting spot, she texted Mario. A woman in a tube top and spandex pants pulled a buggy full of beer and potted plants through the parking lot. Good old Wally World. Never boring.

  Eventually, a squatty man swallowed by a Hawaiian-print shirt with an old-school paperboy hat strode out of the automatic exit. His shirt glowed in the parking lot florescence as he paced toward her. Could it be? Sure enough, instead of the slick-haired businessman she was used to, it appeared she would be driving a goofy sitcom uncle.

  Hands full, Mario fidgeted with the door handle before opening it.

  “Hello, Mario.”

  “Hola, Miss Angie.” Despite his chipper fashion choices, Mario didn’t make eye contact. He carried two shopping bags in one hand and his usual briefcase in the other. The bags must’ve been heavy the way he fumbled around with them, hitting the briefcase on the car door.

  “Do you need help with your bags?”

  “No.” Mario raised his head for the first time since coming to the car. A blaze washed over his dark eyes, replacing their usual joyful glimmer.

  Angie said nothing, and turned back to face the windshield, silently praying Trent could hear everything going on and, even more so, that he could see it.

  While she wouldn’t classify Mario as a chatty person, he did typically like to carry on conversation. So, in an effort to stifle any discomfort, Angie decided to get the ball rolling.

  “I like your new look.”

  “Not new. You’re just seeing me off work for the first time.”

  “Got it . . .” Angie nodded, as her voice trailed off.

  What could’ve happened over the past few days to set him on edge? Maybe the woman from the pink stucco home had broken his heart. Or worse, maybe someone put a hit man on his trail. Imagining the possibility combed Angie’s stomach through her throat. As she pulled onto the highway, she swallowed the taste of vomit.

  “Well, it’s good to get a day off. You obviously work a lot.”

  Had she just commented to a drug dealer on his career life without him knowing she knew what that life was? Or did he know that she knew? The vomit resurfaced. This time, she choked.

  Angie turned on her blinker and veered to the shoulder. She threw the car into park and bolted out the door, rushing to the other side. Instead of word-vomit, actual vomit escaped.

  She took off her cardigan and blotted her face. She circled the back of the car, sat back in the driver’s seat, and peered into the rearview mirror to check for traffic. Mario’s face had transitioned from irritation to a look of utter confusion. Not unlike that of a first-year middle-schooler, a face she knew well.

  What would seem more suspicious? If she acted like she hadn’t left her guts back at mile marker five or if she apologized for her lunch reincarnation? Angie would do the one thing she hated doing, but had found necessary this past week.

  Lie.

  “Sorry about that, Mario. There’s a virus going around the school. Probably a good call not letting me help with your bags.” A nervous laughter echoed her words. Mario remained silent. Angie took it as a cue to shush.

  After a few miles, she noticed a black sedan changing lanes every time she did. If she sped up, it did, too. Mario clutched his briefcase close and tensed his short body. Did he notice it, too? Had he gotten the colorful clothing in Walmart as a disguise?

  A million worst-case scenarios flooded Angie’s mind. From Mario rolling down the window and shooting up the sedan’s front tires to him knocking Angie out with his briefcase and taking over her car. In a terrifying nightmare, any of the above might take place. But this was real life—Angie’s life.

  And she didn’t want it to end.

  When the car followed her onto the airport exit, Angie convinced herself it was Trent’s new undercover vehicle. Only, the driver appeared to have dark hair and dark glasses.

  Sweat beaded over her forehead, and her mouth went dry. Licking her lips, Angie tasted the puke residue and almost threw up again. She couldn’t get Mario to his gate fast enough. A few more minutes of sweating “like a whore in church,” as her mama would say, and she made it to the drop-off point.

  “Have a safe flight.”

  Once again, he didn’t answer. He simply flung his signature hundred her way, tipped his hat, and left.

  Angie sighed. This was the strangest Hustle job she’d ever taken. And that included driving two drunk, middle-age women to Waffle House from a frat party and taking a battered rodeo clown to the emergency room.

  As soon as Mario disappeared behind the airport entrance, Angie checked her views for the black car. She could see it in the parking lot a few blocks back. Something told her it wasn’t Trent.

  While Trent followed Angie to the airport, he noticed someone else doing the same. Whoever drove the black car between them might be on to her . . . as well as him. He needed to make sure she got home safely and stayed safe while he figured it out. He spoke as soon as Mario strolled toward his gate.

  “Angie.”

  “Yeah, I just dropped him off.”

  “I know. I’m watching. Don’t say anything else. Just drive home. I’ll follow you and make sure you get there safely.”

  “But I—”

  “Don’t talk in case someone’s tracking you.”

  Trent knew how high-tech criminals worked. If the car had gotten close enough to tap her phone signal or the signal on her tracking device, they could find her anytime they wanted .

  They both remained silent the rest of the drive. Trent followed at a steady pace, even cutting through a few back roads once he made it to her neck of the woods. He couldn’t afford for the car to suspect him.

  Once he made it to Angie’s street, he saw her car but not the black sedan. Either the driver lost interest or chose to hide down the block. Still, he couldn’t take any chances. He pulled into Angie’s drive and parked beside her car.

  Trent pulled his gun from the glove compartment and put it in the leg of his boot. A few knocks later, Angie met him at the door gripping a cast-iron skillet.

  “Thanks, but I’ve already had dinner.”

  Angie rolled her eyes. “You make fun, but this thing can do more damage than a baseball bat.”

  Trent smirked. “As someone who’s played the sport from age three through college, I beg to differ.”

  Angie laid the skillet on an end table and swung out her arm like a butler. “Please, come in.”

  Trent entered the front door and eyed her living room. Stacks of books and papers lined built-in cabinets framing the TV. Almost every shelf and table had at least one picture frame, and random articles of clothing lay scattered around. Nice and cozy, but a little messy. Kind of like Angie.

  After scanning the space, Trent’s eyes locked on Angie’s. Her cheeks reddened as she glanced around the room. Angie half-smiled before her eyes went wide. She rushed past him and snatched what looked like a bra from beside the front entry. Trent tried not to laugh as she balled it up and shoved it under the couch.

  Angie moved some papers from one end of the couch to the end table that housed the skillet, along with a few remotes and a mug with what appeare
d to be the remains of coffee and cream dried to the bottom. “Is it okay to talk now?”

  “Let me see your phone.”

  Angie dug her phone out of her sweater pocket. She sniffed it before handing it to Trent. Strange, but all women were, in their own way.

  “Thanks.” Trent took off the back and removed the battery. “I want to check this for potential hacks if you don’t mind. It won’t take but a minute. Be right back.”

  Trent went out and retrieved his bag of “spy gear,” as he liked to call it. He returned and set up his laptop on the coffee table and took a seat on the couch. Angie walked around the room, straightening things and gathering clothes. A few minutes later, her phone checked out fine.

  “Phone’s clean.” Trent reinserted the battery and gave the phone back to Angie, who rested it on the pile of clothing in her arms. “I was afraid that black car tapped your phone. I think it’s on to us.”

  Angie’s eyebrows shot up like bullets out of a rifle. “I noticed that, too. And Mario was extra weird today. And I don’t just mean what he was wearing.”

  “Mind if I stay here tonight?” Trent didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, but . . . he could never forgive himself if something happened to Angie.

  Angie cocked her head. “What?”

  “I want to make sure you’re safe. I mean, I do know how to use a bat and a gun.”

  “Oh, okay. So my Pioneer Woman platinum edition isn’t good enough, huh?”

  Trent shook his head. This woman was so stubborn. “Look, I’ll sleep on the couch. I just need to make sure the black car doesn’t try to come back tonight. That, and I want to run a test on your tracker to see if it’s been tapped.”

  Angie threw her head back and sighed. “Fine.”

  “Thanks. I promise you won’t know I’m here.” Trent pulled his gun from his boot and set it on the table.

  “I’ll go get you some covers and a pillow. Do you need anything else?”

  “Just for you to put the frying pan away. I don’t want to get attacked if I go to the bathroom in the night.”

  Angie saluted him. “Yes, sir.” Then she added the pan to her armload.

  Cute. Sarcastic, but cute.

  She returned a few minutes later with a fluffy flowered blanket and matching pillow. “Here you go.”

  Trent frowned as Angie dropped the overly feminine cover on his lap.

  “The bathroom is the first door down the hall. Good night.” Angie reached under the couch and pulled out what was clearly a red bra before hurrying out of the room.

  “Good night,” Trent called out, trying not to laugh as he watched her rush down the hall.

  Once he heard the door shut, his detective senses ignited. He propped his feet up beside a few empty cans of Diet Slam. Whatever the heck that was. One fell on top of some clothes crumpled under the coffee table.

  Trent shook his head. Growing up with a military father, he’d learned to never let clothes hit the floor. If they weren’t washing, they belonged in the laundry basket or the closet.

  He turned away, not wanting to judge Angie based on her dirty laundry. And not needing to think of her owning a red bra.

  A lone photo sat above the fireplace. Angie and a group of people, young and old, smiled back at him from inside the frame. Since some of them favored her, Trent concluded it was a family photo.

  After scanning the titles on her bookshelf—mostly classics with a few self-helps sprinkled between—he secured the front door, then laid down on the couch and did his best to fold back the lace around the pillow. At least the cover was soft. Smelled nice, too. Like wildflowers. Like Angie.

  He allowed the scent to wash over him like a trance, sending him to sleep. Such a deep sleep that when a loud buzzing jolted him from unconsciousness, he momentarily forgot where he was. A bright sunrise through the front window awakened his senses.

  He shot up and grabbed his gun, a reaction as second-nature as a dog showing its teeth. Creeping toward the racket, he caught a glimpse of someone. Trent snuck around the corner separating the living area from the kitchen, walking sideways with his gun drawn like one of those army men on a video game. When he rounded the entrance to the kitchen, a high-pitched scream shook every hair on his body to attention.

  Trent lowered his gun and sighed. Angie blinked, likely still in shock from him pointing a gun in her face. She, along with most of the tiny kitchen, was now covered with pinkish goop.

  Trent set his gun on one of the few spots not drenched in pink. “I’m so sorry. I heard a buzz and thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought. But it sounded like a weapon.”

  “Well, I heard nothing except my blender.” Angie nodded toward the overflowing appliance, then licked some of the concoction off her face.

  “Again, I’m sorry.”

  Trent wanted to ask why anyone would run a blender at sunrise on a Saturday, but he opted for grabbing a rag and helping her mop up the mess.

  “I would offer you a smoothie, but . . .” Angie’s voice stung with sarcasm.

  “Did you go for a run?”

  “Not yet.” Angie wiped her shirt with a wet rag as Trent mopped up the floor.

  He stood and noticed she still had a good bit on her face. “You’ve got some on your cheek.”

  Angie licked around the corners of her mouth as far as her tongue would reach, almost touching her nose. “Did I get it?”

  Trent laughed. “No.”

  She did it a second time with the same results.

  “Come here.” Trent took a step closer to her and rubbed her cheek with his thumb. His hand quivered at the touch of her delicate skin. He brushed her cheek, lingering long enough to caress her face. But hopefully not long enough to creep her out.

  Not knowing what to do with the wet goop on his finger, he stuck it in his mouth. “Hmm. Not half bad.”

  Angie giggled and looked up at him. Their eyes met briefly. Trent wanted to kiss her, especially knowing she would taste like strawberry smoothie. Instead, he lowered his head and backed away. No matter how attracted he was to Angie, he couldn’t jeopardize the case.

  Chapter 5

  “I’m done.” Angie called out sarcastically as she bent at the waist, hands on her knees, in her front yard. Per Trent’s request, she’d limited her run to sprinting back and forth from her driveway to the cul-de-sac . . . just three doors down. That way, he could keep an eye on her from the front steps. At least none of her neighbors were awake to see it. His protectiveness might’ve been mandatory, but she found it sweet.

  “Okay. I’m going to take some of this info to the office and then go home and sleep a while.”

  Angie nodded. “Am I free to take a shower without my skillet?”

  Trent’s eyes narrowed. She hadn’t meant to sound so snarky, but this whole black car deal had put her on edge.

  “Yes. Just keep your phone charged so you can reach me if you need anything.” Trent stood up and headed toward his car.

  Angie mustered a half-smile. For once, she wanted to go back to her boring life of driving strangers and running the secure streets of her overly priced neighborhood.

  But maybe there was something more. She felt safe and satisfied with Trent nearby. And it had nothing to do with his gun and bat skills. As he walked closer to her—yet closer to leaving—Angie’s stomach dropped.

  “Trent?”

  “Yeah?” He looked her in the eye, now close enough to touch her.

  Angie cleared her scratchy throat. Her heart wanted to cry out how much she wanted him to stay, but her mouth wouldn’t obey. “Thanks again for taking care of me.”

  He flashed a smile worthy of a superhero. “Of course. Go on inside so I know you’re safe.”

  Her heart beat faster than it had when she’d sprinted. She wanted to invite him in for breakfast, but her voice refused to work.

  Angie nodded and went inside. From the front window, she watched him drive away before locking every bolt and screw on her door. Then, she grabbed
the frying pan and headed for the bathroom.

  Sliding a pile of makeup and hair ties to one side, Angie rested the frying pan on the bathroom counter. She frowned at herself in the mirror. What was it about Trent? No man had ever affected her like him.

  But it wasn’t like she’d spent enough time with a man to muster up any attractions. Ever since the first guy she’d kissed later rejected her for a hotter, popular girl, she’d resigned herself to the sidelines and let the guy make the first move.

  Sure, Trent said she was his type. But an introvert like her who’d worn the same bra size since eighth grade couldn’t possibly compete with all the Delilahs who were surely vying for his affections. Angie looked down at her barely B’s and sighed.

  Before she could peel off her sweaty sports bra, her phone pinged. Mario wanted another ride. She texted him back, arranging to pick him up the following day at six, then pulled up her contacts and called Trent.

  “Did the car show up again?” Concern tinted his voice.

  “No, but Mario needs a ride from the airport tomorrow at six.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks.” Angie hung up the phone before she could say something silly. She felt like one of her middle-school students going googly eyed over a crush. Whenever she knew she’d see him, a flutter would fling across her body, like a weird combination of skydiving and eating cake. Exhilarating and soothing all in one. This needed to stop.

  Angie managed to roll her sports bra up to her head just in time for the phone to ring. She jerked it back down and looked at the ceiling. Was it Trent wondering why she’d hung up so quickly?

  “Trent?” Angie cleared her throat to try and rid it of excitement.

  “Who’s Trent?” Raven’s voice cooed over the phone, killing any excitement Angie had left.

  “Sorry, Raven. Someone from work.”

  “The janitor?”

  Angie slapped her forehead. Of course, Raven would think school. “No, a Hustle client.”