by Cameron Hart
Holy shit.
I don’t think I’ve ever described a man as “beautiful” before, but there’s really no other word that fits him. His face is all hard angles, which makes his soft lips stand out all the more. He has a mess of dark brown hair, thick eyebrows and lashes, and brilliant green eyes that are searching mine like I’m a puzzle and he wants to find all of my pieces and put me back together.
Yeah, good luck, buddy.
Finally, he clears his throat, pulling both of us out of whatever the fuck that was.
“Miss, can you roll down your window?” His deep voice rolls through me, blanketing me in warmth. I can’t say anyone’s voice has ever affected me this much. A girl could fall right into those eyes and wrap herself up in his voice and never leave. Which is terrifying and dangerous and why I need to get my shit together.
“Yeah, I’m trying to do that. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly in a top of the line vehicle.” I tug at the crank, throwing all of my upper body into it, which isn’t really saying much. The window moves exactly one inch, which makes Hot Cop smirk. The arrogant, beautiful bastard.
“Don’t hurt yourself, little one.”
"What did you just call me? I may be little, but I know how to take care of myself, and I sure as fuck will not be taken down by this damn window!" I channel all of my anger and ridiculous attraction to Hot Cop into my task, and a few seconds later the crank gives way.
I roll the window down the rest of the way with ease and then glare at the stupidly attractive cop.
“Impressive,” he chuckles. The sound makes me clench my thighs together. “Everything okay here? Need me to call you a tow?”
“Nope, really, it’s fine. She just does this sometimes. You know how finicky women can be,” I go for a joke, and he seems to like it, based on the little upturn of his soft lips. “Just gotta give her some time to rest and then rev the engine a bit. I’m told it’s the timing belt. I have no idea what that is, but I know replacing it costs about five times as much as she’s worth, so…” I shrug.
“Sounds about right. You really shouldn’t be driving this car though, especially if it stalls out a lot. It’s dangerous.”
Heat rushes to my face and I have to literally bite my tongue to stop from yelling that not all of us have money for a new car. I can already hear him asking why I can’t just ride the bus, to which I verbally assault him in my head and let him know that between college classes, my waitressing job, and my coffee shop gig, I can’t wait around for the bus all day. He’d probably point out that having an unreliable car is just as bad as the bus.
I glare at Hot Cop even harder, angry at him even though our argument is all in my head.
He keeps smirking at me like he knew what I was thinking, and then clears his throat. “Well, I guess I should probably check your license and registration while I’m here.”
I make a point to give him an eye roll and an exasperated sigh. I should be flirting or something to get on his good side, but for some reason, my mouth won't cooperate. Grabbing the registration and insurance information, I hand them out the window.
My stupid hands are shaking, partially from the exertion of rolling the window down, and partially due to my goddamn nerves. And, okay, if I’m totally honest, partially because I swear to God I’m staring at a Roman statue.
Hot Cop’s fingers wrap around mine where I'm holding onto the papers, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth across my knuckles. It's a featherlight touch, one I didn't think someone of his size would be capable of.
“Are you alright?” There’s such sincerity in his voice. His brow knits together and worry flashes in his green eyes.
“Y-Yeah,” I say in the most unconvincing tone ever. I clear my throat and try again, going for confidence this time. “Yes. I’m fine.” I yank my hand back once I know he’s got a hold of the papers.
Hot Cop looks over the paperwork and then asks the inevitable. "And your license?"
Panic seizes my throat, but I swallow it down and take a deep breath. “I have it. I just…” Fuck. What do I even say? He can’t run it. It was a risk even getting a license in the first place, but the last thing I need is for it to be run through a police database.
Before my brain officially decides on a story to tell, my mouth runs off and word vomits all over the place. “Look, I swear I don’t have a record, which, I know, is something someone who has a record would say, but it’s really true. You can look at my license,” I grab it and flash it to him, not letting him take it. “See? It’s up to date and everything. Maybe you don’t have to run it this time? I can’t… Just, please?”
To my complete surprise, it looks like he’s considering my ridiculous request. I can see him debating with himself. It gives me hope. I start praying to a God I don’t believe in that he lands on the side of letting me go.
No such luck.
“Sorry. I have to run your license. It’s protocol.”
“I know, I know, I know,” I mutter to myself like a crazy person. Shit. I’ve got nothing. The panic comes back in full force now, gripping my throat and making it hard to breathe. I go for broke before my throat closes up completely and my panic attack hits me with full force. “He can’t find me. Please, he—”
I feel tears sting my eyes as my vision tunnels.
No, no, no, don’t pass out now. He’ll take your license and run it. Stay awake, dammit!
I see him reach for the door of my car, opening it and kneeling down so his face is close to mine.
“Breathe for me, little one. You’re okay.”
I don't understand what he's doing, why he's being nice. I don't really have time to spend worrying about that, however, since I'm currently trying not to pass out like the weak piece of shit that I am. God, just thinking about Craig finding me sent me into a tailspin.
“Stay with me, sweetheart. Just breathe with me okay?”
He takes my hand and places it over his heart. I attempt a few shuddering breaths and then finally pull in enough air to ease the burning in my lungs.
“That’s it. Keep taking deep breaths for me.”
I nod and do what he says. He’s looking at me with such concern and concentration, like his only job in the world right now is to take care of me. His hand comes up to my face and I feel the rough pad of his thumb brush away a tear that must have escaped.
When I finally calm the hell down, I take my hand off of his chest. I suddenly feel lost without the contact, like he was my anchor and now I’m just drifting out to sea. I swear the look he gives me says he feels the same thing.
“Here,” he says, breaking whatever moment I’m sure I conjured up in my head. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a granola bar. “This will help with the adrenaline crash.” Hot Cop takes my hand again and sets the granola bar in my palm, curling my still shaking fingers up and placing my hand back in my lap.
“Thanks,” I manage to say.
“Do you get panic attacks often?”
I shrug. “I haven’t had one since…” Shit, what am I saying? I can’t give him any information. Well, any more than I already have. “I mean, I used to. But it’s been a while.”
He’s still kneeling down next to me, giving me a comforting and understanding smile, even though his eyes still look full of worry.
“Are you okay to drive?”
I nod yes, not trusting myself to open my mouth in case I inadvertently spill all of my secrets. And to a fucking cop, no less.
Hot Cop looks me up and down, not in a sexual way, though I wouldn’t mind that either. No, it’s more like he’s studying me for any damage. Seemingly satisfied with what he found, he nods and stands up. Before stepping away, he rolls my window up for me. It’s such a sweet gesture, on top of how he took care of me, and then let me off the hook.
“Thank you,” I all but whisper. I’ve never meant it more in my entire life.
“You’re welcome, dandelion.”
My breath catches in my throat again, and
I’m sure he sees the shock in my eyes. “Why would you call me that?”
Hot Cop gives me a sweet smile. “I’ll tell you some other time.” I nod, still in shock. Was it a lucky guess? Does he know? “Be safe, okay?”
“Yeah,” I manage to squeak out.
He looks like he doesn’t want to leave, and honestly, I don’t want him to either. I’ve spent most of my life alone and fending for myself. Harper is my closest friend, but she doesn’t know about the life I left behind in Florida. I’m just lucky she liked me enough to invite me to move with her and her family out here to Atlanta when we were sixteen. Harper has no idea how much that saved my life, and I’ve never told her. I don’t to be more of a burden than I already am.
But something about the man standing in front of me makes me want to curl up inside of him and let him carry the weight of my past, my pain, my fear. Those thoughts are exactly what I need to avoid. Letting someone in could be dangerous for both of us. Still, when he closes the door, I feel an ache in my chest.
Stop being so dramatic. Thank your lucky fucking stars that he felt sorry for you and didn’t run your license.
I shake the foreign feelings that have taken up residence in my bones, forcing them out. Starting up my car again, I rev the engine and then signal to merge into traffic, taking one last look at Hot Cop in my rearview mirror. He looks about as stunned and pained as I do.
Doesn’t matter. That was a close call. I’ve gotten lazy and comfortable here, especially living with Harper these last few years.
Speaking of, I better get my ass in gear if I want to make it to Harper’s dad’s house in time. He invited us over to meet his friend or something. Harper’s dad and stepmom are insufferable, and I’d do anything to spare her even a moment alone with them. Well, anything but speed and break traffic laws, of course.
Chapter 2
Roman
What the hell was that? Who the hell was that?
I saw the piece of shit station wagon stalling on the side of the road, and while I’m a detective and don’t technically have to do stuff like this, something drew me to the vehicle. I placed the light on top of my car and flipped it on. I’ll admit, seeing the little pixie of a woman trying to maneuver the window down on her car made me smirk a little. Especially her snarky response. There’s a surprising amount of sass all bottle up in her pretty little package.
But then her eyes found mine and all the air was sucked out of my lungs, replaced with the burning need to claim her, protect her, make her mine. I instantly felt an all-over possessive ache for her. Everything about this woman called to me. Her long, messy black hair, her crystal blue eyes, her rosy cheeks, and soft, pink lips. I even loved that she was so fucking small I could practically carry her around in my pocket. I liked knowing I could fold her up in my arms and cover her with my large frame and protect her from every bad thing.
I tried to keep it professional, but when I saw her start to have a panic attack, I couldn't keep my distance any longer. It hurt seeing her hurt.
I wanted to pull her out of her car and hold her in my lap, but something told me it would be too much for her. So, I settled for her hand on my chest. When she pulled away, I swear to God she took a piece of me with her.
It was only after she drove away, breathing normally, with a snack in tow, that her words sunk in.
“He can’t find me.”
Goddamnit. I just let her go. I wasn’t thinking. I panicked when I saw her panic and I just wanted to comfort her, take care of her. I wasn’t a cop for those few moments, I was just hers. I was whatever she needed me to be.
But sitting here in my car now, watching her drive away, I realize I didn’t even get her name since I didn’t run her license. But I have her plate number. Surely that can give me something. My initial thought is to run it through our system, but her protests to running her license has me thinking twice about that. The only people who have access would be law enforcement and some government workers, which leads me to believe whoever the fuck she’s running from is either a cop or is powerful enough to have cops in his pocket.
What are you running from, little one?
I take out my phone and call a friend in the private sector.
“Tyler, I need you to run something for me, but keep it discreet.”
“Hello to you too, Roman.”
“Can you run this plate for me or not?” I’m not usually an asshole, but this whole situation isn’t sitting right with me and I have to know more about her. How can I protect her if I don’t even know her name?
He must sense my urgency. “Yeah. Everything okay?
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I need you to keep this quiet.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he jokes.
“Right. License plate number AJH274. I know it’s a station wagon, but I need to know who it’s registered to and any information you have on her.”
“This about a girl, Roman? I never thought I’d see—”
“The license. Now,” I all but growl at him.
It’s no secret my love life is pretty much non-existent. I mean, sure, I’ve had a few relationships, but nothing of substance. I never had a big heartbreak from a past relationship, I’m not jaded, I don’t have trust issues. I just never found anyone I wanted to put above my career or sacrifice my time and lifestyle for. Until her. I didn’t realize it, but I was waiting for her all along.
“Okay, Roman. I have a station wagon with license plate number AJH274 registered to one Emma Blakely.”
Emma.
I let the name roll around in my head and sink straight into my bloodstream. It feels right. She feels right.
“There’s not much I could find about her from a cursory look. She’s twenty-one, a senior at Georgia State, and she works at Social Grounds Coffee and Dave’s Diner.”
“That’s it?”
“Like I said, not much. Want me to keep digging?”
I’m torn between wanting to know every fucking thing about her and wanting her to trust me enough to tell me herself.
“Not right now, but maybe later. Thanks, Ty.”
“Sure thing. Bring your girl by sometime, I’m sure Sarah would like to meet her.”
I want to protest, but honestly, the idea of me bringing Emma to one of my best friend's houses sounds pretty goddamn great.
“I’ll keep you posted.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up. I don’t have much, but I’ve got a few places to start.
✽✽✽
Three hours later, I've stopped by the coffee shop, the diner, and even did a creepy loop around the GSU campus trying to see if I could spot her. I'm quickly becoming obsessed. I tell myself it's only because I sense that she's running from something, which means she's in danger. But I know I’d be obsessed with her no matter what.
The fact that she needs my help only amps up my obsession. Add that to the fact that she's a small, sexy spitfire who I just know is going to challenge me every step of the way? Well, that makes me super fucking obsessed as well as rock fucking hard.
I do the loop of her jobs and the campus again the next morning. And again in the afternoon. By the time evening rolls around, I’m ready to take a more off-the-books approach. But as soon as I step in the diner, I see her. My dandelion.
She’s got her long, dark hair in a braid, slung over one shoulder, no makeup on, tight black shorts that show off her delicious ass, and a t-shirt that I’m sure is supposed to be snug and revealing like the other waitresses in this place, but it seems the smallest size they had is still a little baggy on her. I don’t mind. I want to keep those small, perky tits all to myself. To top off her cute waitress look, she has on a pair of ratty old Vans that I know have to be hard on her feet, especially working two jobs.
Emma doesn’t see me yet, so I’m content to wait and watch her from a distance, like the stalker I’m quickly turning into.
“Order up!” The cook shouts from the kitchen.
Emma
glides over and gracefully scoops up three huge plates piled high with food. She swings her hips and moves with ease around the diner, setting the plates down in front of three old men. It’s only because they are in their late seventies that I allow her to continue to stand there and talk to them. If they were anywhere near her age, I’d have to give them the death glare and kindly ask them to get the fuck out and never return. I’m guessing Emma wouldn’t like that too much.
I can’t hear what they are talking about, but something one of the men says causes her to smile and holy fuck, she’s absolutely stunning. Even from this far away I can see how it softens her features and makes her eyes sparkle. She even has a goddamn dimple on her left cheek that I have an overwhelming desire to lick. I want to see her smile every second of every day, and that’s exactly what I plan on doing.
“EXCUSE ME!” A shrill voice calls out from a table closer to me. A middle-aged woman with a look (and haircut) that scream, Can I speak to your manager, is staring daggers at Emma while rattling her empty glass like it’s a bell to call over her servant.
Emma rolls her eyes, and that little act of defiance makes me grin. It also makes my dick stiffen in my pants. I bet she’d be feisty as fuck in bed.
By the time she makes her way over to the table, her face is completely calm.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Are you blind and deaf? I need a refill, and I needed it five minutes ago!” The lady snaps.
I fucking hate that lady. Don’t know who she is. Don’t care.
“Of course. Let me get that right out,” Emma says before smiling at her and going to the back for a refill.
She must really need the tips if she’s being this nice. The Emma I’ve seen so far doesn’t take shit from anyone or anything. Even a broken-down station wagon. I smile at the memory of her telling me she might be little, but she’s not going to be taken down by a damn window.
