by Maria Luis
Gage figured she’d be feisty today, especially after learning last night that he’d already spoken with her brother. Danvers was a solid guy, if not a little quirky with all of his fruity drinks and weird-ass humor. To each their own.
He’d met Mrs. Danvers once, too, the day after they’d signed up to forever in the form of marriage. They’d both come in to Inked on Bourbon for a tattoo—a wedding band on Danvers’ ring finger.
“Never know what’s going to happen out in the field, man,” Danvers had said with a quick, adoring look to his wife. “But I want her to know that she’s with me every moment I’m not with her, and that’s never going to change.”
Gage wasn’t interested in long-term commitment, but he’d known right then that Danvers and Jade were meant to be.
He only hoped that it lasted.
Not every marriage does.
Slamming the breaks on those thoughts, Gage opened the driver’s side door and took his seat. Key in the ignition, he started the old boy up and waited for the ki-kic-kick of the engine to ease into a quiet hum.
“Your truck sounds like death.”
Gage hit the gas and directed the truck out of the grocery store’s parking lot. Lizzie hadn’t wanted to meet at either of their houses, which he understood. As a cop, Gage tended to think the worst of people. He supposed Lizzie, thanks to having a cop as a brother, did the same. Even though Gage was bringing her out of the city today; if he wanted to take her out permanently, he’d have no problem doing so at their final destination.
“Haven’t had time to get it looked at,” he finally said, flicking open the AC vents so cool air could seep through. “I’m a busy guy.”
“And yet you’re not busy enough to tell me to get lost?”
Though he kept one hand on the steering wheel, he took his eyes off the road to flash her a grin and a wink. “Not busy enough for a pretty, pretty princess like you, Miz Danvers.”
She snorted into her coffee cup. “Please don’t make me throw up this morning.”
“You feelin’ sick?”
His truck was old and sure didn’t shine the way it used to, but Gage kept the interior pristine. Vomit was not allowed.
“I’m feelin’ a little nauseous after that one-liner you just gave me. Please boost my faith in women everywhere by telling me that’s never worked for you before.”
“Is this another one of those moments where it’s in my best interest to lie about liking cheese?”
“All I’m saying is, you’re on thin ice, Officer Harvey, very thin ice.”
Dammit, he wanted to look at her. Really look at her. Were her blue eyes blazing with contagious humor? Her tone was dry and just a little high-pitched, as though she held back laughter.
If this morning was any indicator for the next thirty days, then he figured he was in for a real treat.
And then you’ll let her go.
Gage’s shoulders stiffened at the thought.
He didn’t keep anyone, save for Owen, and that was a given. Gage had learned the hard way that relationships weren’t for him, and they certainly weren’t for the men in his family. Singlehood was good; it was easy and uncomplicated, and exactly what he needed, considering the high intensity of his job.
So, really, this thing with Lizzie worked out perfectly.
She needed a pretend-boyfriend.
He needed a reprieve from his chaotic life, and there was no better antidote to the chaos than a beautiful woman with a tart mouth and a tattoo on her ass that he wouldn’t mind grabbing as he sank into her body.
Uncomplicated.
Just the way relationships between men and women were meant to be.
“Did you bring your camera?”
If she noticed his abrupt change in conversation, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she reached into the backpack between her feet and riffled through it. “Absolutely. Want to tell me where we’re going? Will there be a mud pit involved?”
Don’t think about Lizzie Danvers in a mud pit.
Too late.
Gage shifted in his seat, for once thankful that there was traffic to distract him as he pulled onto the I-10’s on-ramp, heading for the West Bank. “Should I be surprised that I told you to prepare for dirt, and your first thought was mud pit?”
“I wouldn’t be upset about it.” She straightened and settled a massive, expensive-looking camera on the center console. “Mud is great as a facial mask.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
“It rejuvenates the skin cells.” Without warning, she reached out and traced the side of his face, making his cock twitch in his pants. “Did you ever have a beard like your twin?”
“Like Owen?” How was she talking about his brother when he was still picturing her in the mud pit, buck-ass naked? Get your mind out of the gutter. “No—” He cleared his throat after hearing the guttural tinge to his voice. “I mean, last time I had the opportunity to grow a beard, I was twenty years old and about to join the police academy.”
“So you had one then?” Her voice piqued with curiosity, and she slipped off her tennis shoes to draw her socked feet onto the seat.
“I wish. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t grow one. Guess Owen got all the beard genes in the family.”
“You’ve got stubble.”
Gage let out a low chuckle. “You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself, don’t you.”
It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t treat it as one. She simply linked her arms around her shins, and dropped her cheek to her knees. Staring at him.
He wondered what she saw.
At the same time, he didn’t want to know.
When she spoke, the husky timbre of her voice reminded him of warm, lazy summer days. “You don’t strike me as the type of guy who likes false flattery.”
She’d certainly gotten the read on him. Not that he’d tell her that. “Every guy likes a little sweet talkin’ now and again.”
“You’re not from here.”
Gage tapped the steering wheel with his palm, internally debating with how much he wanted to reveal. From the way Lizzie stared at him openly, she expected some sort of answer. He reached for his LSU ball cap that sat on the dashboard and settled it over his head. “It’s complicated.”
“Depending on where we’re going, we have time.”
He was taking her to the Barataria Preserve, south of the city, a section of sanctioned land that remained nearly untouched by man. It was a place he often went to think, to get away from the grit and glitz of New Orleans. He’d figured that it was nothing at all like what Lizzie was used to; she didn’t seem the sort to leave New Orleans, unless it was to go somewhere fancy, like Vegas or L.A.
He wanted to strip her down. Pull back the layers and discover who she really was, beyond the white-toothed grins she gave her viewers. After delivering the warrant over in Central City, and talking to her brother, Gage had gone home and pulled up her YouTube channel.
Six million followers.
Gage didn’t even know six hundred people.
The videos were all kitschy—Chit Chat Get Ready with Me, or Hit or Miss Products from the Drugstore! or his least favorite, Fall Glam Date Night Tutorial. The day she’d come in to Inked had been the same day the latter video had been uploaded, and he hated thinking those plum-painted lips of hers were intended for someone else.
What had stuck out to him the most, however, was the fact that in every single video, Lizzie Danvers looked . . . unhappy. The glitter may have coated her eyelids, but her blue eyes didn’t gleam one bit.
Which brought him to . . . this, the Preserve, his choice of escape.
Hell if he knew if it’d help her at all. There was a pretty damn good chance she’d step out of the truck, note the bugs buzzing in the air, and demand her immediate return to New Orleans like the princess he accused her of being.
“Gage?”
Her soft voice snapped him back into reality. “Grew up in Hackberry, Louisiana.�
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“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”
He cracked a grin as he pulled off Lafitte Larose Highway and onto a narrow, winding road framed by large pine trees. “Most people haven’t. It’s past Lake Charles. Maybe an hour or so from the Louisiana-Texas border.”
“No wonder you don’t sound N’Orleans in the slightest. More Texas twang than anything else.”
He wasn’t sure if he should feel offended by that or not. “I haven’t lived in Hackberry in fourteen years, and even before that . . . Hackberry was a Monday through Friday deal, that’s it. The rest of the time I was here in the city.”
She laughed, and the sweet sound squeezed his lungs. “You’re a first-class mutt, Gage,” she teased, then grabbed the camera off the console. “Just like me.”
“Yeah?” He quirked a brow. “Don’t think I ever saw you in Hackberry. I’d remember.”
“Funny.” The camera made a quiet whirring sound, as though she’d turned it on. “No, but really. Grew up in Bayou St. John, right in the heart of N’Orleans. In my teens, we moved to the West Bank, which, I’ll have you know, is the best Bank.”
“You live on the Best Bank now?” Not that he was fishing for information or anything like that.
“Well, no.”
Gage pulled into a small cut-off that led to an empty parking lot. It was a Tuesday morning, and most people were at work, except for the two of them; Lizzie clearly made her own schedule and Gage wasn’t due in to the station until six that night. He had a few hours to wander in the wilderness, especially since he’d told Owen he wasn’t coming in today.
He parked the truck and turned to Lizzie. “The first time I met someone from the West Bank, he called it the Wank.”
Her pretty features cringed, and she bit her lower lip. “A Wanker,” she said with a slow nod. “I imagine the name spread a bit like the plague. One person started using it, and the next thing everyone knew, Wankers were taking over the streets, the jobs, the school systems.”
“Like the apocalypse?”
“Exactly like the apocalypse.”
Gage leaned in to mock-whisper, “I hear The Walking Dead ratings are dipping. Maybe we should let the show’s producers know to come down to N’Orleans for a reboot?”
For a moment, she only stared at him, her mouth pursed in a clear fight against a grin. And then she lost it, and Jesus, her laughter was the sexiest sound he’d ever heard.
He turned to her, resting his forearm on the top of the steering wheel. “If you play nice, I’ll make sure you’re cast in the lead Wanker role.”
That finished her off.
She clutched her belly, camera cradled against her chest, her forehead kissing her bent knees. “I can’t,” she choked out, “I can’t.”
“You’d be great,” Gage told her smoothly. “We’d get you your own star on that star street over in Hollywood. What do they call it again?”
“The Walk of Fame?”
“Yeah, that.”
She broke off into another peel of laughter, and Gage felt the absurd need to puff out his chest. He’d done that, making her laugh, wiping away the unhappiness in her eyes with pure, Wanker joy.
It’s going to be the best thirty days of my life.
Especially once he got Lizzie Danvers in his bed, preferably for more than a single night.
When her laughter faded into silence, she glanced over at him. “Does S.O.D. know how weird you are?”
“Trust me, princess, you gotta be a little weird to do what I do.”
Chapter Eight
Gage was charming.
Some might say too charming, but Lizzie rather thought he was just right.
The ancient wooden plank-boards creaked under their weight as they entered one of the few trails within the Preserve. The walkway was hardly wider than Lizzie’s arm span, raised above the murky, green water by no more than two feet, and the bayou surrounded them fully. Cypress trees rose up like skyscrapers, shielding the sky and the sun from view; the swampy water bubbled with frogs playing hide-and-seek with the lily pads. It was beautiful and earthy and Lizzie was determined to find them an alligator today.
Just one.
Although she stuck to humans with Naked You, she often took photos of nature just for herself. Her apartment was cluttered with prints, and her walls were a mosaic of architecture, naked bodies, and flat pastureland.
“So, how are we going to do this?”
Her four-figure Canon clicked, snapping a photo of a Cypress tree split down the middle, and Lizzie lowered the camera. “What do you mean?”
Gage’s strides were twice the length of hers, and he slowed his pace so she could close the distance between them. “Our first date,” he said, drawing her gaze down to his hands when he slipped his fingers into the pockets of his military-style cargo shorts. “Are you going to film us having fun? Should I throw you over my shoulder and pretend to toss you into the swamp?”
The dating challenge. Right. How could she forget?
Except that she had, for just a little bit. Gage Harvey made it easy to forget everything that wasn’t him. He commanded attention, both because of his looks and also because he had an air of authority about him. No doubt they’d taught him that back at S.O.D. school, along with how to drive fast.
Her stomach still felt a little queasy thanks to his maniac driving skills.
“I think we can leave out the part about tossing me into the water, thanks.” The bayou was pretty, but Lizzie didn’t particularly want to be doused in it. “I guess we could head back to the benches we spotted a few minutes ago. Maybe take a photo, do a quick livestream. You can turn on your charming behavior.”
“You look . . .” He stepped close, something she’d noticed he tended to do frequently. At first, she’d thought he wanted to intimidate her with his size. And maybe that had a little bit of truth to it because each time he approached and entered her space, Lizzie couldn’t stifle the sound of her breathing quickening, nor the way her face instantly tipped up to meet his. Always, his full lips lifted in a sexy grin, like he knew exactly what effect he had on her.
Now was no different.
Her heart picked up pace when his chest came within inches of hers. His baseball cap was tugged down low, and all she could see were shadows and the hard cut of his jawline and the sharp ridge of his nose.
“I look like what?” Breathless. She sounded so very breathless.
“Like you need to be charmed.”
She wasn’t prepared for his sneak attack. Thick arms wrapped around her backside, hauling her off the walkway and up into the air over his right shoulder.
With quick hands, she made a grab for her camera and clutched the strap with tight fingers. Don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go.
Her squeak mingled with the chirping birds and the soft swaying of the tree branches, though her demanding, “Put me down!” went ignored by the tattooed god who carried her.
Instead, the jerk only strolled down the raised planks as though he had all the time in the world.
His voice reverberated through her chest and stomach when he asked, “How’s the world look down there?”
She stared at his ass. “Full.”
Chuckling, he reached up to pat her butt. “Same here, princess, same here. Tell me, you think this would make for an excellent selfie? What do you think the caption would be?”
“New Orleans Police Officer Mistaken for Louisiana Tarzan.”
“Hmm, a possibility.” Her stomach bounced against his shoulder as he readjusted her weight. “I was thinking something more romantic, something along the lines of . . . When a Man Sweeps a Woman Off Her Feet.”
“Too literal.” Would it be odd if she palmed his butt, just to see if it was as firm as it looked? “Maybe, Man Tempts Woman with a Dip in the Bayou?”
“Now who’s being literal? I’m exposing you to a different world out here, princess. Expanding your experiences. What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to try?
”
“Doggy-style.”
He stumbled.
She almost wouldn’t have believed it had she not been tossed like a sheep over his shoulder, but, thanks to her position, she had a prime vantage point to watch it all go down. Literally. The toe of his right tennis shoe hitting an uneven bend in the wooden plank; his attempt to save his balance, but her weight was too heavy, too lopsided on his body, and . . .
There was nothing she could do.
Nothing but shout, “Save the camera!”
And then down they tumbled, a tangle of limbs and four-letter words.
Gage landed first, a grunt bursting from his lips, somehow managing to twist their bodies so he took the brunt of the fall. Lizzie met the water stomach-first with a cliché splash! Splash!
His toned stomach acted like a buoy, stopping her fall.
Not that it helped much.
Her face kissed the green water, her nose, eyes, and mouth submerging beneath, just as her legs struck something hard. A Cypress root—she hoped.
Rich, masculine laughter greeted her when she jolted upward. The bayou was a foot deep, maybe two, but the fall had succeeded in dampening all of Gage’s clothes. His gray shirt was plastered to his chest, molding over his powerful frame and tantalizing her with shadows of all the inked artwork beneath the fabric. Droplets of water clung to his arms, his neck, to the rugged stubble on his face.
He looked like something out of a commercial for body soap.
Meanwhile, she had a sneaking suspicion that she could currently pass for the Swamp Monster.
“I think I may have swallowed some of the water,” Lizzie muttered, planting her hands on his hard stomach to leverage herself up onto her knees.
He laughed only harder, chin tipping back, eyes squeezed shut under the brim of his LSU hat.
“You can stop laughing now.”
Wrong thing to say.
He gripped her arms, drawing her over his lap with a tug and a pull. Lizzie was average in height, average in weight, but he managed to make her feel as light as a feather. Stop liking it so much.
Impossible.
