by Rebecca Shea
“So you never answered me. What do you do—for a career?” She sips her water and leans forward, resting her arms on the edge of the bistro table.
I pause, staring at her, watching her movements, her mannerisms, her eyes. Clearing my throat, I contemplate my answer. I have no intention of lying to her, but I hardly imagine she’ll be impressed. She works with men who make a hell of a lot of more money than I do and are fucking geniuses. I fucking clean the streets of drug peddlers and occasionally write a fucking speeding ticket.
“I’m a police officer.” Her face lights up when I tell her. Still twisting the stones of her bracelet, she smiles at me again, a simple small smile.
“Do you like your job?” she asks.
“Fucking love it,” I admit. And I do.
“How long have you been a police officer?”
“Five, going on six years. I actually just applied and am testing for a detective position in narcotics.”
“Drugs,” she says quietly.
“It was either that or gangs, and there really isn’t much going on around here but a bunch of young gang-banger wannabes and I want to be where the action is at—so narcs it is.”
“You’re a thrill-seeker,” she says as a statement, not a question.
“Aren’t we all, to some degree?”
“No,” she says, tapping her short, manicured nails on the glass tabletop. “Some people play it safe their whole lives. They never take chances or risk anything.”
“Well, that’s not me.” I shrug. “I like the thrill… the hunt… the chase.” God, if she only knew what I was really talking about.
“I suppose. But what happens when the thrill, the hunt, and the chase are over?” she asks. I chuckle as I meet her gaze, her blue eyes fixed on me.
“I’ll find another thrill, another hunt, another chase.”
With a smirk, she sits back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her. “Interesting. Well, congratulations. When do you find out if you’ve got the position?”
“Hopefully, soon. We just lost a detective who left and moved to take a position in Charlotte, so I know they’d like to bring someone on board quickly.”
Our server is back and sets a small pot of coffee and the accompaniments on our table. Reagan orders first, Eggs Benedict and a side of yogurt, and I order whole-wheat banana nut pancakes.
“So what made you decide you wanted to be a police officer?” she asks, her head tilted to the side. She studies me almost as intently as I’ve been studying her.
“I like to help people.” It’s my “go-to” answer, but it’s the honest-to-God truth.
“Me too,” she whispers and smiles at me. I love that she smiles so much. There is a genuine kindness about her.
“So why did you move to North Carolina? Why Wilmington?” I ask, turning the questions back to her as she stirs creamer into her coffee.
“I love the beach.” She shrugs a little. Turning her head, she casts her eyes out on the water. The light breeze gently lifts the bottom of her hair, moving it around slightly. She keeps her eyes trained on the water as she finishes, “I grew up in the Midwest, went to college and medical school in the Midwest. It was just time for a change. Mac is really the only relative I’m close to, and he lives here, so it just made sense to come here.” She turns back to me and our eyes meet.
“Where are you from?” she asks, sipping at her coffee.
“Born and raised right here.”
“You never left?”
“Moved out of Wilmington for college, but have always lived in North Carolina.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“A small college just north of here.”
“What about your family?” she asks, rubbing her finger around the rim of her coffee mug.
“It’s just my sister and me. Lindsay; you met her last night.”
“Lindsay’s your sister? I recognize her from the news, but I didn’t place that she was your sister. She’s gorgeous. So it’s just you two?”
“Yep.” I shift in my chair. I don’t like being asked questions about our family. She senses my discomfort and hesitates before she asks me another question.
“Do you like sports?”
“Love most of them. I played football and baseball in high school. We were the state champs for both football and baseball my senior year,” I say, and actually realize I sound a little too excited, reliving my glory days. “But now, I just enjoy watching sports—football, baseball, and basketball.”
“State champs, huh?” She laughs.
“Hey, it was a big deal when I was in high school.”
“Coming from a small town, I get it,” she says. “It’s actually a great accomplishment, Champ.” She giggles at me. I love when she laughs.
“Hey, you asked,” I shrug at her. “What about you?” I ask. “Family?”
“My mom and dad still live in Minnesota. Both are retired. My mom was a schoolteacher, and my dad was an accountant. I have an older brother who is in the Air Force and stationed in Germany right now. That’s it. We’re really boring.” She laughs.
“Hardly boring,” I say. If she only fucking knew how normal that sounds and how I’d take boring and normal every fucking day of the week over the shit Lindsay and I dealt with.
“What about you; do you like sports?” It’s my turn to make fun of her.
“Nope. Everyone wanted me to play volleyball or basketball… you know, embrace my ‘tallness,’ but I had no interest. I work out; stay active, but no sports for me.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“Hmm… lately, not much of anything. I’ve been so busy getting settled at work, and just getting my bearings on the East Coast that I haven’t really done much.” Her voice trails off. “Oh, I love to read!” Her face lights up.
“What do you read? Classics?”
She laughs. “Nope. Smutty romance.”
“I didn’t take you for that type.”
“What’s the saying? Don’t judge a book by its cover.” She picks up the flower again from the small vase and presses it to her nose. “So, your turn. What do you like to do for fun?”
I’m guessing “recreational sex” isn’t what she’d like to hear. “I work out. Play basketball with my partner Matt.”
“He was at the bar last night right?” she confirms.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“He seems really nice.” She puts the flower back in the vase.
“He is. We’ve been friends for six years. We started work the same day.” For two people who are getting to know each other, neither of us seems nervous. In fact, this is comfortable. “Okay, lightning round. Three questions. I’ll go first.”
“Favorite color?”
“Green.”
“Favorite movie?”
“Anything with Vince Vaughn.” She giggles.
“First car?”
“A 1993 Honda Accord. I drove that thing into the ground. I think it had 150,000 miles on it!”
“Okay, your turn.” I anticipate the same questions.
“Most embarrassing moment?”
“Really?”
“Answer it,” she says coyly.
“The first time I had sex. Next.”
“Dogs or cats?”
“Neither.”
“What scares you the most?”
“Hmm… I think you’ve stumped me.”
“Oh, come on, everyone has something they’re afraid of.”
“Can I get back to you on this one?”
“Sure.” Her voice is quiet, yet there is a level of confidence when she speaks that I am attracted to. She knows exactly who she is, what she wants, what she doesn’t want… and she’s sure of herself. It’s fucking sexy as hell.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she says quietly.
“You’re welcome. When can I see you again?” I know it’s ballsy and direct. We’ve spent two hours getting to know each other over breakfast, but I want—make that need�
�more of her.
She sighs and meets my gaze. “I don’t know.” She pauses. “I am so busy, and I just—just don’t really have time to date right now.”
“Make time,” I say firmly. “Reagan, I like you. I want to get to know you better, but I can’t do that unless you spend some time with me—and I know you feel this too.” I motion to the space between us. She swallows hard, and looks back out to the water. When she thinks, she watches the water, I’ve already picked this up about her.
“You’re not going to take ‘no’ for an answer again, are you?” She smiles.
“No. So when can I see you again?”
This time, she sighs more loudly and puckers her lips in thought. “What is your work schedule?” she asks.
“I work four tens, Tuesday through Friday. Weekends and Mondays off.” She stares at me and picks at the tan nail polish on her fingernails.
“I work every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday and one weekend a month, I’m on call, the joys of private practice, so…”
“So tomorrow. We’re both off on Mondays, so tomorrow it is.”
“Aren’t you going to wait three days to call me, you know… so you don’t look desperate. Isn’t that the rule?” She laughs.
Leaning in, I close the distance between us. Our noses brush and I can feel her short, warm breaths on my face. “I’m not desperate, Reagan—I’m determined. There’s a big difference. And if you haven’t figured it out yet—I don’t play by the rules.” Her breath hitches and I sit back to take in the sight of her face while she ponders what I’ve just said.
“Okay. Tomorrow, but this time, I choose what we’re doing.”
“Deal.”
“Be prepared to get dirty, so wear something old and bring a change of clothes.”
“What are we doing?”
“It’s a surprise. I do this a couple times a month on my day off, and tomorrow, you’re going to help me.”
“Please tell me it isn’t yoga or some crazy shit like that?”
“No, we’ll do that next time.” She laughs, and I roll my eyes at her. “Give me your address, I’ll pick you up.”
“No, I’ll pick you up.”
“Don’t argue with me; just give me your address.” She shakes her head slowly at me.
“I’ll text you my address.” I’ve got her. She gets my address when I get her phone number.
“Fine. 910-555-5175. Text me your address and be ready by nine o’clock.” She winks at me and offers me a tight smile as she pushes herself away from the table and stands up. Grabbing her small purse that was hanging on the back of her chair, she catches me off guard this time when she leans in to me. “You’ve met your match, Champ, because I don’t play by the rules either.” Without another word, she pulls back and starts walking away. “Nine o’clock, be ready,” she says over her shoulder.
“Fuck,” I mumble and jump up from the table to follow her out of the café. Pushing through the glass door, I jog up behind her slowly as she opens the door to a silver Lexus SUV. “Reagan,” I say as she slides into the driver seat. I insert myself in between the open car door and her seat.
“Yeah?” she questions.
“Game on.” I step back and close her car door, and without a second glance in her direction, I walk to my car parked just three spots over. I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but I think I may have my hands full with this woman—and for the first time ever, I think I’m ready.
Got it. 9am. Be ready Champ.
That was the text message I got in return after I sent Reagan my address last night. Nothing more. I waited all day, and into the evening, to send her my address—see if she’d sweat it a little bit, but nope. Confident Reagan replies with “Got it.”
So now, I wait for her to pick me up. This is so fucked up. I agreed to let her pick me up, but I have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing. What the fuck was I thinking? I wasn’t, except for getting her beneath me. All night, I thought about running my hands up her long legs, over her stomach, and up to the curve of her breasts. I imagined what she’d taste like, every last inch of her. Fighting the thoughts, I imagined what she’d look like tied to my bed.
“What are you doing?” Lindsay asks, snapping me out of my daydream. She races down the hallway with her shoes and purse in her hand.
“Nothing,” I respond, watching her jump up and down on one foot, trying to get her shoe on the other.
“How do you keep a job?” I ask. “You’re always late.”
“They love me, and I’m good at what I do, so they deal with me being fifteen minutes behind everyone else. They call it ‘permanent tardyism.’”
“Is that what they call your lack of responsibility? Is tardyism even a word?”
“Shut up.” She flings a coaster off the end table at me in hopes of shutting me up. Standing up, she straightens her dress and runs her fingers through her hair. “Want to talk about yesterday?” she asks with a smirk on her face.
“Nothing to talk about. It was breakfast.”
“Are you going to see her again?”
“Don’t know.” Just then, the doorbell rings. “Fuck,” I mutter. Lindsay looks at me, then at the door. Her heels echo off the hardwood floor as she pulls the front door open.
“Reagan,” she says with a smile and steps aside. “Come in. Nice to see you again; we were just talking about you.” Reagan steps across the threshold, wearing a pair of skintight black workout pants and a pink fitted tank top with a pair of matching tennis shoes. Lindsay crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her at eyes me.
“Ready, Champ?” Reagan asks. “I want to get this done before it gets too warm.”
“Champ?” Lindsay snorts. “What are you guys doing today?”
“Lindsay, go get all investigative reporter on someone at work. You’re late,” I bark as I jump up from the couch and damn near push her out the front door. Both girls are laughing as Lindsay hollers her goodbyes over her shoulder to Reagan.
“Sorry about that. My sister is a pain in the ass.” I grab my keys, phone, and a small bag with a change of clothes. “Anything else I need?” I question Reagan, hoping she’ll give me just a few more details of where we’re going or what we’re doing.
“Nope.” She smiles. “Let’s do this.”
Reagan drives us about ten minutes out of town, to a large piece of property off of a dead end dirt road. There sits an older house that has definitely seen better days. Off to the back looks to be another structure, newer—almost larger than the house.
“Where are we?”
“You’ll see.” We both get out of her SUV as she walks to the front door and knocks while I stay back near the SUV. I’ve never been out on this side of town, and I take a moment to look around at the property. While the house is older, the property is maintained well. The large grass yard has been recently cut, and the property is outlined with giant red maple trees. It really is a beautiful piece of land. I see Reagan helping the older woman who answers the door down the front steps and they walk slowly toward me.
“Landon, this is Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”
“Nice to meet you.” I reach out and shake her hand. She looks to be in her early sixties. Not frail, but not full of spunk either.
“Nice to meet you too, Landon. Reagan phoned me last night, telling me she was bringing a friend today.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick looks me up and down and I catch Reagan smiling.
“Are they ready?” Reagan asks.
“Sure are.”
“How many are there today?” Reagan inquires as she walks Mrs. Fitzpatrick back toward the front door. I follow behind.
“Four. Benny and Louie aren’t with me anymore.”
“Perfect. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Let’s go.” Reagan nods toward the large structure out behind the house.
“So are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”
“You’ll see.” She picks up her pace and tugs me along by my arm. I can’t
help but notice how the tight black pants hug the curve of her hips and thighs and her tank top pushes her breasts together just enough to leave the perfect amount of cleavage showing. Once we get to the building, Reagan slides the large door open and steps inside. There sits twelve chain link kennels, six on each side of the building with a large center aisle down the middle.
“What is this?” I ask, confused.
“Gemma runs a dog rescue. I come and help her out on Mondays and walk the dogs for her.” She shrugs and steps into the building.
“So, we’re walking dogs?” I ask, surprised that this is what we’re really doing.
“Yep. I do it every Monday, and figured you could help me today,” she says with a giant sarcastic smile.
“Fucking great,” I mumble.
“C’mon; it’ll be fun.” She bumps into me with her shoulder. Walking past me, she walks to the end kennel and releases the latch. A black, brown, and white medium-sized dog comes lunging from the kennel and runs right into Reagan’s legs. “Ollie,” she laughs, rubbing the hound behind its long ears. Squatting down, Reagan attaches the leash to Ollie’s collar while he frantically licks her face. Lucky dog.
“This is Ollie; he’s a little escape artist,” she says, handing me his leash and walking to another kennel. “And this is Henry.” An older dog, a much slower moving dog, wags his black tail as Reagan attaches a leash to his collar.
“They get a little excited when they see me; they know they’re getting out of here for a while.” She smiles at me.
“So they stay penned up in here the entire time?”
“No, Gemma has a large fenced yard out back that they run in, but I try to take a few of them away from here—to the beach to run.” Reagan hands me Henry’s leash as she walks to the third kennel and two smaller dogs meet her at the gate.
“And this is Mo and Curly.” She reaches her finger through the chain link and scratches their curly haired heads one at a time.
“So we’re taking all four to the beach?” I ask her as Henry and Ollie tug me toward the door.
“Yep. This is easy. I usually take four to six by myself.”
