“That’s it, girl,” I murmur. “Lick it all off. There you go, just like that.”
Virginia Woof slurps the last of the icing off her special made-for-dogs cupcake, while I stand there on the street corner hoping no one heard me talking dirty to my dog.
“Austin?”
Of course.
As the voice recognition software kicks on in my brain, I go from shame to excitement in three-point-six seconds and turn to see Bree Bracelyn walking up the street toward me. She’s wearing slim green pants tucked into black boots that make her legs look killer. Her black sweater falls off one shoulder, and I wonder if that’s intentional. Fashion isn’t my forte, but I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing a bra under there. “Bree. You look great.”
She beams at me. “Thanks.”
Virginia Woof barks her approval, and Bree’s gaze swings to the leash in my hand and the shaggy beast hitched to the other end of it. “This is Virginia?”
“Yep,” I stoop down to scratch behind her ears, earning myself a fond grunt from my dog. “We’re on our way to the dog park by the river.”
“If she ever gets tired of the river, you should bring her to the dog park at the resort,” she says. “We put in these cool spray fountains that look like fire hydrants. Dogs go nuts for them.”
“We’ll have to check that out sometime.” I straighten up and switch the leash to my other hand.
Virginia yips and wiggles her way up to Bree with her tail smacking the sidewalk. Bree stoops down and laughs. “You’ve got a little frosting on your face, girl.” She pulls a tissue out of her pocket and swipes at my dog’s mouth, earning herself a lick on the back of her hand.
I shove my hands in my pockets and try not to feel awkward about Bree kneeling on the ground in front of me. “I worked late three times this week, so I promised her a pupcake for being patient.”
Bree sits back on her heels and goes to work scratching Virginia’s scruff, zeroing in on my dog’s favorite spot right behind her left ear. “You like that, huh?” Bree coos. “You like a good ear scritch, hmmm? Is that the spot, baby? Right there?”
Virginia groans in ecstasy and flops on her back to grant access to her belly. Bree obliges, rubbing circles on the dog’s fur-dotted egg belly.
“Pupcakes?” Bree asks, looking up at me with a smile in those bright green eyes.
I jerk a thumb toward Dew Drop Cupcake shop behind me. “They sell cupcakes made just for dogs. I don’t know what’s in them, but Virginia’s crazy about them.”
“You came to a cupcake shop just to buy a cupcake for your dog.” She grins and shakes her head. “That’s either really sweet or a little embarrassing.”
“It might be both,” I admit. “But I was ordering human cupcakes, too.”
“Please tell me those are cupcakes for humans and not some weird cannibalistic treat.”
I laugh and order myself to quit looking down the front of her sweater. She’s definitely not wearing a bra, but it’s none of my business. “I sure hope so, or my niece’s birthday party is going to be awkward.”
“You have a niece?”
“I have five nieces,” I tell her. “My sisters have a talent for producing girl children. Which is perfect, since my parents have a talent for spoiling granddaughters.”
Bree gets to her feet, earning a sigh of disappointment from Virginia, but one of relief from me. There’s only so much a guy can take when a beautiful woman is kneeling braless at his feet.
She dusts the knees of her pants. “How old is the birthday girl?”
“She turns three on Saturday. It’s a princess theme.”
“Oooh, I have a bunch of tiaras if you want to borrow them.”
“Really?”
“My mother used to make me do these cotillion balls,” she says, frowning a little. “I think she hoped I’d magically morph into a cultured lady instead of a socially-awkward dork, but it didn’t work out.”
“No?” I pretend to size her up, which is really just an excuse to look at her again. God, she’s beautiful. “You seem pretty cultured and ladylike to me.”
“I was a late-bloomer,” she says, cheeks pinkening ever so slightly. “I don’t know why I still have the tiaras.”
Her face plays out a series of emotions I can’t quite read. Nostalgia? Regret? Sadness? She’s good at hiding it, but not as good as I am at noticing before her mask slips back into place. “Anyway, your niece can have the tiaras. I might even have some old gowns if she likes playing dress-up.”
“You should come to the party.” I blurt the words before I think them through, but they feel right, so I keep going. “Wear your tiara and become Ainslie’s new best friend.”
She laughs and tosses her dark curls. “Thanks, but I don’t want to intrude on family stuff.”
That wasn’t quite a no, and there’s a longing in her eyes that tells me she kinda likes the idea. But something tells me I shouldn’t push too hard. “I promise everyone would be thrilled,” I assure her. “Ainslie loves meeting new grownups.”
“I’ll think about it.” She glances behind her at the cupcake shop. “I should probably continue my mission.”
“Any mission that involves cupcakes is a worthwhile mission.”
She smiles and I swear that’s becoming my favorite sight in the world. “I’ve got a last-minute request from a bride who wants twelve dozen cactus cupcakes for a high desert-themed wedding rehearsal dinner,” Bree says. “I’m seeing what Chelsea can do.”
“If she can make pupcakes and princess cupcakes for Ainslie’s party, I’m guessing she could manage cactuses.” I frown. “Cacti? That’s the plural, right?”
“Cacticakes,” Bree says, shoving a mess of curls off her forehead. “Do you happen to know if she’s single?”
“Who, Chelsea?”
I must look surprised because Bree laughs. “Not for me—I’m straight.”
“I kinda figured.”
Bree’s cheeks pinken again, and she shoves her hands in her pockets. “Yeah, about that—”
“It was the best kiss of your life and you’re totally rethinking your position on dating officers of the law?”
Her blush deepens, but she’s smiling. “You read my mind.”
I wish she weren’t kidding.
“Say no more,” I play along. “I’ll pick you up Friday night for our first date. Do you like Italian? Or do you want to just skip the date and get right to planning our wedding?”
She shakes her head, but she’s still laughing. “I should apologize for throwing myself at you like that,” she says. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“You should definitely not apologize,” I tell her, shifting Virginia’s leash from one hand to the other so she can sniff a nearby tree. “It was the highlight of my week.”
“That’s the problem.” She sighs and folds her arms over her chest like she’s cold. I consider offering her my jacket, but I’m not wearing one. “I told you I’m not interested, and then I do something dumb like that.”
I should probably be hurt that she’s calling our kiss dumb. But I’ve kissed enough women in my life to know that kiss was anything but dumb. It was toe-curling. Amazing. A kiss I’m still feeling almost a week later, and from the look in her eyes, I’m not alone in that.
“It’s fine, Bree,” I tell her. “We all do crazy things sometimes.”
“Not me.”
She’s so insistent that I give her my skeptical cop eyebrow lift. “Never?”
“Nope,” she says. “Totally straight arrow here.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I say. “You seem like a woman with all kinds of skeletons in your closet. A secret life selling contraband silly string in Alabama—it’s illegal there, by the way. Or texting and walking in Hawaii—also illegal.”
There’s a tiny clench in her jaw, but her smile doesn’t waver. I probably would have missed it if I weren’t so focused on her mouth and wondering about that raspberry lip stuff. She’s wearing it again, and I’m aching to taste it. Taste her.
“Of course you’re an expert on random-ass laws,” she says. “Silly string is seriously illegal in Alabama?”
“Don’t look too impressed that I know that,” I tell her. “It’s just something I was Googling for a presentation I’m giving at the state police convention in a few weeks.”
Virginia gives a sharp bark, signaling me that it’s time to go. Damn.
“It was good seeing you,” she says, all business now. All except the part where she totally just checked out my hands. “Take care, Austin.”
“You, too,” I tell her. “Shout if you change your mind about coming to Ainslie’s party. It could be great PR for the resort.”
She gives me a dubious look. “How would a three-year-old’s birthday party be good for the resort?”
“Because my aunt Genevieve will be there.”
I give her a second to connect the dots. It’s a perfect opportunity to study her face, to soak in the deep, deep green of her eyes.
Eyes that fly wide open when she finally gets it. “No way!” She slugs me in the shoulder so hard Virginia barks. “Sorry,” Bree says, and I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or my dog. “You’re kidding me. Your aunt is the Genevieve Dugan?”
“The one and only,” I admit. “Celebrity wedding planner to the stars. You’ve seen her show?”
“Are you freakin’ kidding me? I made Sean binge-watch it with me a few weeks ago when he confessed he’s thinking of proposing to Amber. Genevieve is seriously your aunt?”
“On my father’s side. You didn’t hear this from me, but she’s been scouting for some West Coast locations to feature next season.”
I am shamelessly using my famous aunt and my three-year-old niece to get a date with this woman, and I’m not even sorry. I probably should be, but—
“I can’t believe you’re serious.” Bree bounces like a kid on Christmas morning, and I know for sure there’s no bra under that sweater.
Goddammit.
“I’m totally serious,” I say as most of the blood leaves my brain and heads south. “You’d be doing me a big favor by coming as my date. It would save me from being one of the only guys there. Besides, I’m not kidding—she really is looking for more West Coast spots for her show. She told me about it last week, asked if I’d show her around when she’s here.”
“This could be huge!” She bounces some more. “Oh my God, we could get Amber and Jade in on the action, and maybe they could be featured. Country chic wedding venues of the high desert or something like that.”
I love how she thinks. That she doesn’t regard the venue next door as competitors, but as friends whose business she wants to promote. A rising tide lifts all boats and all that. Just seeing the delight in her eyes makes my heart swell.
My heart isn’t the only thing swelling. “Please stop bouncing,” I plead, placing a hand on her shoulder. “So, is that a yes on the party?”
“What?” She looks down at the front of her sweater, then smirks. “It’s a strapless bra, Officer Pervy.”
Busted.
I clear my throat. “I was just looking out for your well-being.”
“Sure you were.” She grins as her sweater slips farther off her shoulder. She doesn’t try to fix it. “What time is the party?”
“Five o’clock on Saturday,” I tell her. “How about I pick you up at four-thirty?”
“It’s a date.”
A date. I try not to feel smug. “But not a date-date,” I point out. “Because you don’t date cops.”
Her lashes flutter as her sweater slips again, and all the blood leaves my brain. “Maybe I’ll make an exception for cops who buy cupcakes for dogs.”
“Who also have famous aunts and super-cute three-year-old nieces?”
“Sure, and nice blue eyes.”
I play it cool, not wanting to read too much into the compliment. “You’re thinking there might be more than one pupcake-purchasing cop with cute nieces, famous aunts, and blue eyes?”
Bree smiles, and I swear my heart trips over itself. “Let’s start with the one.”
On Friday morning at the Dandelion Café, I watch my father speak low into his lapel mike. “I have a visual on the subject. Over.”
The response is muffled by his earpiece, but my father nods and replies. “Copy that. Subject is halfway through a Belgian waffle with extra strawberries. Over.”
Since I’m sitting on the opposite side of the booth, I can’t see who he’s looking at. I resist the urge to steal a look behind me and focus on signaling the waitress for a coffee refill.
“Kids never pulled stuff like this back in my day,” my dad mutters, but he’s got a good-natured smile in place.
I pick up a slice of bacon and bite it in half. “Can’t say I remember it, either.”
“Nah, you did it once,” he says. “Remember? Junior year, you and that wild girl. What was her name?”
“Angelique.” I can’t believe I forgot. “I think she’s married to a teacher now.”
My dad nods and takes a sip of his coffee. “You always did like those little Bettie Boop brunettes,” he says. “It’s no wonder you’ve got a thing for that resort girl.”
I paste on my most neutral cop stare, which does diddly squat for the guy who taught it to me. “We’re just friends.”
He snorts so hard that his coffee sloshes over the rim when he sets it down. “Sure you are. That’s why you’re bringing her to Ainslie’s party tomorrow?”
“If I were looking to get lucky, you think I’d pick a three-year-old’s princess party as my seduction spot?”
My father grins and grabs the other half of my bacon. “I think that’s exactly what you’d do. Great idea, too. Let her see you’re a good family man.”
All right, time for a subject change. I saw off a hunk of my eggs benedict and spear it with my fork. “You saw Ryan Zonski’s legal team is moving forward with the appeal?”
My dad’s smile disintegrates faster than a snowball doused in hot maple syrup. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I know that case was a tough one for you.”
“It’s not about me,” I say, though my dad already knows this. He’s been in the business longer than me and has lived through plenty of gut-wrenching cases. Cases like Ryan Zonski, a strung-out teenager who drove off a cliff with his twin siblings in the car in a murder-suicide plot that went horribly wrong.
More wrong than a regular murder-suicide, that is.
“It’s more about the family,” I continue. “I don’t want them to have to go through that again.”
“Any luck finding new witnesses?”
“Yeah.” I nod my thanks to the waitress refilling my mug then take a fortifying sip. “Someone in Boston, of all places. A classmate who claims Zonski told her all about his plans before he did it.”
“Hmm.” My dad looks thoughtful. “Premeditation. How come she never came forward before?”
“Moved out of state with her family in the middle of their sophomore year,” I say. “Ended up in rehab a few months later, so she had no idea he actually went through with it.”
“Good job tracking her down.”
“Thank you.”
This. This is why I love having a dad in law enforcement. Someone to bounce ideas around, someone who congratulates me for feats I never explicitly took credit for. He’s right, tracking down the new witness was my work, but I don’t go around wrenching my arm to pat myself on the back for it. I love that my dad just knows.
“Austin, I heard the wonderful news.”
I turn to see Mrs. Percy bustling to the table, her salt-and-pepper perm glinting under florescent lights. She co-chairs the Deschutes Children’s Welfare Society with Mrs. Sampson, and the conspiratorial glint in her eye tells me I’m not going to like this conversation any more than I like talking about my love life or suicidal teenagers.
“What good news, Mrs. Percy?”
“That you’ve agreed to do the calendar.” She pats my bicep, taking a page out of Mrs. Sampson’s book. “The naughty cops calendar for the children.”
Good Lord. “Naughty cops for the children,” I repeat. “Please tell me that’s not the name of it?”
She gives me a dismissive wrist flick and smiles. “We’ll worry about that later. The important thing is that you’re doing it.” She leans down and lowers her voice. “We might even be able to get you on the cover.”
This is far from my greatest career ambition, partly because I never agreed to do the damn calendar. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I tell her. “I’m not posing for any calendar.”
Mrs. Percy’s face falls, and she looks at my father. “I thought you said—”
“We’ll talk about it.” My father gives her his campaign grin and winks. “Great scones, by the way. Lacey made them for breakfast yesterday and said you gave her the recipe.”
“Yes, well.” She preens a little. “We’ll be in touch.”
Mrs. Percy walks away, but not before ogling my chest and murmuring something about my abs. Christ.
“Thanks a lot,” I mutter to my dad. “Are you my pimp now?”
My dad grins and forks up a piece of pancake. “You’re a creative thinker,” he says. “That’s why you’re in line to be chief. You’ll figure out some way to make everyone happy.”
“Somehow, I doubt that involves me taking off my clothes.” The second the words leave my mouth, my brain zips straight to Bree. I can’t wait to see her later. Even if it’s just a kid’s birthday party, even if she’s got this no-cop rule, even if—
“Subject is on the move.” My father barks the word into his lapel mike and stands up. He takes one last swig of coffee and heads for the door, leaving me to get the bill. I shove two twenties under my plate and the last piece of bacon in my mouth before following my dad out onto the sidewalk.
He’s already mid-conversation with a nervous-looking blonde girl who can’t be more than sixteen. My father is frowning with his thumbs looped over his belt. The girl looks at him, then at me. We’re both in uniform.
“We have a reason to believe you’re dealing weapons to terrorists, young lady,” my father says. “Possibly smuggling aircraft carriers, too.”
“What?” The girl gives a nervous laugh, then stops. “No, I—this has to be some mistake.”
“Unlikely.” My father folds his arms over his chest as the girl’s gaze shifts to me. I almost feel bad playing along, but I fix my expression into a cop scowl and let my dad take the lead.
The girl swallows and reaches for her phone. “I just need to call—”
“Ma’am, please keep your hands where we can see them.”
The girl’s smile wobbles. My father must see that, too, because he unfolds his arms and softens his voice as he gestures to her car. “I’m sure we can clear this up easily. Ma’am, I’m going to need you to open your trunk.”
“My—my trunk?”
“What’s that?” My father touches his earpiece like he’s getting a call, even though I can tell he’s faking it. He glances at the girl. “Subject is a Caucasian female, sixteen years old—”
“Seventeen,” the girl says, fiddling nervously with her keys.
God, I hope we get this over with soon.
“Subject appears to be unarmed,” my father continues, “but with advanced martial arts training and a history of violence—”
“What?” The girl looks frantic now. “I don’t know any martial arts.”
“If you like, we can clear this up down at the jailhouse,” my father says.
“Jail? But I—”
“Please, ma’am—let’s do this the easy way and have a look in the trunk.”
The girl swallows and walks around to the back of her car. As she jams a key into the hole, a mop-haired boy in a rumpled gray suit approaches from the other side of the street. He has a dozen red roses in one hand and a nervous look on his face.
I don’t blame him. A stunt like this could go sideways in a hurry.
There’s an audible gasp from the girl as the trunk pops open, and a dozen helium balloons fly out. The girl sticks a tentative hand inside and pulls out a cardboard sign. I peer over her shoulder at the red words scrawled across it.
“You’ve arrested my heart,” she reads aloud. “Will you go to homecoming with me?”
She looks up at the boy, and her face transforms from terror to delight in the space of ten seconds. For a second, I think he’s going to drop to one knee, but no, that’s not how this goes.
It’s homecoming season—second only to promposal season in craziness—and this teenage Romeo just pulled off one helluva surprise invitation. Can’t say I’m in favor of the fear factor, but the kid gets props for execution.
“The boy’s dad is on the force,” my father mutters to me as the girl throws her arms around the kid’s ruddy neck. “Asked me to do this as a favor.”
The girl is sobbing in earnest now, but it’s happy tears. If I was pissed at my dad a few seconds ago for scaring the shit out of this poor girl, I can admit now it may have been worth it.
“Yes, I’ll go to homecoming with you,” the girl bawls. “Oh my God, I’m going to kill you.”
“Ma’am,” my father says. “Threatening homicide in front of two officers of the law is inadvisable.”
My father grins, and I catch myself smiling back.