She glanced at her rearview mirror and eased off the gas, the car drifting into a small lay-by. I grabbed my hat before stepping out. Her blinker flashed in a manic rhythm—probably one bad bulb away from dying altogether. Judging by the car’s condition, replacing the whole thing would’ve been easier.
I approached the driver’s window. She had both hands on the wheel, muttering to herself. I tapped the glass. It groaned as she tried to roll it down, shuddering to a stop halfway. She gave it a shove with both hands; no luck.
“Do you know how fast you were going?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.” The words came sharp—then her eyes widened, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.
Definitely not from Farrows End.
“License and registration,” I said, keeping my tone even.
“Oh, officer—”
“License and registration.”
She huffed, throwing her hands up. “Oh, come on.”
“Step out of the vehicle, ma’am.” My patience was already thinning.
“What for? No!” She reached for something on the passenger seat.
I popped the door open, plucked the keys from the ignition, and unbuckled her seat belt in one motion.
“Oi—hey! What do you think you’re doing?” she yelped, shoving at my chest.
“We’re a law-abiding town here, Miss. Now step out of the car, or I’ll do it for you.”
I let a smirk slip when her dark-brown eyes flared.
Her dark hair was piled into a messy knot, a few strands loose around her face. The rectangular glasses gave her a straight-laced, hot-librarian look that didn’t belong on the side of the road. Her skin had a warm, flawless glow that caught the cruiser’s lights.
I breathed in and caught a trace of her perfume—light, clean, too human after a day of stale coffee and asphalt. I stepped back before my body decided to embarrass me.
Either Carlton was right, or she was some kind of witch.
“You have five seconds to get out of the car.”
“God, keep your pants on, officer,” she muttered, pushing the door open.
I swallowed. Not because she was dressed to tempt—she wasn’t.
She looked like she’d stepped out of a library catalogue: emerald blouse buttoned to her throat, long sleeves, a brown-red skirt that brushed her boots. Victorian, severe, absolutely not my type.
So why the hell was my pulse doing that?
“Just give me a ticket or something and I’ll be on my way,” she snapped at me before pushing past me.
My mouth dropped at her audacity. She began muttering to herself before raising her hands in the air.
Something was off about her. I tugged my handcuffs off and moved behind her to capture her wrist and slide the cuff on.
“What are you doing?” she said, trying to pull away from me.
“You're being detained,” I said, chasing her nimble hand.
“Sir— ow,” she said as I captured her hand.
It had been a while, but I snapped the other cuff in place and guided her to the hood of my cruiser.
