He wouldn’t actually ticket her, would he? Could he?
“Rangers don’t write tickets,” she stated. It was all bluster, though, because she didn’t know.
“We’re fully commissioned to enforce any Texas law, including traffic violations. We also have full arrest authority.”
“Is that how tonight ends? You arrest me?”
He exhaled through his nose. When he spoke again, he had calmed somewhat. “You drifted toward the other lane. If you’d overcorrected, you’d be in an ER right now. I swear, it shaved five years off my life!”
Her irritation faded. This wasn’t about control; it was genuine concern for her safety.
“I was distracted,” she admitted. “I… uh… haven’t had a first date in a really long time.” Tentatively, she laid her hand on his chest, the first touch she’d initiated. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m sorry for that.”
He waited, eyes on her.
“And… I’ll slow down,” she promised.
His tension eased, but only slightly. “Good,” was all he said.
“Can we continue? Despite the drunks and the rain, and the distracted driving—”
“And the speeding.”
“That too,” she conceded. “I was having a good time and really wanted to show off my gallery.”
“We can, but there’s one other thing.”
She tried not to groan as she struggled to recall if she’d renewed her tags in the past year or had her brake lights checked.
“Look at me, Erica.” He waited until she did. “If I’m in the vehicle and conscious, I’m driving.”
She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Control freak.”
He leaned in close enough that she felt his body heat. “No, darlin’. It’s only that I prefer not to gamble with things I care about.”
Her heart tripped. Somehow, she managed to whisper, “Deal.”
He focused on her mouth, and she thought he might lean in for a kiss. Instead, he said, “Show me your favorite.”
She blinked. “My favorite?”
“Painting,” he supplied.
“Oh, right.” She moved deeper into the gallery, trailing her fingers along several frames, hoping to ground herself in something solid. He had that effect on her.
He followed closely, which didn’t help.
She stopped in front of a spring morning with purple wildflowers set against a sunrise sky of pinks, purples, and oranges. He bent to read the signature—Erica Stevens.
“This is your favorite?”
“And you’re wondering what that says about my ego?” She huffed a little laugh. “It’s not so much about the piece as the subject matter. I found this meadow about twenty miles north of here and had to paint it.” She scanned the room. “I actually can’t pick a favorite. They’re all uniquely beautiful.”
He moved to another framed oil, a seascape, by a former student who was one of her best sellers.
“I can see why you come here when you need everything to stop.”
“Well… not exactly here.” She led him toward a smaller space in the rear. “This is my studio. It’s usually my happy place and my haven of escape.”
