"She should."
"Yeah, well." He let go of the bag, clapping my shoulder with enough force to make me stumble. "Since when has 'should' ever stopped any of us from going after what we want?"
He left me alone with the bag and my bloody knuckles and the truth I didn't want to examine too closely.
I wasn't just attracted to Quinn Jenkins.
I was already half in love with her.
And that was going to destroy us both.
Later, I sat in my apartment, nursing a beer and my wounded hands. The place had never bothered me before—basic furniture, bike parts in the corner, exactly what a bachelor needed. Now the silence pressed in, making me wonder what it would be like to have someone to come home to.
I pictured Quinn in her apartment, pacing, frustrated, absolutely as wound up as I was. Tomorrow would be worse. The tension would keep building until one of us snapped. And when that happened...
When it happened, Pike Creek would never be the same.
I finished my beer and headed for the shower, needing cold water to shock some sense into me. But even under the icy spray, all I could think about was Quinn Jenkins and how she'd looked at me tonight—like she wanted to arrest me and fuck me in equal measure.
The worst part wasn't the wanting. I'd wanted plenty of women before. The worst part was knowing she wanted me too, and watching her fight it. Watching her try to be the good daughter, the professional deputy, when everything in her was screaming for something else.
Something dangerous.
Something that looked a lot like me.
Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I'd stay away from Buck's. Give us both space to cool down. Let the tension ease before it exploded into something neither of us could take back.
But even as I made the promise, I knew I was lying.
Because Quinn Jenkins had gotten under my skin in a way no one ever had, and I wasn't going to stop until she admitted she felt the same way.
Phoenix was right.
I was completely, utterly wrecked.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
CHAPTER 3
QUINN
Two weeks. Two weeks of "accidentally" running into Wolf McCarthy all over Pike Creek, and I was losing my mind.
At Bea's Diner during the breakfast rush—he'd be there in the corner booth, drinking coffee black while I tried to eat my eggs and ignore how his presence made the air feel charged. Even at the grocery store at ten on a Sunday morning, because apparently badass bikers needed milk and bread too.
Each encounter left me more wound up than the last. The way he'd lean against surfaces, all casual confidence. How he'd watch me over his coffee cup with those blue eyes that promised things I shouldn't want. The lazy grins when he'd catch me staring.
Tonight, though, I'd managed to avoid him. Made it through my entire shift without a single Pike Creek Rider sighting. Small victories.
The gas station fluorescents hummed overhead as I grabbed a basket inside the Quick Stop at eleven PM. Off duty meant yoga pants and an old Montana State tank top that had seen better days, my service weapon locked in my glove compartment. Hair in a messy bun because who was I trying to impress at this hour?
I needed ice cream. The kind of terrible, overpriced convenience store ice cream that would help me forget about the way Wolf had watched me at Bea's this morning, that knowing smirk when I'd deliberately sat with my back to him.
The way I'd still felt his attention like hands on my skin.
The freezer section offered limited options—all of them overpriced and probably freezer-burned. I debated between chocolate chip cookie dough and mint chocolate when I heard it. The distinctive rumble of a Harley pulling into the station.
My whole body went tight, awareness prickling along my skin before I even turned around. Through the window, Wolf swung off his bike, all fluid grace and controlled power. Leather cut that clung to his torso, jeans that fit like sin.
