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Resting a hand on her doorframe, I lean down. “Where’s home to you?”
She furrows her brow but answers the question. “Nashville.”
Point made. “That sign back there says this is your home, and since you’ve just stated it’s not, I see no reason to keep it up. We should clear the space, allow for some other advertising to go up and draw people into the town.” And also because how in the hell am I supposed to forget how potent your smile is when I see it every goddamn day?
Confusion and anger flash behind her eyes, and for about a millisecond, I regret my tone. Until she opens her mouth. “What did I do to piss you off?”
“Sweetheart, that list is so long, we’d never get through it.”
She opens her mouth again, and for a second, I think she’s going to fire off a comeback. Instead, she snaps her lips together and looks out the front windshield. “Are we done here, officer?”
“Not quite. I still have to issue you a ticket. License and registration, please.”
Her head snaps toward me. “Are you serious? We’re three miles from town. There isn’t another car in sight.”
“Doesn’t matter. Law’s the law, and you broke it.”
Scarlett rolls her eyes. It’s a gesture I often hate. But for some reason, when she does it, I find my dick getting hard, and that pisses me the fuck off.
“You were going seventy-five in a forty-five.”
“Come on, Tucker,” she pouts, and I know she’s about to start with the plea to get out of her fine. “If I remember correctly, we broke that law every night for a week straight when you turned sixteen.”
“And we got pulled over three times.”
Her red lips tilt up. “But not once did we get a ticket.”
“Because Officer Perry was a sick fuck and allowed the little bit of cleavage you flashed him to get us off the hook.”
Scarlett’s eyes flare to life. I’ve seen that look a thousand times, which is why I shake my head. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I wasn’t.”
Yeah, right. She thought about it, and I couldn’t say that I wouldn’t have enjoyed the hell out of it. “You could’ve killed someone.”
“Tucker—”
“Or yourself. License and registration. I won’t ask again,” I say with an air of authority.
“For some reason, I don’t think you’d care,” she mumbles as she digs around in her purse and glove box. When she retrieves what she’s looking for, she slaps the cards into my hand. “You’re not really going to give me a ticket, are you?”
“This isn’t L.A. or Nashville or New York, or wherever the hell you normally are. Your name and your money won’t get you out of this.”
“God,” she growls, tossing her hands into the air. “I wasn’t using my name or money to try and get out of anything. Why do people keep saying that?”
Instead of answering, I pat the side of her car. “Sit tight. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“I have places to be,” she yells, sticking her head out the window.
“Don’t we all, sweetheart?”
She huffs, and I can’t help but laugh as I climb into my car. I pull up my computer, punch in a few numbers, and take a whole hell of a lot longer to go through the process of issuing a ticket than it would normally take—just to piss her off.
When the clock hits five, indicating the end of my shift, I slide from the car.
“Slow down next time,” I say, handing her the ticket along with her cards.
She rips them from my hand, tosses them on the front seat, and rolls up the window without a word.
I watch her pull onto the road before climbing into my car and following behind her. Not because she’s done something wrong or because I’m trying to keep an eye on her, but because I’m certain she’s heading to her dad’s house, and I happen to live next door.
I’m sure that’ll tick her off.
I grin, enjoying myself more than I have in years.
It only takes us about ten minutes to wind our way through town. Scarlett pulls into the driveway of her childhood home, and since my brother’s car is in mine, I park on the street.
My eyes are drawn to her toned legs as she climbs out of the car.
Scarlett fucking Kincaid.
If she weren’t standing in front of me giving me the stink-eye, I’d swear I was seeing things.
“You didn’t need to follow me home,” she says, with a hand on her hip. “In case you didn’t notice, I went the speed limit.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t following you.”
“Really?” She lifts a well-manicured eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest.
She’s as untouchable now as the day she left.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” I say, leaning a hip against the back of my car.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
