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Addie smiled, but that smile faded when a police cruiser pulled into the parking lot.
The lady rambled on, “… last week her Muffin peed all over my roses, and when he came in the house, he lifted his leg on my new couch.”
The SUV stopped in front of the laundromat, and the driver’s door opened. An officer unfolded from the cruiser, looking like he was SWAT and had just busted a mafia drug ring.
He wore a dark blue uniform with a bulletproof vest that had the word “POLICE” across it in reflective lettering. He had on cargo pants paired with two thigh holsters, as well as one on his hip, all of them holding weapons.
His sleeves were pushed up to reveal the tattoos running the length of his left forearm. He didn’t have a police cap on, but his short walnut strands were messy, as if he had been wearing one.
His gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes, but he looked about thirty and was tall—really tall—with a muscled, sculpted frame.
He shut his door and strode around the front of the SUV, heading toward the laundromat.
Addie stumbled back, crashing into the laundry cart and knocking it over.
I frowned. What was going on? She looked like she was terrified she was going to be arrested for murder.
The bell above the door dinged.
Addie ran over and grabbed her purse off the washer. “I gotta go.”
“Whoa, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Mason,” a very deep masculine voice barked. “Don’t even think about it.”
Addie’s body twisted as she swung her gaze to the door. “Crap,” she mumbled. She inhaled a breath. “Hey, Saint. What are you doing here?” she replied with a tense smile as she tossed her purse back onto the washer.
He bent to right the laundry cart she’d toppled over and said something to Mrs. Franklin, who smiled at him. She responded, but I couldn’t hear what she said, and he politely nodded.
Then all niceties evaporated as he locked eyes on Addie again. He headed toward us, and his combat boots didn’t thump or clonk: they were completely soundless, just like him.
It was obvious he wasn’t interested in me. He didn’t even look at me. No, his radar was laser-focused on Addie.
“You meet Macayla yet? We went to camp together. Ethan North’s sister,” Addie said with a slight quiver in her tone as he stopped a few feet from her. “Macayla, this is Saint. Or Gabe. Or you can call him Chief. He likes that one.”
Saint’s head tilted with an almost undistinguishable nod in my direction.
“Hey,” I said.
He stepped closer to Addie. “You lose your phone, Mason?”
“No.” She sidestepped him. But Saint was having none of it. He moved, swift and agile, caging her between his muscled arms and one of the washing machines.
He didn’t touch her, but he didn’t have to. His pure, unadulterated magnitude was enough to keep anyone from escaping.
“I called,” he said. “Numerous times.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”
He removed his sunglasses and tossed them on top of the washing machine Addie had her butt pressed against. He had beautiful eyes, dark with long black lashes that any girl would kill for.
“I call, you need to answer.” His tone was laced with warning.
I stiffened. Addie had never mentioned dating anyone. Or maybe Saint was her ex? Either way, him demanding she answer his phone calls was asshole territory.
Addie fiddled with the cuffs of her sleeves, pulling them down so they covered the bulbs of her palms. She often did that. She also always wore long sleeves, even when it was scorching hot outside.
“I was out of town,” she said.
