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My nails press into my palm, an attempt to stop myself from smacking the smirk off my asshole of a landlord’s arrogant face.
Ronnie—said asshole—widens his grin. “Tell that to the police.”
“The police?” I shriek. “You called the cops?”
“Sure did.”
He gestures toward what’s left of the burned-down complex I’d called home this morning. Thankfully, the firefighters extinguished the flames and are loading their supplies back into the truck while my neighbors watch. My apartment has been reduced to rubble and ashes, my belongings scorched, and Ronnie the Dick found it necessary to point the blame at me.
He chuckles. “Perfect timing. They’ve arrived.”
His threat doesn’t alarm me as much as it should, and I force a smile before swinging around. This will be cake. Flirting has saved me from countless speeding tickets. They’ll take one look at me and know I’m not some pyromaniac.
That confidence shatters when I spot the officer stepping out of the police cruiser across the street. My breathing falters, my grin collapsing faster than panties drop after prom, and an ache plummets through my chest.
Am I dreaming?
I smack my cheeks. Squint my eyes. Pinch myself.
There’s no questioning it.
It’s him.
Years have passed, but his handsome face has been etched into my memory since age six. There will never be a time I won’t recognize the sun-kissed, gorgeous man headed in my direction. More scruff covers his strong cheeks than when we were teens, and his chest is broader, his muscles larger.
His almond-shaped carbon-black eyes are pinned my way, attempting to outstare me, as if I’m a target he can’t wait to hit. Vindication rides along with his all-business attitude. He remembers our history—how he begged me not to leave him and then told me I was dead to him when I walked away.
No amount of flirting will save me today.
I am so fucking fucked.
My father will kill me when I call for bail money.
I’m frozen in place, watching him grow closer, his partner behind him. My brain tells me to make a run for it, but my legs aren’t agreeing. Instead, I use this time to take in this new man.
Everything—from the way he walks to his body—has changed. The navy uniform envelops his solidly built frame, advertising every modification on him. His jet-black hair has grown out from his boyish cut in high school. Hard lines fill his stunning face, and his strong jaw is clenched—a silent admission his life hasn’t been a fairy tale since our breakup.
This familiar yet unfamiliar man no longer looks at me with love.
It’s hate. Pure, unadulterated hatred.
Gage Perry—OfficerGage Perry—towers over my small frame like a high-rise when he reaches me.
“What … what are you doing here?” I stutter out.Fucking A.I can’t even form a complete sentence without failing.
Don’t let him sense your nervousness.
The expression on his face switches from hateful to winning, like a guy who hit the lottery. “Oh, little hell-raiser, you didn’t hear the news? I moved home. Disappointed you weren’t my first call?”
Oh, yeah, still hates my ass.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” It’s more of a question to myself than him.
“Why would they?” His voice is deep, sharp, like daggers stabbing through my chest. “What I do is none of your business, is it, Lauren? You made that clear years ago.” Our eye contact is broken when he glances over to Ronnie and points at me. “This your arsonist?”
Ronnie puffs out his chest. “I believe the fire started in her apartment.”
Gage’s attention flashes back to me. “That true?”
