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“So you’re saying sex is all there is to do once it turns dark here?”
“I—well, no—I—I don’t know. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Oi. I feel heat spreading up my neck to my face. Why?! What’s happened to the fierce, snarky Eliot from a second ago? I need her back.
Owen laughs. “Get in the car.” He opens the passenger side door and waits for me to get inside.
As I see it, I have two options. I can act like a petulant brat and walk anyway. Or I can swallow my annoyance and get in the SUV. I let out an impressive sigh. Then I climb into the passenger seat. He closes my door. I think I glimpse a smile as he walks around the front of the SUV. I wonder if it hurt.
two
OWEN
I takemy time crossing in front of the cruiser to the driver’s door. Is it possible to be completely undone by a woman?
I was sitting at my desk filling out some paperwork when the first call came in. Some nut job was setting off fireworks in the middle of the street outside one of the handful of bars on the edge of town. Great, nothing like a drunk and disorderly at the end of a shift to make my night.
But that wasn’t what I found when I arrived. Not exactly. What I found was a crimson-haired warrior standing in the middle of the street with fire shooting into the sky in front of her like in some action movie.
I stood there for a good five minutes just staring at her. Her long tresses floated around her in the breeze, and she had curves that made my mouth water.
And then she shot me with a damn Roman candle. It’s not life-threatening, but it burns like hell. Then in the office, the memory of her on her knees in front of me, her soft touch caressing my body like a lover, my hand twitching to wrap in her long tresses was so strong it took my breath away.
Reaching the driver’s door way too soon, I take a deep breath before opening it. She’s sitting with her arms crossed over her chest staring out the passenger window. Her deep auburn hair flows over one shoulder like a siren’s song pulling me under. Since when have I been so obsessed with hair?
Never in my thirty-four years have I had such a visceral reaction to someone. I haven’t even gotten to her eyes, which are the color of bourbon. I can revisit that later tonight.
The whole changing shirts thing had been a complete middle school move. I work out religiously to stay in shape for my job. I know I have a decent body, but I’ve never blatantly tried to impress a woman with it.
“So why Eliot?” I ask, desperate to get my attention on something other than the problem growing below my belt.
“Why what, Eliot?” She spears me with those golden pools of amber. Great, I’m obsessing over her eyes now.
“No, I mean, why the name Eliot?”
“Oh.” She looks out the front windshield. “My parents are both professors. My mom teaches literature, so we’re named after novelists. There’s also a real possibility they might have been high.” I snort a laugh. That’s something I’ve never done before. She smiles, making my heart race. “My younger sisters are Austen and Brontë.”
“Wow, your mother must have been into British Victorian writers. Well, except Austen of course. She was Regency.” I look over to find Eliot gaping at me. Do I tell her I’ve already worn out more library cards than I can remember? Or that I met her younger sister, Austen, the first day I moved to town?
“I guess it’s better than being named after someone’s grandpa,” she snaps.
I should be offended. But it’s hard to be when she bats her eyes at me. Even in derision.
“Mine, actually. I’m named after my grandpa Owen and my other grandpa Ambrose. You tell me what I should go with.” She has the decency to blush. The pink creeping up her face just adds to her beauty, which in turn, adds to my growing problem. I need to get her out of my vehicle before I embarrass myself.
“I would definitely choose Owen. Though Ambrose has a certain appeal to it. At least it’s better than Eliot.”
“I like your name,” I blurt out, much like a nervous teenager. I roll my eyes at myself. She pins me with her sultry, warm eyes again, and I fight not to blurt out everything I’m thinking. “It’s unique.”
“It is that,” she answers. “Oh, this is me.”
I pull the vehicle over to the curb as she throws open the door. Snatching up her wallet, she hops down. She turns around, her eyebrows knitted in concern.
“I really am sorry about shooting you. Not about the fireworks though. I needed to do that. You should get someone to look at that though. No need for it to become infected. Good night, Officer Steele.”
Before I can get another word out, she closes the door, throws her long hair over her shoulder, and walks to her car. I watch her as she pops her trunk. Pulling out a garbage bag, she begins to clean up the remains of the fireworks.
“So you’re a deviant with a conscience,” I say, opening my door.
