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Leah
If Leah had an answer to that question she'd be telling it to Drew as fast as she could, just so she could get the hell away from him before her panties combusted. Last she'd heard Drew was a cop in Fort Worth. What in the hell was he doing here with a sheriff's badge on a chain around his neck, a police light on his truck, and a few biscuit crumbs on the front of his white T-shirt? That little detail should have made him less hot. Sadly, it did not.
He must have caught her staring because he glanced down and brushed away the crumbs. She inhaled a deep breath and tried to force a moment of Zen to
happen so she'd stop thinking about just what he liked to do with those strong hands when they were both naked, sweaty, and desperate for release. Of course, because she was trying to do the opposite that meant all she could picture was the wicked look on his face when he wrapped a silk tie around her ankle and secured one leg to the footboard before turning his attention to her other ankle.
And after?
Oh God.
After.
Her nipples tightened to hard buds as she ground her back molars together and did mental inventory of her most demanding customers’ annoying quirks to banish the memory from her mind. It worked. Sort of. Well, at least enough for her brain to start forming words again.
"I thought you were in Fort Worth," she said, sounding almost like she wasn't about to jump his bones in the middle of Sam Houston Avenue.
"Not anymore. For the next few days I'm still the Catfish Creek Sheriff, but don't change the subject," he said in the low, rumbly thing his voice did when he was pissed. "What kind of trouble are you in now?"
Ah. Yes. She'd forgotten. She was back in Catfish Creek where nothing ever changed and people were always the same as they'd been the day they'd peaked—or plateaued—in high school. That meant that she couldn't possibly be anything other than the girl who dressed in all black and hung out with all the pot heads behind the football stadium and took advanced calc with the nerds. Never mind the fact that she owned one of the most successful marijuana shops in the state of Colorado, was on the board of her local small business association in Denver, and contributed to local charities because in Catfish Creek she'd always be Leah Camacho, bad girl with a big brain.
Decade-old resentment started to float to the surface and she planted a hand on one of her hips. "Why would I be in trouble?"
Drew raised an eyebrow and snorted. "You pull into town like a rocket in a fancy car that you're driving into the ground like money doesn't mean a thing to you."
"I own a successful business." Not successful enough for an Aston Martin in the garage, but what did she care?
"You run a pot shop," he retorted.
"Yeah, one that's totally legal in Denver." She should have expected the judgment she heard in Mr. By the Book's tone, but like an asshole, she hadn't. That stung. "Why, do you want to search the car?" Unable to stop herself from tormenting the both of them, she took a step closer to him and looked up at him through her thick eyelashes knowing just how much he liked to feel in charge—he never took that domineering attitude off, not even when he took off the badge. "You wanna search me?"
His body stiffened. "I don't think that's necessary."
For a second, she teetered on the edge of reaching out and touching him—letting her fingers skim down the length of his broad shoulders, across the solid wall of muscle he called a chest, and over the hard plane of abs in a journey that led straight to his belt buckle and all the hard goodness that was tucked away inside his pants—but she pulled back just in time, snapped out of the coquette imitation and back to her normal self. "Good, then how about helping me change the tire?"
He let out a half groan, half sigh and started to roll up his sleeves. "Give me the jack."
She could change the tire. It wasn't that she didn't know how, but some things were too good to miss. Seeing Drew Jackson's forearms flex as he went to work on her flat tire was one of them, especially when he'd be so focused on the job at hand that he wouldn't know she was watching.
"So what's the deal with those guys following you?" he said in mid-tire change.
Leah had noticed the ginormous truck in her rearview mirror about thirty miles outside of Fort Worth. It hadn't gotten weird until she noticed the truck mirroring every one of her moves as she switched lanes, passed cars and did an almost stop at a gas station. By the time she'd gotten to Catfish Creek, adrenaline was slingshotting through her body hitting every nerve.
"I really don't know." She wished like hell she was lying, but she had no frickin' clue who those assholes were.
Drew grunted in answer and finished putting on the donut tire he'd gotten out of the trunk. "This should get you to the service station. They'll probably have to order the tire you need. I doubt that Vasquez's Auto Care carries Aston Martin-approved tires."
Oh, she was so not forking over that kind of cash. "It's a rental."
"That's one way to treat yourself."
Pride pricked at his disapproving tone, she doubled down on his obvious belief that she was some sort of drug queen pin. "At least I know how to have a good time."
He stood up, eyeballing her from head to foot and back up again as he wiped his hands on the small mechanic's towel that had been in the trunk next to the jack. The look made her flush in all the best ways as warm desire slid across her skin as tangible as a lover's touch. Judging by the knowing smirk on his face, he noticed.
"As I recall," he said, tossing the towel in the small compartment where he'd already put the jack, "you know how to do a lot of things—most of which don't exactly fit in the good category."
Not when it came to them. "Are you flirting with me, Drew Jackson?"
