Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
He salutes mockingly and jogs off.
Briar shakes her head. “Do you threaten them all day?”
“Only when they earn it.”
“And me?”
I face her fully.
“You’re the one starting trouble, sweetheart.”
Her pulse quickens. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You walked in here.”
I let my voice drop to a dangerous rumble. “That was enough.”
Her breath catches.
Junie shouts from the truck, “Captain Cole! What’s this button?”
I drag my gaze away from Briar with effort.
“This,” I mutter, “is going to be a long damn day.”
Briar laughs faintly. “For you or me?”
“For both of us.”
Her smile falters as our eyes meet again—loaded, heavy, unspoken.
I step back, but only enough to move toward the kid. The distance doesn’t help. Not even a little. The universe keeps throwing her at me. And I’m starting to think it’s not by accident.
Chapter Three
Briar
Itry to wipe the exhaustion from my face as I stumble through the grocery store aisles. Flashes of my very erotic dream about Captain Saxon Cole flicker behind my eyelids as I pass pasta and taco shells.
I only came to the grocery store for milk and bananas. That’s it. A normal, boring Thursday errand while Junie is occupied at her after-school art class.
What I absolutely did not come here for is the sight waiting for me in the produce aisle:
Captain Saxon Cole standing in front of the peach display like he’s interrogating them for state secrets.
He’s in jeans and a fitted gray T-shirt that looks illegal on his body. His arms are crossed—thick, veiny, tense—and he glowers at the fruit like it personally offended him.
I stop dead.
Blink.
Blink again.
Nope. Still here.
Still hot.
Still staring murderously at produce.
He picks up a peach, sniffs it, frowns, and puts it back. Then picks up another. Frowns harder. Okay, this is too good to pass up.
I clear my throat. “Do you always threaten your fruit before you buy it?”
Saxon’s head snaps toward me.
His stare hits like a controlled burn—low, hot, deliberate.
“Miss Tate,” he growls, like I’m his least favorite surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Didn’t expect to see you interrogating peaches,” I counter, moving closer. “Are they under arrest?”
His jaw flexes. “They’re all too soft.”
“Maybe they’re just scared of you.”
He stares. Long. Unblinking. My skin heats.
He looks me over—slow sweep, head to toe, unapologetic—like he’s checking for injuries, or weaknesses, or hidden weapons. Or maybe he’s just remembering pinning me in a school supply closet. His eyes drop to my mouth and stay there.
Too long. Way too long.
I swallow. “You okay?”
“No,” he says flatly, “I’m trying to buy peaches.”
“Ah.” I nod solemnly. “A life-or-death struggle.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely mocking you.”
His eyes flick upward, pinning me again. “You always tease men twice your size?”
“Only the ones who act like peaches are out to get them.”
He exhales sharply through his nose—almost a laugh, if he’d ever admit to laughing.
He wouldn’t.
He holds up a peach. “This one’s mush.”
I take it. “Because you’re squeezing it like you’re testing a hose line.”
He grunts.
I set the peach down and pick up another. “You want one that gives a little when you press it. Not too hard, not too soft.”
He watches my fingers press into the skin. “Like this,” I say as he watches intently.
What a mistake.
His eyes darken, locked on my hands, following the gentle roll of the peach in my palm like it’s something filthy.
“Soft,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “but not too soft.”
My breath catches.
His gaze lifts—and holds me entirely still. He’s not looking at the peach anymore. He’s looking at me. At my mouth.
Again.
Heat curls low in my belly. I force a swallow. “Exactly.”
He steps closer. Not much. Just a few inches. But the aisle feels too small suddenly. Too warm. Too full of him.
“Show me again,” he says.
The words hit me somewhere they shouldn’t.
“It’s just peaches,” I say lamely.
“Didn’t ask about peaches.”
My pulse stumbles.
I try for breezy confidence and fail. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The staring thing.”
He doesn’t blink. “Maybe I like what I’m staring at.”
My knees go weak. “Captain—”
“Saxon.” He corrects me quietly, firmly. “Say it.”
I absolutely should not.
“Saxon,” I whisper.
He inhales like the sound hits him somewhere deep. Then he steps in. Just enough our arms almost brush. “Good girl.”
My thighs press together instinctively. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t need to. The wrongness of it—public, inappropriate, charged—makes my skin buzz.
“So,” I say, trying to steady myself, “you need help picking fruit.”
“I don’t need help,” he growls.
“You very much looked like you needed help.”
“I was evaluating my options.”
I snort. “They’re peaches, not criminal suspects.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smirk. “You see me evaluate suspects?”
“I saw you evaluate me in a closet.”
He goes unnervingly still.
“You weren’t a suspect,” he says, voice rough. “You were trouble.”
“And here I thought we agreed I was innocent.”
“You’re not innocent.” He leans in, his breath brushing my cheek. “And I’m not fooled.”
My pulse trips into a sprint.
“Maybe you’re projecting,” I manage.
He lifts a brow. “Onto who?”