Why would I choose to “go big” when the other option is to go home?
- Imogen Warner, attempting to get out of plans
A cop.
Of course he was a cop.
Just my ever-flipping luck. I’d been in town for point-two seconds and already my plan to fly under the radar was completely off the rails. I swear, I was a goddamned magnet for worst-case-scenarios. The lump in my throat turned to a ball of nerves, which I attempted (unsuccessfully) to swallow down with a series of rapid gulps. It was nearly impossible not to skitter like a bug beneath a flashlight beam as he came toward me, looking me up and down in a laser-like fashion that seemed to leave not a single detail unaccounted for. I watched his lips part, the beginning of a question forming on them, and I braced myself for the inevitable inquiries.
Who are you?
What are you doing here?
Where are you coming from, tonight?
Can I see your license and registration?
Only… the inquisition never came. As his gaze swept back up to my face and he got his first glimpse at close proximity, his mouth clicked shut, the sharp line of his jaw tightening. It was barely perceptible, but I’d swear his confident stride faltered a bit; he rocked ever-so-slightly back on his heels, as though I’d startled him. Which, in itself, was odd. (In my experience, people were rarely startled by petite blonde women in cheap platform sandals and vintage short-shorts.)
For one blinding moment of panic, I thought he might recognize me — but that was impossible. I’d been out of the public eye for ten years. No way would a random cop in Massachusetts pick me out of a lineup.
He recovered his composure almost instantly, smoothing his expression clear as he came to a halt a handful of paces away. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored lenses of his aviators, but I could tell that they were taking my measure with a sharpness that made every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. After a few moments, when he still hadn’t said anything — merely stood there staring at me — I couldn’t take the strange silence anymore.
“Uh…Hi. Can I help you with something, officer?”
“Detective,” he corrected automatically, still seeming distracted. Still staring at me like… like… Well, frankly, I wasn’t quite sure how he was staring at me. I just knew I wanted him to stop. In my experience, attention from law enforcement never led anywhere good.
“Right. Of course.” I forced a smile through clenched teeth, eager to get this over with. “Can I help you with something,Detective?”
He jolted at my question, as though it had snapped him out of a daze. “That’s what I’m meant to be asking you.”
“Sorry?”
“If you need help. That’s what I’m meant to be asking you.”
“Except… you didn’t.” I swallowed hard, still fighting the lump in my throat. It had only gotten larger since he started speaking in that soft, deep timbre. “Ask, that is.”
“Right.” His chest expanded as he took a deep inhale. He seemed to realize he was acting strangely and recovered his manners through sheer force of will. Reaching out a hand for me to shake, he offered a belatedly introduction. “Detective Caden Hightower, Salem PD, at your service.”
I ignored his outstretched hand. My gloves were, lamentably, sitting on my passenger seat. No way in hell was I risking skin-to-skin contact with this guy. If he triggered a vision, I’d probably spend the night in a padded cell waiting for a psych consult.
“Germaphobe,” I said by way of explanation, looking pointedly at his proffered hand.
His lips twitched. “Is that a fact?”
Why did he sound like he thought I was full of shit? He didn’t even know me! I felt myself getting irritated. Or, perhaps I should say evenmoreirritated. Between the breakdown, the Lord of the Rings character cameo, and now a freaking cop butting into my business, this particular evening was not going to make the list of ‘Imogen’s Best Nights Ever’in my memoirs, that was for sure.
“Yes,” I replied in a rather snippy tone. “It’s a fact.”
He stared me down. Once again, I got the distinct impression he thought I was a total bullshitter. Which, to be fair, I was — but he didn’t know that.
“Look,” I continued, striving for a level tone. (Only partially succeeding.) “I’m already having a bit of a shitty night, seeing as it’s getting dark, my cellphone battery is dead, and my car has decided to melt down in a way that would impress an overstimulated toddler—” This statement prompted a chuckle from him. It was a good chuckle, low and genuine, the kind that came straight from his gut — and set off a flurry of butterflies in my own. I ignored them and barreled on valiantly. “—So, if you’re going to give me a ticket for parking in a tow zone or a citation for spewing exhaust dust all over your city streets, just do it already.” I swallowed hard and tacked on a belated, “With all due respect.Sir. I mean…Officer. Er…Detective.”
He stared at me for another long, unsettling beat. Then, he did something that made all the air evacuate my lungs in one great gust. He reached up and pulled off his aviators, revealing the most stunningly blue set of eyes I’d ever seen in my life.
Christ.
A girl could drown in those eyes.