“Maisie’s been meaning to call her. Misses their stitch and bitch since she broke her wrist.”
Brock grunted. “How’s her wrist?”
Mickey’s light-blue eyes twinkled. “Hasn’t slowed her down much. She’s still in the garden every day, still cooking. Only thing she can’t do is stitch, and it’s killing her. Had plans to make each of the grandkids a quilt for Christmas. Doesn’t look like that’s going to be happening.”
Brock snorted and nodded for the umpteenth time when Mickey slid a fresh draft in front of him.
“Tequila, please,” came a strong, feminine voice beside him.
Brock glanced up from where he’d been studying the condensation on his beer glass, only to see a mass of red curls plop down beside him, followed by the sweetest, most beautiful smell. Honeysuckle, maybe? He really had no idea. He only knew that he liked it.
Mickey poured an ounce of tequila, placed a lime wedge on top and set ashaker of salt with the drink in front of the mystery redhead. She did the ritual of salt, shot and lime before wiping the back of her wrist across her mouth and asking for another.
Brock lifted one eyebrow at Mickey. But the Santa Claus-looking bartender-slash-surrogate father just snorted, smirked, shrugged and poured the lady another.
“Hope you’re not driving, sweetheart,” Mickey said as he brought up a bowl of limes and placed them in front of her.
She tossed back the second shot and shook her head. “No. I’m a cop. Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll cab or walk if I have to.”
That voice.
She’s a cop.
Same one?
Couldn’t be.
Brock glanced next to him, but all he saw was curls. Had the cop’s hair been the same color? He couldn’t remember. That wasn’t something he normally paid attention to. He knew she was a redhead. A hot redhead. But was this the same cop? There had to be other redheaded cops on The West Shore. But then what was she doing here in Fern Valley? The West Shore was a good twenty minutes from here.
Finally, after what felt like ages of inconspicuous glancing at the woman next to him, waiting for her to move her hair or turn her head slightly, she reached her pale, slender hand up and tucked a wavy strand behind her ear.
It was her.
“Another one, please,” she said, lifting her head at Mickey.
Brock chuckled to himself. Had the little copper had a rough day? Only sorority girls and people looking to forget their day slammed tequila the way Constable—shit, what was her last name again?—was.
“Rough day?” he asked.
She grunted as she licked the salt off the back of her hand. “You could saythat.” She downed the shot and popped the lime into her mouth before turning to face him. And damn if those bright blue eyes didn’t double in size from surprise. She sucked the lime into her mouth by accident and began to choke.
Stifling yet another smile and the urge to laugh, Brock swung his arm out and began pounding her on the back with his palm. “Y’all right,constable?Gonna live?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she coughed the lime into her hand, reached for the tall glass of water Mickey had placed in front of her after shot number two and chugged it, all the while glaring at him over the rim as she drained the water.
“What on earth are you doing here?” she asked, coming up for air and once again wiping the back of her wrist across her mouth.
“Same as you.”
The corner of her sexy little mouth lifted. “Drowning your sorrows?”
“You have sorrows?”
She let out an exhausted sigh and nodded.
“You should probably eat something if you’re going to continue slamming back the drinks the way you are,” he said.
“Yeah?” She sneered. Brock wasn’t normally the kind of guy interested in chit-chat, but for some reason he wanted to know more about this lively little cop, despite the fact that the vibe she was throwing his way said “leave me the fuck alone.” “You going to buy me dinner?”
