Who was a fan of the walk of shame?
No one.
It was called the walk ofshamefor a reason.
The words “for shame” screamed at her in her mind, competing with the headache.
She’d done it once or twice before, the walk of shame, and it was always embarrassing. At least this time she had worn running shoes and not strappy hooker shoes. Slowly, quietly, she pried open her eyes, only to come face-to-face with the man who’d rocked her world and then some just a few hours earlier. His eyes were closed and his mouth partially open, giving him almost a childlike look. Devastatingly handsome, and now rugged too with a five o’clock shadow of sexy scruff. And it was the first time he didn’t look on edge or high alert. The lines in his forehead had relaxed, and his eyebrows were no longer pinched. He was at ease, at peace.
She studied his face a little bit longer; small white scars dotted his chin along the left side, most likely where stitches or staples had been at one point, while another, redder scar in the shape of a sickle and about the size of a raisin ran up into his right eyebrow. How old was he? It was hard to tell. She glanced down at his arm as it draped across her belly. Soft, dark hair covered freckles, while a big, calloused hand gripped her ribs.
He made a noise as if he was about to wake up, and she braced herself for the awkward morning chit-chat. Instead he just rolled over, leaving her devoid of his touch and, for some strange reason, melancholy because of the loss. But she took her opening and silently slid out of bed, tracked down her clothes and then, like a stealthy ninja, left his house, hoping to God that it wasn’t pouring rain outside.
Chapter 3
5 weeks later …
On nasty days, which were in abundance in November, it was a blessing that the police station had an in-house gym, a place where cops could go and work out before or after shift with top-notch machines and equipment without ever having to leave the comfort of work. So when she couldn’t get a run in because Mother Nature was having a temper tantrum and thrashing the wind and rain around Fern Valley, Krista headed to work a few hours early and hit the gym. Started the day off right, with a clear head. Got the endorphins pumping.
It was four thirty in the morning, and the station gym was dead quiet. She’d woken up feeling queasy, but rather than think too hard about it, Krista just chalked it up to the idea of having to work with Myles all day. That was enough to make anyone nauseous. So instead, she went about her morning routine at home, ignoring her roiling stomach, and pounded back her raspberry and spinach smoothie as she made her way out the door. A run always made her feel better. A run would set her day right before she had to deal with Myles.
But when she stepped onto the treadmill and started to run, she couldn’t. Her boobs hurt. Like crazy hurt. An average C-cup and accustomed to wearing pretty tight sports bras for exercise, the girls were not normally an issue. But today running was absolute torture. And her stomach was not feeling better at all. Could almond milk go bad?
Without giving it too much thought, she hopped onto the elliptical instead,only that made her boobs hurt too, and it also made her want to barf.
What was going on?
Not wanting to completely waste her morning, she lifted a few weights and did some squats, but every movement had her seeing spots. And whenever she’d lift her arms over her head, she felt like she was going to pass out.
Was she getting the flu?
Praying that this wasn’t an omen for a shitty day to come, she gave up and hit the showers, deciding instead to run out and grab a bite. Even though the thought of food made her ill, she had to eat before work.
A hangry cop was a scary cop.
She was just leaving the locker room to head to her car when Myles blocked her path.
“Hey, Matthews, ready to go?” He grinned, winking like he was God’s gift to women and she should be grateful he was her mentor.
“I guess.” She shrugged. “I’m going to run and grab some food and then I’ll be back.” And before he could insinuate himself into her errand, she reached for the nearest door, opened it and stepped inside.
Fuck, it was a bloody broom closet!
Perusing the produce section of the grocery store ten minutes later, the bin of bright green limes on sale quickly brought her thoughts to Brock. She’d been thinking about him a lot over the weeks. And yet, she deliberately avoided going back to that bar, so much so that when she went for a run or drove anywhere, she took the long way. Just in case he was in the area, she avoided both his house—because now she knew where he lived—and the bar. And he hadn’t bothered to get in touch with her, either, so apparently, they were both of the understanding that it had been one night of drunken fun, with no strings and no expectations. So then why was she kind of disappointed that he hadn’t called?
Maybe because you didn’t give him your number and then snuck out the following morning, you dummy!
With time to kill before her shift, she continued to wander aimlessly around the grocery store. But nothing looked good. Nothing even remotely made her salivate or caused her stomach to rumble. In fact, everything, even the roasted red pepper soup in a tetra-pack, which she pretty much lived off, sounded disgusting. But if she headed back to the station, she’d have to see Myles, so instead she strolled up and down the aisles until she found herself in the tampon section.
Did she need any?
She couldn’t remember.
Her period was never regular, and she wasn’t on the pill; she just got it when she got it. She’d tried going on the pill, but the hormones had made her crazy and gain weight. She’d always used condoms with boyfriends. A calendar flashed into her head and she began to do the math.
When was her last period?
How long had it been?
