Interview over.
Eleven
The aircon in the world’s smallest supermarket rattled like it was one loose screw away from retirement.It was annoying as hell.Finn grabbed a few tins of baked beans, tossed them into his basket beside the jerky and chips, and turned down an aisle—only to pull up short.
There she was… Taryn Hayes.Bent at the waist, reading a jar label like it had personally offended her, with a few curls slipping from her hair tie.
And she was in jeans.
Damn!It was worse than those skirts.
No skin, no flash of thigh.Just denim stretched in all the right places, hugging her curves like the damn fabric had fallen in love with her.
He ground his jaw.
Jeans and boots should have made her less distracting than tight pencil skirts and heels that made up her suit.They didn’t.If anything, they made his brain short-circuit harder.He just couldn’t stop tilting his head, picturing his hand on those hips.
She straightened suddenly and caught him.
There was a flicker of recognition.A pause.
Then came the frost.
Oh, boy, was it frosty.
‘Get a good look, Sergeant?’Her spine snapped straighter.
‘Just wondering how denim survives that much attitude.’
She arched a brow.‘Funny.I was wondering the same thing about testosterone.’
The corner of his mouth might’ve twitched—hard to say.‘You following me now, Fed?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Sergeant.If I wanted to tail someone with the emotional range of a stapler and poor snack choices, I’d go audit a vending machine.’
He should’ve been insulted.Hell, part of him was, sure.The other part—the stupid part—wanted to laugh and keep that comment in the memory banks for later.
A stapler?Really?
He clenched his jaw, glancing up at the flickering fluorescent lights in the hope of some divine intervention.
Of course, she had to be smart.A woman who’d leave bruises with her words.
And the worst part?
He liked it.
Idiot.
Since when did he let anyone get in his head like this?Let alone a Fed, with a file on his life, and a mouth that could cut steel?
Let’s not focus on the mouth.Hell.NO.
But he let his eyes drag over her half-filled shopping basket—then lower.Following the walk.The sway of her hips.Those legs, wrapped in denim like a Christmas gift he had no business wanting to unwrap.
And yet, some traitorous part of him wanted to unzip that gift.Then drag that denim down, slowly.To feel her gasp against his mouth, all fire, fury and friction, until the only thing sharp between them was the edge of want.
He stepped back—both mentally and physically—trying to shove the entire image from his brain before it did something reckless to his self-control.
