He’s wearing some secondhand button-down with ugly brown slacks, and I have to assume there’s an equally ugly brown blazer in a rumpled heap in his back seat. That he’s still hot is confusing. Maybe it’s his olive-toned skin and dark features in this perfect lighting. Maybe it’s the shoulder holster.
I pull out my phone and snap a photo to memorialize the moment.
The driver finally makes his way over to us—breathing heavily, natch—and stops in his tracks after clocking the shoulder holster and the gold badge on Boone’s waist. Boone sends him this look, and truck dude throws up his hands, glaring at me as he walks—backward—to his truck. He repeats the slurs as he peels off, and I roll my eyes.
Hard.
Then take a few more selfies, just because.
Boone walks over and grabs me by the arm, marching me over to the sidewalk.
Yesss.
“What are you doing?” he asks, furious as he drags me to a narrow side street. “Why would you be taking a selfie in the middle of the street?”
“There’s hardly any traffic!” I argue, grinning like a lunatic.
“That guy almost ran you over!”
“I saw the truck in plenty of time. He did notalmost run me over, you drama queen.”
Boone spins me around, pushing me up against the brick building before yanking one of my arms behind me.
“Dude,” I say, pretending that I don’t love every second of this. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I check, and no one’s looking our way. Lucky for Boone because he would not like to be on the receiving end of my fans’ ire.
He grabs my other arm, the heat of his body warming my skin. “You were loitering in the middle of the street. I oughta cuff you for that.”
“I was getting hate-crimed,” I argue, pushing my ass against his crotch.
Oh, hello.
The good and moral detective should definitely pull away.
He grips both of my wrists behind my back and leans in.
“I can’t do anything about that guy,” he says, spilling his rough words directly into my ear, “but I can at least keep you out of danger.”
I leave my hands absolutely still, not sure if he realizes how close they are to his crotch.
Cool steel encircles my wrists, and I smile. He’s so careful with the way he slips them on.
Keeping a tight grip, he leads me farther away from the main street, down the rapidly darkening side street.
“Does this mean you care?” I ask, reveling in his command as we turn onto the back alley that leads to my building.
“No,” he replies sharply. “It means I hate paperwork.”
You’ve already used that excuse, Detective.
I turn to him, retort at the ready, but lose my thought at his proximity. Does he even realize how close together we’re standing?
Instead of needling him, though, I tease, “What were you doing on my street anyway? You stalking me?”
“No,” he says a little too quickly. “I was following up on a lead.”
Don’t let your delusions run away with you, Mav.
