Chapter 2
“Another beer?” Mickey asked.
Brock nodded.
“So, how’s your mum?”
Mindlessly shelling a peanut, Brock tossed the husk onto the bar in front of him before popping the nut into his mouth and nodded. “Good, good.”
“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 a shaker 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 say that.” 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?”
“I can,” he said smoothly. “After all, it’s the least I can do after you let me off with a warning this afternoon … Constable … ”
“Matthews.”
Right.
“Constable Matthews.”
She squinted at him. “Thanks … uh … ”
“You don’t remember my name, do you, constable?” He chuckled again, grabbing a menu and pushing it in front of her. “Pick something. I’m buying.”
She rolled those striking blue eyes and opened the menu. “Deluxe burger with bacon, mushrooms and extra pickle.”
Brock caught Mickey’s eye and held up two fingers. The bartender nodded.
“Do you remember my name?” Brock probed again, scooting his barstool just a tad closer to hers.
“I pulled over a lot of people today. Issued a lot of citations. I can’t remember everyone’s name.”
“Brock Hart. And you’re Constable K. Matthews. What does the K stand for? Kantakerous?” His chest and shoulders bobbed at his own mirth and, as hard she was trying to fight it, because that was obvious, a bubble of a laugh leaped from her throat.
“Krista,” she whispered, raising her eyebrow and nodding at the bartender when he asked if she wanted another shot.
“You live around here?” he asked, rolling her name around in his head and deciding it suited her.
She nodded. “You?”
“You live around here?” he asked in surprise, ignoring her question. “Doesn’t a cop’s salary pay well enough for you to live … I don’t know, not around here?”
She lifted one slender shoulder and shrugged, thanking the bartender when he placed another shot in front of her.
“I grew up in a small town. On a dirt road, out in the middle of nowhere. This is home to me. I’m not used to the big-city life.
I like peace and quiet. I like the idea of having bears and deer in my backyard. Plus, I’m a rookie. I make peanuts.”
“Bears?”
She nodded. “They used to raid our apple trees all the time.”
“Do you rent some property around here?”
“I rent a basement suite in a big house on a chunk of land a few kilometers or so down the road.”
Mickey ambled over and plopped two big, beautiful greasy burgers in front of them, the plates piled a mile high with thick, wedge-cut fries. Krista’s eyes went wide, and he smiled to himself at her childish glee. The burgers were awesome. She had a right to be impressed.
Brock reached forward and took a bite of a still-steaming fry. “Eat up, otherwise you won’t be able to walk home given how much tequila you’ve just slammed back.”
She shot him a surly glare but dove in anyway. “And I plan on having more.”
The bar was located pretty much out in the middle of nowhere in a municipality known as Fern Valley, which was part of the Greater Victoria area.
Not far, but at the same time far enough from the prestigious and comely homes on Prospect Lake.
This part of town wasn’t exactly where doctors and lawyers were buying their 1.
2 million-dollar homes. It was more where rednecks parked their double-wides and drove their pickups into the bushes for burial when they stopped working.
But that suited Brock just fine. He liked his solitude and the quiet.
And the seedy dive bar located in the middle of the middle of nowhere was half his.
He’d co-bought it with Mickey when the old guy retired, and Brock served as a silent partner.
He checked in and handled the business side while Mickey managed the staff and tended bar.
It was a biker bar, a redneck bar, but it was home, and Brock liked it.
He watched in the mirror behind the bar as Krista chewed her food slowly, a small, sexy smile on her face.
She closed her eyes and hummed softly. Jordy in the kitchen always made a killer burger.
Brock’s taste buds were just as happy as Krista’s.
And fuck what he would give to be that burger right now, rolling around on her tongue and in her hot little mouth.
“So, Brock Hart, if that’s your real name?” she finally asked on a swallow. “Where do you live?”
A smile jogged on his lips as he methodically chewed his fries. “Around here,” he finally said. “Walking distance.”
“Stumbling distance?” She snickered, digging into her own fries. “’Cause that’s what we’d do, stumble there. Or at least me. That tequila’s hit me hard. Good call on the food.”
Brock didn’t say anything. He simply studied her face. She had a tiny bit of mustard at the corner of her mouth that he wanted to wipe, lick, or suck off for her. Preference on the latter.
“You want to get out of here?” he finally asked.
“I … uh … ”
He lifted one shoulder cavalierly and then shoveled fries into his mouth before taking a healthy sip of his beer to wash it all down.
She eyed him curiously before nodding at Mickey for yet another shot. “I had an awful day,” she said quietly. “I’m drinking to forget.”
“Did you have to stand out in the rain and issue tickets all day?” he asked, his volume matching hers. He drained his beer and lifted an eyebrow at Mickey for another.
She nodded but then shook her head. “I didn’t issue any citations. And then there was a fatal accident on the highway we had to deal with.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Those are never easy.”
She shook her head again. “No, they’re not.”
It seemed like she was avoiding his gaze on purpose now, swirling her last remaining fry around and around in a big puddle of ketchup until it was limp and covered in red.
“I don’t want to be a traffic cop,” she finally managed to whisper.
“I didn’t want to be out there. Besides you, I pulled over two little old ladies and didn’t have the heart to cite them. ”