Chapter 11
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.
‘Finn! You’re back!’
That voice was like getting slapped in the face with some ringer’s old boot that had been roasting in an outback sun all day.
‘I’m so glad you’re visiting.’ That singsong voice belonged to Amelia, the manager. She moved like a perfume-soaked freight train, her arms loaded with wedding magazines marked with way too many colour-coded tags.
His eye twitched from the approaching torture.
‘I saved you that jar of pickled onions your team likes—oh!’ Her eyes latched onto Taryn. Sizing her up like a cattle judge at the Royal Darwin Show. ‘Is this her?’
Finn didn’t think, only reacted, as he stepped in close to place his hand on the small of Taryn’s back. It was only meant to be a light touch. Something casual.
Yet, it felt familiar.
Enough to fight the urge to slide his fingers into those back pockets that cupped her backside beautifully. But then he’d cop an elbow to the face, when right now he needed her help. ‘This is Taryn.’
That’s all he said.
‘That’s me.’ Taryn didn’t even blink.
Amelia’s smile froze, staring at them with hope dying in her baby-doll blue eyes—the kind that belonged on creepy porcelain dolls. ‘So… You two are… together?’
Finn let his fingers curl around Taryn’s hip, bringing her so much closer to his side. ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Together.’
Taryn gave him a look that read: You owe me for this.
She then smiled at the bouncy blonde and leaned her head against his shoulder like they did it every damned day. There, her warm and citrusy scent filled his lungs, doing a damn fine job of scrambling his thoughts.
But then she playfully stroked his chest. Right over the sternum, like she had every right to touch him, igniting something deep in his gut. Stirring up the kind of instinct that lived deep in the bones of a man who hadn’t been touched in too damn long.
‘Almost a year now,’ she said, tossing it out like a grenade. ‘He’s very punctual. Excellent with paperwork. The man truly is gifted at filling holes.’
Finn coughed.
‘That’s… really nice.’ Amelia’s screechy voice was way too cheerful. ‘I didn’t know you liked anyone, Finn.’
‘I didn’t,’ he muttered.
‘He does now.’ Taryn nudged him playfully with her elbow, but it was a sharp stab in the side, making him hold her tighter.
For a second, their eyes locked in a way that was too damn hot to be a lie.
Finn’s jaw tightened, fingers flexing slightly where they rested against her hip. And damn if she didn’t just lean in closer.
Shit.
‘If you’re together…’ Amelia squeaked in a way that scratched down his spine like a rusty nail. ‘Why the two baskets?’
Again, Taryn came to the rescue. ‘We’re competitive. First one to the checkout wins. And I count calories, he doesn’t.’
Amelia’s eyes widened. ‘Riiight.’
Nope, they were losing this battle.
Again, Taryn rested her hand against his chest, right over his heartbeat—which picked a helluva time to speed up.
‘He cheats in our games,’ she murmured.
Finn arched an eyebrow at her. ‘I’m not a cheating man, babe. Never have been. Never will be.’
‘No,’ Taryn agreed, still smiling sweetly at Amelia, her voice like warm honey. ‘But you do try to distract me in the condiments aisle, hoping I won’t chase down the missing sauces. You know, the ones that make the dishes so much healthier, which you’re avoiding.’
Finn’s mouth twitched. How did she turn her job of chasing down his invoices and paperwork into sauces and dishes?
But it worked on the bouncy blonde. Amelia’s smile strained at the edges to become a sneer. ‘Well, that’s… nice.’
‘You have no idea,’ Taryn purred—low, velvety.
Aimed straight at him, it unstitched something deep in his chest.
Helpless to stop himself, his hand tightened at her hip, drawing her closer, that her body melded so wrongly against him in all the right ways.
‘Careful, Fed.’ Finn dipped his head close enough for his voice to brush the delicate skin just under her ear. ‘You keep talking like that, and I might forget where we are…’ Or that they were faking.
He watched the goosebumps prickle along her arm, hearing that subtle hitch in her breath. And then she shifted, just slightly, allowing her shirt’s collar to part, giving him a spectacular view. A hint of lace. A tease of cleavage.
Finn’s pulse kicked hard.
Oh, he was in deep. And drowning. Taryn may be playing her part—but he was starting to forget the rules of engagement.
‘Well…’ Amelia hugged her colour-tagged wedding magazines like a life raft. ‘You two make a very surprising couple.’ She turned and disappeared down the next aisle fast.
Taryn stepped away, brushing his hand off like it had burned her. ‘You owe me.’
Finn tried to forget the look on Taryn’s face. Or how his hand still remembered the feel of her.
They walked in silence to the counter, as Finn felt the heat crawl under his collar with one undeniable truth: it hadn’t felt fake. Not for a second.
His basket hit the bench with a quiet thud. He could only stand there like a damn statue. Watching her. Wanting her. And not saying a word.
‘I’ll need to speak with Bree next,’ Taryn said casually, as if talking about the weather, while the cashier packed his groceries.
What the—
She’d just dropped it.
The bomb.
Right there, between the flavoured milk and the chocolate. Like it meant nothing.
His spine went stiff. ‘No.’
‘Bree runs the local brand registry. And there’s an invoice for her services for a brand consult. It’s relevant.’
‘No,’ he growled. ‘It’s not happening.’
‘She’s also the reason Craig’s part of your team, and how you found your quarantine station.
Oh, and that first job you had before you set up shop here in this little town of trouble, was all from Bree’s phone call from Elsie Creek Station.
’ She folded her arms, looking at him all cool, calm and in control.
Like she hadn’t just ripped the steel door off the vault he’d welded shut as the barrier between his work and personal life.
How the hell did she know all that?
Finn’s jaw locked while glaring at her with heat. She wasn’t just auditing paper trails, she was piecing together the things she shouldn’t have known.
She’d make a bloody good detective—for the right reasons. Shame she was here for all the wrong ones.
And dragging Bree into this? That was a line he would not cross.
‘You’re playing with fire, Fed.’ His voice dropped low and dangerous. ‘That woman bends steel for a living. You dig too deep, and she’ll hand you your clipboard in pieces before she sends you sprinting across the tarmac to catch your flight back to Canberra. Do not mess with Bree.’
Taryn gave one of those annoying, casual shrugs of someone completely unfazed. ‘This audit includes every consultant, Finn. Which now includes her.’
He stepped closer, tension rippling through him like a live wire. ‘Bree is out of bounds. Find another angle to dig the screws in.’
‘Why? When it looks like I’ve found the right spot to dig, eh, Sergeant.’ Her voice had that cool edge to it. But her eyes didn’t flinch. Not even a stutter. And the scary part was she wasn’t backing off either.
He dropped a wad of cash onto the counter and snatched up his bag. ‘No. And that’s my final answer.’