CHAPTER 3 QUINN
QUINN
Two weeks. Two weeks of "accidentally" running into Wolf McCarthy all over Pike Creek, and I was losing my mind.
At Bea's Diner during the breakfast rush—he'd be there in the corner booth, drinking coffee black while I tried to eat my eggs and ignore how his presence made the air feel charged. Even at the grocery store at ten on a Sunday morning, because apparently badass bikers needed milk and bread too.
Each encounter left me more wound up than the last. The way he'd lean against surfaces, all casual confidence. How he'd watch me over his coffee cup with those blue eyes that promised things I shouldn't want. The lazy grins when he'd catch me staring.
Tonight, though, I'd managed to avoid him. Made it through my entire shift without a single Pike Creek Rider sighting. Small victories.
The gas station fluorescents hummed overhead as I grabbed a basket inside the Quick Stop at eleven PM.
Off duty meant yoga pants and an old Montana State tank top that had seen better days, my service weapon locked in my glove compartment.
Hair in a messy bun because who was I trying to impress at this hour?
I needed ice cream. The kind of terrible, overpriced convenience store ice cream that would help me forget about the way Wolf had watched me at Bea's this morning, that knowing smirk when I'd deliberately sat with my back to him.
The way I'd still felt his attention like hands on my skin.
The freezer section offered limited options—all of them overpriced and probably freezer-burned. I debated between chocolate chip cookie dough and mint chocolate when I heard it. The distinctive rumble of a Harley pulling into the station.
My whole body went tight, awareness prickling along my skin before I even turned around. Through the window, Wolf swung off his bike, all fluid grace and controlled power. Leather cut that clung to his torso, jeans that fit like sin.
He hadn't seen me yet. I had options—duck behind the chip display, maybe hide in the bathroom until—
His head turned, gaze finding mine through the glass like he had radar for my presence. That slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.
So much for avoiding him.
The bell chimed as he entered, and Kevin behind the counter perked up from his phone with the kind of interest that said the whole town would know about this encounter by morning. Pike Creek's gossip network was more efficient than the internet.
"Deputy Jenkins." Wolf's voice wrapped around my name like velvet. "Fancy meeting you here."
"It's a small town, McCarthy. We've established this."
"Wolf," he corrected automatically, moving closer. "And you're off duty."
"Observant."
"You look different out of uniform." His gaze traveled down, taking in my casual clothes with an appreciation that made my skin flush. "Good different."
I turned back to the freezer, needing the cold air on my heated face. "Don't you have somewhere to be? A bar to terrorize? Other deputies to harass?"
"Only interested in harassing one deputy." He reached past me for a bottle of water from the cooler, his body bracketing mine for a moment. Not touching, but close enough that warmth radiated from him. "Besides, you can't harass the willing."
"I'm not willing."
"Liar."
The word was soft, amused, and absolutely true. I grabbed the cookie dough ice cream at random and spun away from him, needing space.
"Rough night?" He nodded at my ice cream selection.
"It was fine until about two minutes ago."
"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "Here I thought we were friends."
"We're not friends."
"No," he agreed, that intensity from Buck's returning to his expression. "We're definitely not friends."
The weight of everything unspoken hung between us.
Two weeks of this dance, this careful avoidance that wasn't avoiding anything, just delaying the inevitable.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably Dad wondering why I wasn't home yet.
Sheriff Bill Jenkins had been extra watchful lately, like he sensed something shifting in my behavior.
"I should go." I moved toward the counter, but Wolf stepped into my path.
"Quinn."
Just my name, but the way he said it made me stop. Made me meet his gaze even though I knew it was dangerous.
"This is killing us both," he said quietly.
"I know."
"Then stop fighting it."
"I can't." The admission came out barely above a whisper. "My father—"
"Isn't here." He moved closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "It's just you and me and Kevin, who's pretending not to watch while definitely watching."
A glance confirmed Kevin was indeed staring while trying to look busy rearranging cigarette packs.
"My reputation—"
"Will survive. You're not the first cop to fall for someone they shouldn't."
"I'm not falling for you." The lie tasted bitter.
His hand came up, fingers barely grazing my cheek. The gentle touch when I expected rough undid me more than any aggressive move would have. "No?"
"No." But I leaned into his touch anyway, my traitorous body undermining every word.
"Then why are you shaking?"
I was. Fine tremors running through me from that simple contact. "I'm cold. The freezer."
"Right." His thumb stroked across my cheekbone. "The freezer."
We stood frozen in our own moment, the gas station falling away. His hand on my face, my ice cream melting in my basket, both of us breathing too fast for people who were just talking.
He leaned in slightly, and for a moment I thought—hoped, feared—he might kiss me right there in the Quick Stop with Kevin watching. My eyes started to flutter closed, my body swaying toward him without permission.
A car door slammed outside, breaking the spell. I jerked back, his hand falling away.
"I need to go." My voice came out shaky, breathless.
This time he let me pass, but as I reached the door, he called out, "Your cruiser's been making that noise for three days. The grinding when you brake. You should get it checked."
I stopped, hand on the door. "You've been watching me?"
"I notice things. Especially things that could leave you stranded somewhere dangerous."
"I can take care of myself."
"Never said you couldn't. Just said you shouldn't have to."
I paid Kevin for my ice cream, hyperaware of Wolf behind me, of Kevin's barely contained excitement at having gossip this good. The kid was probably already composing the story in his head for tomorrow's shift change.
Outside, the cool night air hit my overheated skin. I'd parked the cruiser—the department vehicle I was allowed to take home—at the far pump, away from the lights. Wolf followed me out, keeping distance but still there, still watching.
"Be safe getting home, Deputy," he said, and something in his tone made it sound like more than just a casual farewell.
"I always am."
"No, you're not. You're reckless in your own way. Following the rules so hard you forget to actually live."
The words stung because they were true. I climbed into the cruiser without responding, but before I could close the door, he was there, one hand on the frame.
"How much longer are we going to do this?" he asked softly. "Circle each other, pretend we don't both know how this ends?"
"Wolf—"
"This thing between us isn't going away, Quinn. It's just getting worse. For both of us."
He stepped back, closing my door gently. Through the window, our eyes met one more time, and the raw want I saw there matched everything burning inside me.
I drove away with my hands shaking on the wheel, watching him get smaller in my rearview mirror until the darkness swallowed him whole. The ice cream sat forgotten in the passenger seat, probably already melting.
The drive home was torture. Every mile I put between us felt wrong. My apartment building loomed ahead, dark and unwelcoming. Inside, I went through the motions—shower, pajamas, pretending to eat something besides ice cream—but my mind stayed back at that gas station.
The way he'd touched my face. The way he'd leaned in. The way he'd said my name like it meant everything.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, body wound tight as a spring. Another week of this torture stretched ahead. Another week of pretending I didn't want him. Another week of being the perfect deputy, the good daughter, the woman who followed all the rules.
The sound of a motorcycle echoed in the distance—maybe him, maybe another rider, but my body responded either way. Heart racing, skin flushing, that persistent ache between my thighs that had become my constant companion these past two weeks.
Something had to give. Soon.
Because I was running out of strength to fight this, and Wolf McCarthy was running out of patience to wait.
Even as I tried to convince myself I could keep resisting, I knew the truth.
This was already a losing battle.
I just hadn't admitted defeat yet.