Never Say I Want You
Page 26
After a minute, Smith clicked his pen closed and tore the citation off the pad. He scratched the golden scruff around Deuce’s neck. “One more trip, and then we’ll get you an ice cream cone, okay?”
Deuce’s tail hit the seat like a bullwhip.
“Glad to know you’re on board with the plan.” Smith left the cruiser and headed back to Ashley’s car. Miss Scobel’s car. They weren’t on a first-name basis, and they never would be. He was going to give her the citation, see her back onto the road, and that was going to be that.
She turned her head at his approach. Her face was tight with apprehension, like she was waiting for an executioner’s axe to fall.
No sense in prolonging her misery. He handed her the citation. “I gave you a warning for the speeding, but I have to cite you for the expired tags. And for driving without insurance. You’ll receive a copy of the citation at your home address, but there are payment instructions at the bottom if you don’t want to contest the ticket. In that case, you can pay right at city hall.”
Her hair fell forward as she studied the slip of paper. “It doesn’t say how much it costs…” She looked up. “I mean, thank you for cutting me some slack on the speeding. It’s just… Well, I’m visiting from out of town—”
“About that.” He tapped the Buick’s roof. “I’m sorry, but you can’t drive with expired tags.”
The same panic he’d seen before lit up her eyes. “What if I transferred the car to my name?”
Not a chance. At least not without a good deal of legal headaches. He didn’t have his brother’s Ivy League law school credentials, but he’d listened to enough of Juan’s lectures to know the DMV wouldn’t touch a deceased person’s car title without a court order. He shook his head. “I can’t give you legal advice, but I think you’ll have to go through a lawyer for that, ma’am.”
Her face fell. “Well, that’s not happening.”
“You said you’re visiting your mother here in town?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll need you to take the car home and park it. You can’t be on the road with expired tags.”
The panic flared brighter. “Can I at least finish my grocery run? Just to the store and back.”
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Rules were rules, and they existed for a reason. They set expectations. Provided stability. Over the past two years, he’d come to rely on that stability. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Please.” She put one hand on top of the door and twisted toward him. “I just flew in today. I didn’t tell my mom I was coming, and it turns out she’s out of town. The house is empty, and so is the fridge. I don’t have any other way to get to the store. I promise I’m just going to grab a few groceries and go right back home.”
Damn, but her eyes are beautiful. Even in the gathering darkness, they outshone the stars. It wouldn’t break any rules to let her finish her trip. Not really.
Besides, in this town he made the rules.
He nodded. “All right.”
“Thank you!” Her smile was dazzling. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“I’ll see you back onto the road.” He gave her a pointed look. “Drive safely.”
A faint blush stained her high cheekbones. “I will, thank you.”
Deuce gave him a doggy smile when he got back in the patrol car. Smith raised an eyebrow. “I see you haven’t forgotten about the ice cream. So much for your diet.” He tucked his citation book between the seats and started the engine.
The Buick’s rear lights flared to life. Ashley—Miss Scobel—watched him in her side mirror, obviously waiting for him to give her the signal to get back on the road.
He checked his rearview mirror, then flashed his lights. The Buick eased forward and onto the road. He pulled out behind her. The closest grocery store was just a mile ahead. It was smaller than the new Winn-Dixie on the other side of town, but he liked the quiet familiarity of the old store. It had a real butcher that still wrapped meat in white paper and hollered “have a nice day!” as he handed it over. Sure, it was a little more expensive, and the beverage aisle didn’t have seven different flavors of Coca-Cola, but there was something comforting about knowing the store had been in the same spot—and owned by the same man—for fifty years. It was the sort of thing people either loved or hated about Prattsville. Some residents were transplants from San Antonio or Laredo who craved small-town life. Others—usually young people who’d been born in the sleepy town—couldn’t wait to leave.
Ashley Ann Scobel was clearly the latter kind. She glanced at his cruiser in her rearview mirror as she turned down the road leading to the Prattsville Market.
Smith drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. Come on, Miss Scobel, you can go faster than that. He chuckled under his breath. She’d obviously taken his “drive safely” to heart because she hadn’t ventured over fifteen miles per hour since she’d started driving. She was probably worried he intended to wait in the parking lot while she did her shopping.
“How long are you staying in town?” The question floated through his mind—a ghost of something he might have said as he’d stared into her wide, blue eyes. He could have asked it, and she almost certainly would have answered. But she would have told him because she thought she had to, not because she wanted to.
Besides, it wasn’t the sort of thing he needed to know. Because he wasn’t going to see her again after tonight.
And that was better for both of them.
She pulled into the market and headed toward a parking space near the door. As her brake lights shut off, he did a U-turn and headed in the opposite direction. It was still early. He’d drive over to the Dairy Barn and fill out his report while Deuce lapped ice cream from an extra-large bowl. In the morning, he’d send the citation to the clerk’s office so they could set a trial date. Not that a trial was necessary. Miss Scobel wasn’t going to challenge the charges. She’d pay her fines, and when her visit was over, she’d return to California and sun and the man who made sure she never had to drive anywhere. Her path wouldn’t cross Smith’s again.
He drummed his fingers against his steering wheel and put her from his mind.
Yes, that was better for both of them.
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About the Author
Amy Pennza has been a lawyer, a soldier, and a copywriter. Although she liked the first two well enough, she decided writing romance is the job she loves best. After years in Tornado Alley, she now makes her home in the Great Lakes region with her husband, kids, and two demanding animals.
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