The Feel Good Factor

by Blakely, Lauren

  Arden gives me a quizzical stare. “Is there someone you want to enter a kissing contest with? Maybe have a kissing marathon with and give that couple a run for their money?”

  I scoff. “Like who?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about that guy Toby you went out with a few weeks ago?” She heads to the end of the lane and sends the ball down the hardwood.

  “The hotel clerk? He was nice and all . . .”

  “But not enough bad boy in him?” Vanessa teases. My girls know me so well.

  I laugh. “Yeah, duh.”

  After knocking eight pins, Arden squeezes my shoulder and adopts a serious voice and meets Vanessa’s gaze. “Vanessa, have you met our friend Perri? She only likes bad boys.”

  I raise a finger. “Correction. I like the look of bad boys. I don’t mind if they’re actually good underneath the bearded, inked, and smoking hot exterior.”

  The guy on the bike has the audacity to invade my thoughts. He keeps doing that.

  “Talk about specific.” Arden laughs. “Sounds like you’re describing the hottie you pulled over the other day.”

  “Oh, gee. Was I? I hadn’t realized,” I say playfully, since I told them about Mr. Speedy.

  “Have you looked him up?” Vanessa asks.

  I don’t know a thing about Derek McBride, except that he’s someone who moved to town to help out his sister, or so he said. “No, I’m not going to look him up,” I scoff.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not going to pick up someone I pulled over. And I’m not interested in getting involved with anyone, since I have a promotion to focus on.”

  “Fine. But you should still enter the kissing contest,” Vanessa says as Arden finishes her frame.

  “Who would I enter it with? Whether I do the marathon, the reenactment, or the most passionate, it doesn’t matter. Jump the recording back ten seconds—I’m not involved with anyone, and I don’t want to be involved right now.”

  Vanessa stares at me. “Please, girl. You don’t need to be involved to enter a kissing marathon. Plus, I bet you can find someone who’d lock lips with you for a good cause. In fact, why don’t we have a little gentlewoman’s bet and see who can raise the most money for charity?”

  “In a kissing contest?” I ask. “Arden’s totally going to reenact Scarlett and Rhett, right?”

  Arden stares down her nose. “There are many fantastic book kisses. The Great Gatsby. Romeo and Juliet. The elevator kiss in Fifty Shades.”

  “It can be whatever, as long as it’s a competition and it raises money for a charity,” Vanessa adds. “That’s what we want—any sort of contest. That’s what we can do for this year’s birthday gifts.”

  The three of us decided a few years ago not to give each other birthday gifts. All through grade school, middle school, and high school we did, but now we’re adults, and we don’t need gifts from each other. Instead, we donate or raise money for some sort of charity. We all have fall birthdays, so it’s time to start planning.

  Last year, Arden hosted a tea at her bookstore, raising money for underprivileged kids. Vanessa held a bowl-a-thon and donated the proceeds to a pediatric cancer charity. And I did a 10K walk to support don’t-text-and-drive efforts. They were our gifts to each other, and to ourselves too.

  Vanessa’s brown eyes spark with excitement. “I could do a bowling competition for charity.”

  “But you’re naturally good at that,” I say.

  “And you were naturally good at kissing in high school.”

  “Hey, don’t get on my case just ’cause I liked to make out with boys back then.”

  “You like to make out with boys all the time,” Arden chimes in. “Anyway, I’m spearheading a reading competition among the book clubs at my shop. Most books read equals most money raised for literacy programs.”

  Having lobbed the ball into my court, she stares at me expectantly, and Vanessa prompts, “And you should enter the kissing contest. It’s a slam dunk for you. It supports all the causes near and dear to your heart. Plus, your boss will like it. He said he wants your precinct to win.”

  I raise a skeptical brow, even though she makes a good point. “I don’t want to horn in on his territory. What if he wants to win?”

  Vanessa grabs my phone. “Just ask him.”

  I sigh but grab the phone back and fire off a quick text to Jansen.

  Perri: Question for you. You said you wanted our precinct to win the kissing contest. Would it help if you had more entrants?

  His response is instantaneous.

  Jansen: I didn’t want to ask you or anyone to enter, but my answer is the more the freaking merrier.

  I show his response to my girls, and they smirk in tandem at me.

  “See?” Vanessa says.

  “Plus, I dare you to,” Arden adds.

  “And I dare you to as well,” Vanessa seconds.

  “You dare me? Are we in high school again?” I ask.

  “If we were, you’d put up both hands to volunteer,” Vanessa teases, and she’s got me there.

  It’s for a good cause.

  And maybe I’d like to be a girl who loves spending her days kissing again without a care in the world.

  “Now I’m going to have to find a guy I want to kiss for that long.”

  Or at least long enough to raise a little dough.

  As we finish the game, I keep wondering what it would be like to want to kiss someone for that long.

  And I keep coming back to Mr. Trouble.

  * * *

  I have other matters to deal with before I find a man to kiss.

  Namely, getting a little more money flowing into my coffers.

  When I return home that evening, I call my brother Shaw, catching him up first on the potential good news about the patrol sergeant position.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. You’re the woman,” he says, in the same tone you’d say you’re the man.

  I turn on the light to the kitchen. “Thank you. I’m excited. I need to nab this. But do you know what else this means?”

  “That you’ll finally crack down and arrest me for not paying back taxes on my secret after-hours stripping job?”

  I laugh as I pour a glass of water. “As if anyone would pay you to strip, secretly or publicly.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. I have lines of ladies waving small bills in my direction. That’s what happens when you’re one of the stars of a very popular firefighters calendar.”

  “You do realize the money is to get you to stop?”

  “Yet all they say is ‘Go, go, go.’”

  “Like I said, they want you to go away.”

  “Fine, you win the smackdown,” he grumbles. “Anyway, what does the potential promotion mean?”

  I glance toward the stairwell at the back of my small house and draw a deep, excited breath. “It means—drumroll—I won’t have to rent the room above the garage much longer. I won’t need the extra money.” The possibility is tantalizing. A good renter is gold. A bad one is the worst, and I’ve had the worst. I don’t ever want to share living space again with someone who cooks with onions, bathes in Obsession, and talks dirty all night long.

  “That’ll be a relief for you, considering your last renter.”

  I cringe, remembering the deceptively sweet Cassidy. “But that also means I need your help finding a new tenant until then. I haven’t had one for a few months, and I could use the extra income till I know what’s going on with the promotion. Can you find someone who won’t baby-talk on the phone to his or her significant other every single night?”

  “It wasn’t just the baby talk, if memory serves.”

  I do my best to try and forget all the things I overheard Cassidy telling her boyfriend she wanted him to do to her. And, evidently, all the things he did to her over the phone. Though in retrospect, it could have been worse if her boyfriend lived locally instead of dialing in from the other side of the state.

  “Exactly. So you�
�ll find me someone I’ll hardly ever see, hear, or smell? Someone I barely realize is sharing space with me?”

  “Piece of cake.”

  5

  Derek

  After my Saturday-night shift, I head to my sister’s home, crashing on her couch as quietly as I can, hoping this temporary living situation doesn’t last much longer. I love my sis, and she’s the only reason I’m in Lucky Falls. But she has three kids, including an infant, and I cannot handle sleeping on a couch much longer.

  My greatest love, besides family, is a fancy-ass mattress, the kind that’s smart enough to conform to your body. I slept on one once in a hotel, and it was heavenly.

  This couch? It’s hell on my back, and my back is kind of important to my job.

  I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable, searching for a position that won’t radiate pain down my neck. Somehow I find one, then drift into the land of Nod.

  But not for long.

  At three in the morning, a shriek awakens me. I bolt upright and head for the baby’s room.

  My sister, Jodie, is right behind me, rubbing her eyes.

  “I got it,” I tell her as I scoop up little Devon.

  My sister yawns canyon-wide. “No, I’ll take care of her.”

  But I give Jodie the heave-ho, shaking my head. “It’ll be my pleasure.” I know how hard it is for her, with her husband overseas for a year, a first grader, a four-year-old, and an infant. Our parents are gone, and that’s why I’m here. We’re close, and I want to do what I can for her, especially when she needs it most.

  “You’ve got a crazy day at the farmers market tomorrow. Your bread waits for no one. Get some sleep.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I pat the baby’s shoulder. “Please. I’ll take care of this perfect little angel.”

  “I’ll find you a place soon, Derek. I promise.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve asked around at work too. Got a few leads. Finding a rental in this fancy town is harder than differential calculus.”

  “Fortunately, you were good at math.”

  I smile, send Jodie back to bed, and warm up a bottle as Devon grabs my finger. “You’re going to be fine, sweet pea. I’ve got your favorite drink right here.”

  Devon cries again, but it’s softened to a mere whimper. She knows the food is coming. I rub my forehead against hers. “I promise. Would Uncle Derek lie to you?”

  She coos at me and grabs my beard with her chubby fingers.

  I bring her to the couch, give her the bottle, and pop the new Stephen King book open on my phone as my little niece sucks down her food.

  * * *

  When I wake at the crack of dawn, I have a wicked crick in my neck.

  “Morning,” my sister says, cheery as can be as she heads into the kitchen, tucking her brown hair into a neat bun. Molly, her four-year-old, follows behind, hopping like a frog.

  “Ribbit, ribbit, Uncle Derek,” Molly says, jumping her way to the kitchen.

  “Morning.” I pull the covers back over my head as dark-haired Travis bounds down the stairs and into the room.

  “Hey, Derek,” says the six-year-old with the gap-toothed grin. “Want to go play basketball?”

  “Travis, give him a break,” Jodie calls out to her son.

  “Later for basketball, okay, buddy?”

  “Okay,” he says, seeming a little sad we’re not playing now, and a little happy we’ll do so later.

  I hear Jodie start a pot of coffee. She returns to the living room and bends over the couch. “Thanks for helping last night. You’re a godsend. By the way, have I ever mentioned that a local cop works the face-painting booth at the market?”

  I sit up straight, my thoughts zip-lining to one particular officer of the law. “Why are you telling me this?”

  She wiggles an eyebrow. “She’s just your type.”

  I throw off the covers, get in the shower, and head to the market.

  6

  Perri

  Some girls can never have enough butterflies.

  They want them in emerald green, in sapphire blue, in candy pink.

  A platoon of three-, four-, and five-year-olds skip and jump around the market with painted butterflies on their faces, courtesy of the local police department booth, where residents can learn about our community initiatives and not be freaked out by cops, thanks to face painting and lemonade.

  It’s a strategy Jansen implemented, and it seems to be working so far. We have a great relationship with the citizens of this town.

  They know our names. We know many of theirs, and I believe that plays a part in keeping crime lower than low.

  “What if I drank the rest of this lemonade all by myself?” My colleague Elias Nicholson holds up the pitcher, a glint in his brown eyes. We joined the department around the same time nine years ago and have been moving up the ladder together. He’s running the booth with me today, pouring lemonade as I decorate faces.

  “Then there’d be nothing for the kids, so get your mitts off it.”

  “But it looks so delish.”

  “That’s because your wife makes amazing lemonade from scratch for you to give away to children.”

  “She is a wizard in the drink department.” He pours himself a cup and downs it.

  “You’re the worst, Nicholson.”

  He wipes his paw across his mouth. “She’ll bring me more.”

  “She’s seven months pregnant, and she’s going to bring you lemonade? Shouldn’t you bring her whatever she needs?”

  “I brought her chicken wings and caramel popcorn last night. And I rubbed her feet. I’m damn good at the husband gig. To wit—I put the baby in her belly the first month we tried.”

  “TMI!”

  “It’s the truth though. We went to our favorite spot for brunch—the Silver Tavern—and then once we were home . . . Bam.”

  “I don’t know how she puts up with you,” I say, but I’m smiling.

  “It’s a miracle to me too.”

  The par-for-the-course ribbing ceases when a curly-haired blonde in a tutu wanders over to my tent, surveying the paints. “Can you paint my face?”

  “You bet I can. Let me guess. You want a butterfly, a unicorn, or a rainbow?” I suggest with a smile.

  She laughs, shaking her head. “No.”

  I tap my chin, looking skyward. “Maybe a kitty cat? Meow.”

  She giggles. “No. No. No.”

  “I see we have a tough customer here. Maybe a doggy?” I bark.

  “Guess again.”

  “A horse?” I offer a neigh.

  “Do a cow!”

  I launch into my best rendition of a moo.

  “Frog!”

  “Don’t think you can trick me. My animal repertoire goes deep.” I show off my fantastic ribbit.

  She shakes her head. “No, can you draw a frog on my face, Mrs. Lady Cop?”

  I smile. “Of course I can.”

  I scoot my stool closer, dip a brush into the green face paint, and draw a frog on the girl’s face.

  When I’m done, I grab a mirror and show her my handiwork. “Does it meet your approval?”

  “I love it. I’m going to go show my mom and my uncle Derek.”

  She takes off running, darting down an aisle teeming with tables full of peaches, pears, and strawberries. I tend to the next group of kids, painting a dragon, Spiderman, and another butterfly until I need to take a quick break.

  “I’ll be back in ten.”

  “Damn, you women take long to pee.”

  I punch Elias in the arm. “I need avocados too. Also, if you finish off all the jugs, I’ll have to haul you in and throw away the key.”

  “Please. I know where the keys are.”

  I take off to the ladies’ room at the edge of the market, spotting my favorite food truck a half block away. I jog over and wave to my friend Staci Winters in the window, serving up a chocolate-covered strawberry waffle treat to a waiting customer. “Stop by later, Perri. I’m here till
one,” she calls out. “I’ll save enough to make your favorite.”

  I blow the waffle mistress a kiss. We went to college together. She helped me in my required bio class, and I repaid the favor a few years later, helping her navigate the fastest path to procuring a permit for her food truck. “You’re a goddess of tomatoes, cucumbers, and parsley.”

  “And tzatziki! Don’t forget the tzatziki.”

  “How can I forget it, even if I can’t pronounce it?” I turn around and head to the bathroom for a pit stop. On my way back, I detour through the veggies. I have about six minutes, so I trot over to the avocados since I need to pick some up for dinner.

  I look for the affable guy usually running this stand, but no one’s here at the moment. I’ve just reached for an avocado to see if it’s ripe, when I hear a voice, all low and smoky. “Hey, officer. I think you might have been walking too fast through the market.”

  The hairs on my neck stand on end. That gravelly, too-sexy-for-words tone delivers a wave of sensation across my skin.

  It could only be Mr. Trouble.

  With an avocado in hand, I turn around, and my eyes feast. How is it possible for him to be even hotter today? Is this a trick only the handsomest men can employ? The ability to multiply their good looks?

  Somehow, maybe a trick of the light, he’s exponentially sexier in those shades, his gray T-shirt showing off swirls of ink, and jeans so well-worn they cling caressingly to his legs.

  Lucky jeans.

  But it’s his face, most of all, that draws me in as soon as he flicks off his glasses and I get a full dose of dark, soulful brown eyes full of naughty wishes.

  Oh, wait. Maybe those are my naughty wishes reflected back at me.

  Because I want him.

  Do I ever. I want to climb him, rope my hands through his hair, and haul him in for a wild kiss.

  Whoa.

  That bout of desire was brought to you today by what-happens-when-lust-slams-into-you-like-a-freight-train.