by Tawna Fenske
Sergeant Sexypants
A Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy
Tawna Fenske
Contents
About Sergeant Sexypants
Also in the Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
18. Your exclusive sneak peek at Studmuffin Santa
Don’t miss out!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tawna Fenske
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
* * *
Text copyright © 2018 Tawna Fenske
All rights reserved.
* * *
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
* * *
www.tawnafenske.com
* * *
Cover design by Craig Zagurski
Created with Vellum
About Sergeant Sexypants
Bree Bracelyn doesn’t date cops. It’s a personal rule that quavers when Austin Dugan flashes his baby blues—and his badge—at Ponderosa Resort’s grand opening. Bree’s the family fixer, running the resort’s PR and her siblings’ lives with cheerful efficiency. But one thing in Bree’s past can’t ever be fixed, which is why she’s staying the hell away from Officer Hottie.
Austin’s heart tacks up a wanted poster with Bree’s name the instant he lays eyes on her. Okay, the no-cops rule is an obstacle, but not impossible for a guy ambitious enough to be a shoo-in as the next police chief. Besides, he knows Bree’s into him, whether they’re flirting over weird flatware or getting frisky in the front seat of his vintage Volvo.
As Bree and Austin bond over cupcakes and hot springs hookups, Bree knows it’s a matter of time before the skeletons in her closet topple into a messy heap on Austin’s squeaky-clean life. Is there hope for a happy ending, or will their love end up DOA?
Also in the Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy Series
Studmuffin Santa
Chef Sugarlips
Sergeant Sexypants
Hottie Lumberjack (coming March 1, 2019)
Stiff Suit (coming soon!)
For my readers.
Thank you for loving these characters as much as I do.
Is it creepy that we’ve all seen them naked?
Chapter 1
AUSTIN
“It really would be your most noble, heroic act.”
Mrs. Sampson beams and adjusts the glasses perched halo-style in her salt-and-pepper perm, then folds her hands on the bistro table like she’s delivered the closing argument in a murder trial.
I fix her with my best cop stare, which loses some impact since I’m holding a plate of shrimp puffs. “I rescued your cat off the roof two weeks ago, Mrs. S,” I remind her, ignoring the fact that my job also involves chasing down the occasional bad guy. “But this would be my most heroic act?”
She nods like I’ve finally gotten a question right on an algebra test, which is fitting since she was my middle school math teacher. She lifts her glass of champagne, sloshing some into the manicured grass. “Exactly,” she says. “It means so much to the children.”
I take a calming breath and remind myself she’s an old lady. An old lady who just stroked my bicep, but still an old lady.
“Taking off my shirt means so much to the children.” I set down my plate and try the cop stare again. This time, she blushes.
“It’s for charity,” she says. “People love those calendars that have pictures of real policemen with their clothes off and something covering up their—” she clears her throat dramatically, “—unmentionables.”
Good God, we need a subject change. “If you’re mentioning the unmentionables, haven’t we already defeated the purpose?”
She ignores me and squeezes my bicep again. “You’d be perfect for January, sweetheart, with those pretty blue eyes, and maybe you’d pose shirtless on a dogsled with no pants but your police hat over your—”
“Okay, no.” I brace my hands on the table. “The department has policies about police officers being photographed in uniform.” Admittedly, I don’t remember a code about not using one’s peaked cap to cover one’s junk, but that’s beside the point. “Following the rules is kinda my job, Mrs. Sampson.”
She looks at me like I’ve just announced a fondness for rolling naked in lime Jell-O and gives a sad little head shake. “You’re in line to become the next chief of police,” she says slowly, like I might have forgotten. “Don’t you make the rules?”
I open my mouth to explain that my promotion from sergeant to lieutenant is no guarantee I’ll be head honcho when the chief retires, even though everyone’s acting like it’s a foregone conclusion. Before I get a word out, my father strides over in his sheriff’s uniform and claps me on the shoulder while turning his election-year grin on Mrs. Sampson.
“Judy,” he says. “You’re looking radiant.”
“Thank you, John,” she says, preening. “Would you please tell your son to take his clothes off for the children?”
My father frowns and rubs a hand over his chin. “Well, I can’t rightly suggest that as a good career move, but—”
“For charity,” she interrupts, increasingly impatient.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes, wondering what was coming after my father’s “but.” Is there a situation in which he’d advise me to get naked for minors?
Mrs. Sampson is still prattling on about the charity calendar, so I tune them out and start surveying the crowd. There must be a hundred people milling around the expansive lawn at Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort on this warm fall afternoon. Some of them linger by the fire pits, laughing in sundresses and swirls of wood smoke, while others chatter by the buffet tables, pretending it’s totally in their normal wheelhouse to eat herbed squash confit made by a famous Michelin-starred chef.
Most are faces I recognize, all here to celebrate the opening of this fancy new playground for the wealthy. Not that I’m complaining. It’s great for the local economy and all, but I feel weird hobnobbing at an event meant for VIPs and dignitaries and other local elite.
I’m hardly a VIP, but the uniform and job title nabbed me the invitation, so here I am. I pick up a shrimp puff and shove it in my mouth as my father interrupts my reverie.
“Don’t you think so, son?”
I turn back to him, debating whether to bluff or come clean that I lost track of the conversation. “What’s that, dad?”
My father smiles like I passed some kind of test, and I’m betting he read my mind. He knows I don’t have it in me to bluff, which isn’t a bad thing. My straight-shooting, rule-abiding approach to life makes me a damn good cop.
“Just saying that the Ryan Zonski case stands a good chance of being overturned if it ends up going before the Oregon Court of Appeals,” he says. “You’d be right in the thick of it again.”
I resist the urge to grit my teeth at the prospect of having my worst case reopened. “Let’s hope not,” I offer mildly. “The new DA loves settling out of court. I’d hate to see the victim’s family go thr
ough that again.”
Mrs. Sampson gives a sad little head shake. “Such an awful tragedy.”
I’m wracking my brain for a good subject change when an angel glides into my line of sight.
She’s making a beeline for us, this angel with dark curls and wide green eyes. She can’t be more than five feet tall, but there’s a fierceness in her expression suggesting she’d cheerfully junk-punch anyone who crossed her. It’s an interesting contrast to the bright smile she offers as she approaches our table in a slim blue dress that hugs her curves. I do my best not to stare, but holy marshmallows, she’s stunning.
“Marshmallows?” She looks at me and cocks her head.
Oh shit. Did I say that out loud?
“I—uh—”
“I’d love one.” My father reaches for her, and I consider elbowing him in the ribs when I see she’s clutching a fistful of skewers. Each one is threaded with a massive, pillowy marshmallow that looks homemade. Not that I know what a homemade marshmallow looks like, but these aren’t the Jet-Puffed confections of my Boy Scout years.
“You’ll find homemade graham crackers and Maison Pierre Marcolini chocolates on trays beside all the fire pits,” she adds, brushing a dark curl from her forehead. “Help yourself to anything you need to make the perfect s’mores.”
Good Lord, she has a beautiful mouth. That’s never been the first thing I’ve noticed in a woman, but I can’t stop staring at hers. Those lush, rosebud lips that look softer than—than—okay, I was going to say marshmallows again, which means she’s zapped most of the vocabulary from my brain.
Her gaze shifts to mine and locks, and I swear she just read my thoughts. I can’t tell whether she’s intrigued or annoyed, but the wheels are turning in her head.
I stick out my hand. “Sergeant Austin Dugan, Bend PD.”
There’s a moment of awkwardness when she’s forced to shift the fistful of skewers to her left hand, but the instant her palm slides against mine, a flame bursts in the center of my chest. I won’t need a fire pit to turn this marshmallow to a puddle of goo.
“Bree Bracelyn,” she says. “I’m the Vice President of Marketing and Events for Ponderosa Resort. Thank you so much for joining us.”
“My pleasure.” The word pleasure rolls off my tongue with a more porny tone than I intended, or maybe that’s all in my head. I haven’t released her hand yet, so I should probably do that.
The instant I let go, my father extends his own handshake. “John Dugan, I’m the sheriff out here.” My dad gives Bree’s hand a few pumps before nudging me with his elbow. “My boy is being modest. He’s getting promoted this week from sergeant to lieutenant and is on track to be the youngest police chief in the town’s history.”
“All right, enough.” I should probably appreciate my dad’s boasting on my behalf, but Bree isn’t exactly falling over herself with cop worship. “This is Joan Sampson, president of the Deschutes Children’s Welfare Society. A pillar of the community.”
Mrs. Sampson beams and holds out her hand. “Also a retired teacher,” she says, clutching Bree’s hand in a grandmotherly grasp that almost makes me wonder if I imagined her badgering me to get naked. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“You, too, ma’am.” Bree’s posture is perfect, and her manners suggest some fancy East Coast finishing school. Or maybe I read that in the paper, back when they profiled the family behind the development of Ponderosa Resort. “I’m so honored to have you with us.”
“This place is incredible,” I say, relieved we’ve moved past the subject of my career. “It’s my first time making it out here.”
“Thank you.” Bree smiles wider, those lush lips parting just a little. I wonder if I’m the only one who just felt all the air leave his lungs. “My brothers and I have been working nonstop on the place since our father passed away eighteen months ago,” she says. “We think he’d be proud of how we’ve transformed it.”
“Your father was Cort Bracelyn.” My father nods. “Helluva guy.”
Is it my imagination, or did Bree’s smile just wobble? But she rallies, pushing up the corners of her mouth to keep her expression cheerful. “Right,” she says. “Yes. My father was—He didn’t spend that much time out here.”
My own father doesn’t take the hint that maybe Bree would prefer not to make small talk about her dead dad. “He might not have been a regular resident, but he paid good wages to the guys running the ranch,” he says. “We had a little dustup out here maybe eight years ago when some of his horses got loose and trampled a neighbor’s fence. Your daddy was quick to pay retribution.”
Bree’s smile is tight. “He was always very generous with his money.”
I don’t know why, but I’m filled with a powerful urge to rescue her. To redirect this conversation I’m pretty sure she’d rather not have. “How are you liking Central Oregon?” I ask.
I sound like a lame caricature of a cop on a children’s program, but Bree turns to me with thinly-disguised relief. “I love it out here,” she says. “The people are so friendly, and I love seeing all the stars at night. And the coyotes—I hear them howling every night when I’m in bed.”
My brain veers dangerously at the thought of Bree lying in bed with a thin sheet tracing the contours of those delectable curves, but I manage to hold it together. “I’ve always loved coyote singing, too,” I admit. “That, and rain on a metal roof.”
“I’ve hardly ever seen it rain out here,” she says.
“That’s why it’s great. There’s nothing like the smell of rain in the high desert. Ozone and sage and that herbal smell of wet juniper. Some of my favorite things in the world.”
Her eyes hold mine, and I can tell she’s imagining it. The patter of raindrops on the roof, the cinnamon scent of damp ponderosa bark, the rumble of thunder over the hills, my fingers in her hair as I tip her head back and—
“Austin has a pet coyote.” My dad nudges me with his elbow, jarring me out of my fantasy.
Bree blinks. “A pet coyote?”
“She’s a hybrid, actually,” I say. “A coydog.”
Bree tilts her head to look at me. “They’re legal to have as pets?”
“Yes,” I say a little too sharply. “I researched the hell out of the laws after I found her wandering in the Oregon Outback. The county regulations are looser than what I’d have to follow if I lived in the city limits.”
My father laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “Austin’s a stickler for the rules. Speaking of which…” He leans in close like he’s got a big secret, and Bree’s breast brushes my arm as she leans across me to hear him. It takes every ounce of strength I have to step back and break contact.
“With wildfire season still going strong, there’s a ban on all open fires right now for public and private lands,” he says. “We can let it slide since the ban gets lifted next week and you seem to have everything under control, but I thought you should know.”
“Oh.” Bree’s cheeks go pink as she straightens up and looks my father in the eye. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea—we can put out the fire pits right now.”
“Now don’t you go worrying about it,” he says with his aw-shucks smile. “Outside of town like this, and with all those fire extinguishers you’ve got lined up, we can make an exception. Besides, this hasn’t been a bad fire year. It’s really more of a suggestion than anything.”
But Bree shakes her head, looking around like she expects a pair of deputies to dart out from behind the gazebo and slap the cuffs on her. “We want to follow the law out here.” She looks at me when she says this, and I could swear she stands up a little straighter. “I believe in doing everything by the book. The laws exist for a reason, and I’m not one to break them.”
Is it wrong that whole speech kinda turned me on?
But for some reason, I get the sense she’s putting on an act. Most folks lace up their goody two shoes when they talk to cops, but hers don’t fit quite right. There’s something off in those pretty green eyes.
Bree clears her throat and looks back at my dad. “I should get back to the party,” she says. “But don’t worry; I’ll have one of my brothers put the fires out right away.”
“It’s really not necessary,” my father says. “But if it’ll make you feel better—”
“It will.” She smiles and takes a step back. “I always feel better when I’m doing the right thing.”
She keeps edging away, like she’s not quite ready to turn her back on us. When she finally does, I’m distracted by the wind flipping the hem of her dress, but I can’t help noticing how she darts across the lawn like her feet caught fire.
I watch her go, admiring her curves, the fiery glint of sunlight in her dark curls, the daintiness of her calves, and I think I’d give anything to know what the hell makes Bree Bracelyn tick.
Chapter 2
BREE
Even after I get the fire pits extinguished, there’s a burning in my belly that won’t die down. It flares up every time I drift close to Sergeant Sexypants, but maybe I’m imagining things.
And yes, I know what his dad said about the sergeant-to-lieutenant promotion and that he’s even in line to be chief. That’s worse, right? Bottom line, a cop is a cop is a cop, which is to say I’m staying the hell away from Officer McHottie.
“Hey, Bree—great party!”