Sergeant Sexypants

by Tawna Fenske

  Or maybe Bree’s doing that to me. I can feel her watching, assessing me for something. What?

  “I haven’t,” she says softly.

  I meet her eyes again, confused.

  “Dated a cop,” she answers, circling back to the question I asked in her office. “Ever.”

  She takes a step closer and looks up, green eyes searching mine. I drop my gaze to her mouth, surprised to find it scant inches from mine. I think about raspberries again, about how goddamn much I want to kiss her. I force myself to meet her eyes as I shove my hands in my pockets, not sure what’s happening.

  She reads my mind again. “I’ve never kissed a cop, either.”

  My brain is two steps behind and scrambling to catch up when her lips touch mine. They’re tentative at first, testing me. Waiting to see how I’ll respond.

  And I do respond, slowly at first. Her mouth is soft and willing and oh my God she does taste like raspberries. Raspberries and mint, even though she hasn’t sipped the water.

  I drink her in, pulling her tight against me to deepen the kiss. Bree presses her whole body against me and gives a soft little sigh. My hands press into the small of her back as she kisses me with a hunger that goes beyond a simple taste test.

  Hands rake down my back, fingernails staking their claim. I lean back against a table, trying to even out our height difference. I’m at least a foot taller than her, but she steps into the space between my splayed legs and everything lines up perfectly.

  I still can’t believe this is happening, but I don’t stop. I couldn’t stop if my life depended on it, so I hope it doesn’t. I slide my fingers into those dark curls, something I’ve been aching to do since we met. They’re silky and thick, and I tunnel in deep. Soft. She’s soft everywhere, so soft I could drown in her.

  She presses closer, nudging the arousal between my legs. Is this some kind of test? I don’t know if I’m failing or passing, but Christ, she feels good. My brain spins with questions, but the rest of me doesn’t give a damn about answers. All I want is Bree, the lush warmth of her body against mine, the smell of flowers and raspberries and—

  “Excuse me?”

  I jerk at the voice behind me. It’s followed by a raspy throat clearing, and Bree jumps back so fast she trips over my foot. I reach out to steady her and turn to face the door.

  A twenty-something guy stands at the other end of the bar wearing glasses and a frantic expression. His eyes shift from Bree to me, then widen with surprise.

  “Thank God you’re here,” he says. “I need to report a crime.”

  Chapter 4

  BREE

  “I need to report a crime.”

  Six words no PR professional wants to hear on day one of a FAM tour that includes some of the biggest bloggers and travel writers in the industry.

  One of those writers is standing next to my bar looking at me like I’m some kind of brazen hussy. Which I kind of am, since I totally jumped Captain Tastycakes after telling myself—and him—I wasn’t interested. What the hell is wrong with me?

  But that’s the least of my worries right now.

  “What’s the matter, Graham?” I use my most soothing public relations voice, hopeful we can avoid involving the cops. It doesn’t help that there’s a cop standing next to me with an impressive erection tenting the front of his uniform pants. I slip in front of Austin and hope to God that Graham hasn’t noticed.

  But Graham has other things on his mind that don’t involve Hottie Cop’s impressive hard-on.

  “I ordered a pizza, right?” Graham slides a MacBook from the messenger bag that bisects his wiry frame. “I did it through your online portal, just like the instructions say.”

  I’m not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed that the supposed crime involves pepperoni, but I nod and do my best to keep a straight face. “Yes, well, we’re still working out the kinks in the system.”

  “No, that’s not the crime,” he scoffs. “The delivery driver pulled up outside my cabin, and Carl Montlake from the Seattle Times travel section went running out and took my goddamned pizza.”

  And the crime is felony cock blocking…

  I bite back the words as I stare at him, trying to muster up the right amount of horror. “You’re saying a Pulitzer-winning travel journalist stole your pizza.”

  “That’s right.” Graham has the wherewithal to look a little embarrassed at hearing the words aloud, but he doesn’t lose the indignant posture. “Your marketing materials say Ponderosa guests can have any cuisine they want brought to their rooms in a snap, but what systems do you have in place to prevent theft?”

  I start to point out that the resort’s state-of-the-art security system is designed to prevent the theft of jewelry and cash, not Canadian bacon.

  But that’s when Austin speaks up. “Would you like me to check into it?”

  I most assuredly would not like Austin Dugan snooping around my property or my life, but Graham the travel blogger is quick to take him up on it.

  “I’d like to file a report,” he says. “And I’d like you to talk to that entitled prick, Carl. This is not how a luxury resort should run.”

  All right, things are getting out of hand here. I grit my teeth while aiming my most cheerful smile at Graham. “May I take a look at your laptop?”

  He clutches it to his chest like I’ve just asked to borrow his underwear. “Of course not! All my notes are on here. And my stories and—”

  “Never mind, I’ll use the restaurant’s computer.”

  I round the copper-topped bar and snatch Sean’s laptop from beside the cash register. Luckily, my brother’s computer is not a bastion of security. It takes me two guesses to figure out his password is “Amber69,” and before I know it, I’m logged in to the back end of the resort’s delivery management system.

  “Let’s see,” I say, scrolling through data on recent orders. “It looks like you ordered a large, gluten-free, dairy-free pizza with organic farm veggies at six-twenty-three p.m.”

  “That’s right,” Graham says, sounding vindicated already. “Gigi doesn’t do dairy or gluten, and she’s the one who wanted the pizza.”

  It doesn’t surprise me that Graham’s other half—Gigi Gresham, a waiflike Instagram darling who’s forever posting photos of herself gazing pensively from balconies with quotes like “live your dreams” or “#blessed”—would be a picky eater. She’s part of the power duo behind the uber-popular Lovebird Journeys travel blog, and the fact that Graham and Gigi have more than a quarter-million followers is why he’s standing here right now.

  “Let’s see,” I say, scrolling through the delivery management system. “It looks like Carl Montlake from the Seattle Times also ordered a pizza. His was the Summer Harvest pizza featuring an avocado cream base, roasted poblano, zucchini squash, smoked corn, and cherry tomato.”

  “Sounds tasty,” Austin says.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” I turn back to Graham, whose face has fallen. “It’s been very popular with the culinary crowd. It looks like your pizza should be here in about ten minutes.”

  Graham’s face goes red. He frowns and lowers his laptop to his side. “I, uh—”

  “Why don’t you head back over to your cabin?” I close Sean’s laptop and turn to the wine rack that occupies a full wall beside the bar. It doesn’t take me long to find the bottle I’m after. “This is the 2013 Sangiovese from Lange Estate Winery over in Dundee. It’s the perfect pairing for the gluten-free, dairy-free, veggie pizza.”

  I smile and hold the bottle out to Graham like we’re best pals. “Compliments of the house.”

  “Oh.” He takes the bottle, and I watch the bluster leak out of him as he realizes he’s not about to be chastised by me or the police. “That would be great.” He straightens up and tugs at his shirt hem. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He shoves the bottle in his messenger bag, nods to Austin, and marches out of the restaurant with a lot less swagger than he entered with.


  Not that I saw him enter. I might have been distracted by Austin’s tongue in my mouth. I turn back to Hottie Cop as the heat creeps into my cheeks.

  “Look, Austin—”

  “That was amazing.”

  I lick my lips, determined not to get derailed by my desperate urge to kiss him again. “It was pretty great, but we really shouldn’t have done it. I made this big deal about not dating cops, and then I go and throw myself at you like some kind of—”

  “I was talking about how you handled Graham.” Austin grins. “But you’re right, the kiss was amazing, too.”

  If I thought my face couldn’t get any hotter, I was wrong. My cheeks go positively nuclear under Austin’s watchful gaze. “Right. Um—”

  “Relax, Bree.” He takes a step closer and tucks an escaped curl behind my ear. I do my best not to mount his leg like a Labrador in heat. “You’ve got a talent for handling people.”

  I must look embarrassed, because Austin hurries to clarify. “Still talking about Graham. The way you sent him out of here feeling like he won instead of like the dumbass he was?”

  “Oh. Right.” I clear my throat. “It’s all part of the public relations thing.”

  “Well, you’re good at it.”

  “Thank you. We’re selling a pleasurable luxury experience here,” I say, my voice catching a little on pleasurable. “It pays to keep our customers happy, even if they are being dumbasses.”

  “Very sneaky.” He grins when he says it, and I can tell he’s joking, but something uneasy unfurls in my belly.

  “I guess I can relate,” he says. “There’s a certain level of manipulation that goes into good investigation work. You’ve gotta tread carefully if you want to get the confession.”

  A lead ball lands in my gut, and it’s all I can do to keep my breath from coming out in a whoosh. I’m still smiling, but inside I feel like my guts are coming unraveled.

  Good God, what was I thinking making out with a cop? With a guy whose freakin’ job it is to uncover people’s secrets? With a guy who’s ambitious and moral and in line to be the next goddamn police chief?

  I take a step back, doing my best to stop thinking about that kiss. About all the risks that come with it, both for him and for me. “Right. Well, I should probably get back to work.”

  It occurs to me that I never gave him a full tour or got him that damn cucumber water, and I half expect him to call me on it. But Austin just looks into my eyes. He stares for so long that I start to worry he’s reading my thoughts.

  Please don’t do that.

  “Sure,” he says, straightening up. “I’d better get home to feed Virginia.”

  “Virginia.” His dog, right. “Give her a scratch for me.”

  I step back again, wishing I didn’t have to herd him out of here like a misbehaving guest.

  Wishing, not for the first time, that I didn’t have to keep my distance from Austin Dugan.

  Three days later, I’m gathered with my siblings for a resort meeting. The journalists from the FAM group had breakfast an hour ago and set off for a day hike with our activities coordinator. Since the lunch rush won’t hit for another couple hours, my brothers and I have commandeered a corner table with the best view of the mountains.

  “Brunch is served.” Sean sails out of the kitchen with a plate piled high with his famous breakfast burritos. They’re filled with sage-spiced chicken sausage, organic eggs, smoked gouda, roasted sweet potatoes, and possibly some crack.

  I love these things.

  “You’re my favorite brother,” I tell him when he sets the homemade salsa in front of me.

  Mark grunts as Sean drops a bowl of hand-dipped chocolate strawberries in the space between us. “Yesterday I was her favorite brother for building those flower boxes off the front of her cabin.”

  Sean grins and forks a few hunks of pineapple off a fruit plate at the center of the table. “James got to be favorite brother last week when he nailed down my mother’s signature on the legal paperwork for the property title,” he says. “At least Bree spreads the love around.”

  James ignores them as well as the food. “All right, guys. Let’s take care of business.”

  He’s standing with his hands on the back of a chair like he’s calling court to order. It’s not a stretch, since he was a high-powered attorney in New York before we got this crazy idea to build a resort together.

  James turns to Mark, who just piled six chocolate strawberries on his plate. “Did you get that irrigation glitch figured out on the golf course?”

  Mark nods around a mouthful of breakfast burrito and swipes at his beard with a napkin. “Yeah. I’ve got the parts coming in from Portland tomorrow, but I rigged something up to keep it running until then.”

  “Well done.” James turns to Sean and me. “Is everything handled for that authors’ convention next month?”

  Authors make me think of Virginia Woolf, which makes me think of Austin, which makes me think of that kiss, and before I know it, I’m miles away from this conversation and back in Hottie Cop’s arms.

  What the hell was I thinking kissing him like that? And how can I make it happen again?

  No. Bad idea.

  I order myself to pay attention as Sean rattles off a bunch of details about the special menu he’s planning for the authors. Something about an icebox plum cake as a nod to a William Carlos Williams poem, and a butterbeer cocktail for a session on plotting like JK Rowling. I’m only half listening. It’s been seventy-two hours since I kissed Officer Hot Hands. Should it bother me that he hasn’t called?

  You told him you weren’t interested, dummy. Why would he call?

  “Wasn’t Bree planning some special nature hike where they go out in the woods and write about trees?” Mark’s voice—and my name—jar me back to the conversation with my brothers.

  “Right.” I clear my throat. “They’re also paying extra for guided yoga on the back lawn every morning, and I think I can get them to sign on for a group spa date midweek.”

  “Good.” James shuffles some papers as Mark helps himself to another handful of strawberries. Considering the size of his hands, the plate is nearly empty, but no one says anything. For once, Mark’s perpetual scowl is gone, and he looks like a kid on Halloween morning. A six-foot-five kid with a beard, but still. My brother might resemble an angry lumberjack, but he’s got one helluva sweet tooth.

  Does Austin like sweets?

  Did he grow up with a mom who baked cookies and a dad who coached Little League, or were there more struggles behind the scenes of a law enforcement family? I have to admit, I liked learning about him the other day. About his family and what makes him tick. Did he notice I don’t love sharing my own childhood stories? Of course he did. He’s a cop, and cops notice everything.

  Which is the problem, really. The reason I need to keep my distance.

  So why the hell did you kiss him, idiot?

  I know, I know. It was dumb, okay? One second I’m standing there talking with him about the finer points of sunset dining, and the next second I’m polishing his tonsils with my tongue. I don’t know what happened.

  I’ve always been a sucker for big hands. The sight of Austin stroking his huge palm over that—

  “Hello! Earth to Bree.”

  I snap my attention back to the meeting and see my three brothers staring at me.

  “Where the hell did you go?” James demands.

  “Nowhere.” I survey the table to see them all regarding me with skeptical expressions. All of them but Sean, who has an odd little knowing grin. I ignore him and look at Mark. “What?”

  “You looked sort of ill for a second,” he mutters. “Like you were going to puke.”

  “I feel fine.” I grab my burrito and dunk it in the big bowl of salsa, giving the exercise way more attention than it deserves. I sneak a glance at Sean and see he’s still grinning. The jerk knows damn well what a crush looks like, and I hope he’s not reading that on my face.

  Acros
s the table, James frowns. “Mark said there was a cop out here a couple days ago. Is everything okay?”

  Fuck. Leave it to the lawyer to ferret out the one thing I absolutely don’t want to discuss.

  “Everything’s fine.” More salsa on the burrito, way more. I should probably grab some of those strawberries, too, before Mark eats them all.

  James is frowning harder. “There’s not a problem with the city permits? Because if the police have questions about—”

  “The permits are fine,” I snap. “The cop is fine. Everything’s fine.”

  Sean snort-laughs and I whirl on him. “What?” I demand.

  “You.” He reaches across Mark and grabs the last strawberry, popping it in his mouth with a Cheshire cat grin. “You’ve got it bad.”

  James and Mark frown at me, probably wondering if “it” is contagious. I play dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if we could get back on track with this meeting—”

  “I know that look,” Sean says. “You’re smitten.”

  “Smitten?” Mark snorts. “Who the hell uses words like smitten?”

  “A guy who knows damn well what it looks like.” Sean keeps grinning at me, but James just looks baffled.

  “What the hell are you people talking about?” He raps his stack of papers on the table and takes a seat, glaring at the empty strawberry plate. He helps himself to a bunch of grapes instead.

  “Amber told me he asked you out,” Sean says, still gloating. “She says you shot him down like a dog in the street, but that you seemed to actually like him.”

  “I’m going to kill Amber,” I mutter. “Maybe you, too.”

  “Who?” James demands. “Who asked you out?”

  It’s Mark’s turn to frown. “Wait. Did you tell him no, and he’s not respecting that? Because I could have a word with him about—”