The Funny Thing about Love: Feel Good Sweet Romance stories

by Laura Burton

  As Johnny reached the last lines of his sonnet, Angie muscled out another solid shove. Whatever had been obstructing the drawer suddenly gave way, sending Angie’s thin frame to the floor. The impact of cold, hard tile hurled her stomach into her throat. Laughter filled the room. Her cheeks warmed at the realization that twenty sets of pubescent eyes had caught her fall. She quickly crossed her ankles, hoping none of them had caught a glimpse under her sundress. For the first time this semester, she had everyone’s attention.

  Johnny stepped toward her and offered a hand. She took it, scrunching her brow at its moistness as he helped her to her feet. No doubt his discomfort far outweighed her own.

  Angie smoothed her skirt and glared at the class, daring them to go on. A few kinder kids offered a sympathetic stare. Others fought to hold back muffled snickers.

  She glanced at the clock hanging over the door frame. 2:50. Thank God.

  “Okay, let’s pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

  The bell promptly rang in agreement, and, like Pavlov’s dog, the kids rushed to the exit. She managed to wait until the last of the herd made it to the door before retrieving her phone.

  Mario. Just as she’d suspected.

  Angie bit her lip. Her fingers shook as she hurried to reply.

  Yes. I can meet you in thirty minutes.

  She drummed her fingernails on the scratched desk surface, waiting for an answer. What if he’d found someone else? She ran a palm across her face and imagined a hundred-dollar bill floating away.

  The phone vibrated in her hand.

  Gracias, Miss Angie.

  Her shoulders relaxed for a brief second. Then, without a minute to spare, she gathered her belongings and sprinted to the parking lot.

  Two hours later, Angie sat in her Honda with a crisp hundred-dollar bill folded between her fingers. Score. One step closer to earning her administrative degree and away from buying off-brand diet sodas. As Angie drove out of the airport parking lot, she imagined herself in an office with a door, drinking a real Diet Coke. But her dreams of running a school and adding a comma to her bank account were cut short when sirens flared behind her.

  At first, she assumed it was for someone else. The airport didn’t sit on the best end of town. But seconds later, her rearview mirror flashed blue and red. Great. What had she done? She hadn’t been speeding. Angie engaged her blinkers and eased left onto a side street.

  As she pulled to the side of the road, her hand instinctively went for lip gloss. A coping mechanism her cousin taught her for dealing with male cops. Erica’s Southern drawl echoed in her head: The prettier you look and the softer your charm, the more likely you’ll squeak by with a warning.

  An unmarked SUV pulled up behind her with a man’s silhouette inside. Well, at least there was one thing in her favor. Not sure how far Erica’s sage advice would have gotten her with a female officer.

  Angie rolled down her window and watched the reflection in her side mirror. The door of the vehicle opened, revealing a man so hot, he should’ve been illegal. A surge of nervous energy shot through her.

  She quickly applied an extra coat of lip gloss and pulled out her ponytail, combing her fingers through her tangled brown strands. A quick peek in the rearview. Except for the crease from her ponytail, she looked . . . decent.

  The man’s tall stature shadowed the sunlight lowering behind them, and his upper body had plenty of definition, as evidenced by the way his white dress shirt bulged at the shoulders. A handsome jawline was framed by military-short blond hair and Clark Kent glasses. An odd, yet attractive, combination. Angie cleared her throat, hoping to summon back the small-town accent she’d fought so hard to diminish.

  She didn’t have to fake a smile when he bent to eye level. Even Mona Lisa would’ve flashed a pageant-winning smile at such a sight.

  “Ma’am, can you step out of the vehicle?”

  Angie smoothed her skirt and noticed the hundred dollars laying in her lap. She swept it to the floorboard and stepped out.

  “I know my car looks a little haphazard.” She gestured toward the interior. “I’ve had it since high school, and I’m in it a lot.” Angie cringed at the sound of her voice. So much for her “Southern belle in distress” routine. More like the yelp of a wounded animal.

  The officer scrunched his brows as his eyes scanned the hodgepodge of bags, pretzel crumbs, and papers that congested the front passenger seat. She didn’t know what he was looking for, but if he needed a comb, makeup, or perhaps a snack, he was sure to find any of that.

  His eyes met hers. Angie tried to relax her shoulders, hoping he would realize the most dangerous object in her possession was a curling iron.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to put your hands on the hood and spread your legs.”

  Angie stared up at him, her eyes wide. Had she heard him right?

  He backed up a step and cocked his head to the side, signaling her to follow his instructions. She did as he said, moving with caution to the front of her car. Why did this feel like a bachelorette party prank? Angie shook, and sweat poured down her legs like pee. Was this even legal?

  She placed her hands on the hood of the car. The officer held her as he tapped the sides of her waist. He grazed her outer thighs for no more than a few seconds, but that was long enough to make her mouth go dry. She hadn’t dated much the past few years. She’d never even been in a serious relationship. So having one of the most striking men she’d ever laid eyes on feel her up on a back road behind the airport let her know she’d need more than lip gloss to play it cool. When he dropped his hands from her sides, she didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry I had to do that,” he said, taking a step back, “but we’re tracking drug runners, and everyone involved is a suspect.”

  Angie turned to face him. “Did you say drug runners?”

  “It’s okay. I know you’re clean.”

  Angie shook her head, wondering how he was so calm. “How is it okay if you’re talking about drug runners?” She searched his face for answers. His expression remained unchanged and emotionless. No fear, no anger, no compassion, and sure as heck no answers.

  “I know now that you’re not in on it, but you are indirectly involved.”

  Angie let out a quick breath of relief before realizing he’d used the word involved.

  “Wait . . . involved? I’ve never even seen a drug. Except on those TV specials we show sixth-graders.”

  “Ma’am, we have reason to believe you’ve been transporting a drug runner.”

  “What?” Angie plunged her fingers into her hair and slammed her eyes shut. This couldn’t be happening.

  “May I check your license and registration for clarification, please?”

  Angie managed to nod. She dropped into the car seat and mindlessly searched her wallet and glove box. She handed it over.

  “This will only take a few moments.”

  As soon as she heard his car door open, Angie plopped her head on the steering wheel. “Ouch.” She seethed as she leaned back and rubbed her forehead. Once the immediate throbbing subsided, she wracked her brain for who might’ve had drugs in her car. Was it the college guys she’d driven between bars? Or maybe the woman going to play guitar at a late-night open mic. Oh! Perhaps the businessman who talked a million miles an hour on his phone the entire ride to the hotel. That much energy couldn’t have been natural. Then again, maybe it was someone she’d never expect. The soccer mom who’d gotten a flat tire on the way to her son’s game. Angie had heard a story or two about moms who, on the surface, seemed to have it all together.

  “Ms. Andrews?”

  Angie turned her head and, for a second, forgot everything, lost in the way the setting sun reflected in his eyes. They reminded her of something . . . What was it?

  She sat up straight and tried to compose herself. “Yes?”

  “Do you know a Mario Cruz?”

  Angie’s mouth dropped. Yep, it was someo
ne she’d never expect. She nodded weakly.

  “Mr. Cruz works for a drug lord named Salvador Senior. We’ve been tracking him for a while.”

  Mario. Her biggest tipper, most dependable client, and a pretty decent conversationalist, might she add.

  “Mario Cruz. Yeah. I—I drive him sometimes. On the side . . . I—I mean, it’s my side job. I drive for Hustle. You know . . . the app?”

  Angie’s body began to numb. There were no words for how she felt. Well, maybe a few words. Dumbfounded. Shocked.

  Naive.

  The last one stung the most. How could she have been so naive to think she could take a job driving literally everyone and his mother and not get a few bad apples in the bunch? And what now? What if they decided she was involved? Would she be arrested? Would she lose her teaching job? All she had wanted was to pay for graduate school. To do something more with her life. And now—

  Angie was brought back by a slight touch. She glanced down to her knee to see the officer’s strong hand resting on hers, and him squatting beside her. His touch brought warmth. And not just because his palms probably had six-packs and the Alabama heat was unbearable this time of year. It brought . . . comfort.

  “I’m Detective Turner, by the way, and I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”

  She turned to face him. He was looking directly into her eyes for the first time. Sapphires. They reminded her of sapphires.

  “You can call me Angie.”

  She winced a little at her words, then let out a breath when he smiled. Discrete wrinkles formed around the corners of his eyes, outlining his glasses. His high cheekbones and jawline grew even more defined.

  “Then call me Trent.”

  “Trent.” Angie mouthed his name in a barely audible voice.

  He patted her hand before releasing it, and the instant he broke contact, Angie’s body no longer felt flushed, confirming that it was indeed his hand, and not the heat index, that had caused her to fluster.

  “Angie, you have nothing to be worried about. You’re just a victim of crazy circumstances.”

  “Wait.” Angie blinked, bringing her mind back to focus on the reason this man had come to her car in the first place. “Was I a suspect?”

  Trent sighed and leaned against her car door. “I know it sounds crazy. Criminals like Mario tend to prey on friendly, naive people like yourself.”

  Angie cocked a brow. Did he really have to say naive?

  “I mean . . .” The look on Trent’s face said “message received.” He raised his glasses and wiped a line of perspiration from the bridge of his nose before taking a deep breath, as if wanting to choose his words carefully.

  “Angie, may I ask why a woman of your caliber would want to drive for Hustle?”

  Angie tilted her head. She had her reasons. Yet, if she’d known there’d be the slightest chance of driving drug dealers, she’d have simply sold energy drinks, like some of her coworkers did.

  “Well, it’s hard to live on a teacher’s salary. I live in a small house, but it’s in the nice part of town, and I’m trying to save up for grad school. I just paid off my undergrad degree. And you see the kind of car I’m driving. And, lately, I feel like I’m buying a bridesmaid dress every other month. Plus wedding gifts and festivities. And then there’s—”

  “That’s fine.” Trent chuckled. Angie couldn’t tell if he found her charming or odd. Most likely the latter.

  He leaned closer to her. “Look, I get wanting to make more money. I’d just expected someone who looks like you to open up an Etsy shop or something. That’s why I thought you might’ve been on the inside.”

  “What do you mean someone who looks like me?” Angie gazed up at him, a wrinkle of confusion plastered between her brows.

  “I mean someone as beautiful as you.”

  Heat crawled up Angie’s face. Surely, this was a line he told every frightened woman he pulled over. But his eyes told a different story. Then again, maybe he just wanted some information from her. . .

  “Angie, you need money, and I need enough evidence to convict Mario and lead me to his boss. Would you mind driving Mario a little longer, as my informant?”

  . . . Or, maybe he wanted a lot more.

  Chapter 2

  Angie stared up at the ceiling, sinking up to her neck in bubbles. What a day. She’d gone from struggling to convey sentence structure to a bunch of hormonal adolescents to agreeing to help a ridiculously attractive detective bust her favorite Hustle customer. On top of all that, she really needed to clean the cobweb off her overhead light.

  Angie closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip, trying to wrap her head around the events of the afternoon. Even with finding out her beloved client Mario was peddling drugs—literally right under her nose—what shocked her the most was her reaction to Trent.

  She needed to stop thinking of him in that way. To stop imagining his blue eyes and strong structure. Or his steady hands and the way she felt when he’d patted her down. Angie shook her head, sending suds to tickle her ears. If only he hadn’t called her beautiful.

  Angie scooted her body upward and sighed. Her wrinkled hands meant it was time to shave her legs. Midway through a stroke on that tricky behind-the-knee area, Angie heard the Hustle app ping. She jumped, cutting the back of her leg in the process.

  She climbed out of the tub and bunny-hopped naked across the slick bathroom floor, holding the back of her leg with one hand and slinging suds off the other. Why did that part of the leg always bleed the most? She grabbed her phone off the countertop and failed to unlock it with her thumbprint. Apparently, Apple didn’t recognize her shriveled, blood-stained fingerprint. Angie rolled her eyes before letting her leg bleed freely in order to type in the code. Mario. Funny how seeing his name brought joy just hours before and a tinge of uneasiness now.

  Like a boxer hit hard in the last round, Angie slid her slick body down the wall and sat on the cold tile. She swiped to read the message.

  Ride home from airport. Five tomorrow. Good, Miss Angie? Gracias.

  Angie clenched her teeth. Could she please go back to not knowing what Mario did for a living? Back to when they rode in mutual delight, like a modern-day Driving Miss Daisy. Trent had ruined that for her. Now she would forever wonder who Mario had to kill for those crisp hundred-dollar bills she caressed after each ride.

  Yes, that will work.

  Angie squinted, then hit send before she could change her mind. Then, she looked up the number Trent gave her. She’d saved it as “Hustle Alert” in her contacts. A few rings later, a man answered.

  “Yes, may I speak with Detective Turner?”

  “This is he.”

  “Oh.” Why did hearing that make her blush? “This is Angie Andrews. You told me to call you when I got another ride request from Mario.”

  “When will you drive him again?”

  “Tomorrow at five.” Angie listened while he repeated her reply, as if writing it down.

  “Okay. Where?”

  “I’m picking him up from the airport.”

  “Excellent. Could you come by the station, say four o’clock, so I can wire you?”

  “Uh . . . sure.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll follow you from a safe distance.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  After exchanging goodbyes with Trent, she dropped her phone to the floor. It wasn’t driving a criminal while wearing a wire that worried her. It was figuring out how not to hyperventilate while Trent wired her.

  “Hi. I’m here to see Detective Turner.”

  The girl behind the reception desk stood and motioned for Angie to follow. “Right this way. He’s expecting you.” The receptionist led her to an office with Trent’s name displayed on the door.

  “Go on in.”

  Angie carefully opened the door and peered at the bland walls and metal furniture. Opening the door further, she crept inside, not knowing what to expect. However, she did expect to see Trent. Not a voluptuous woman sitting behin
d the desk. Either he’d recently changed offices, or he was an expert at going undercover.

  “Hi. Angie?”

  Wow. What a melodious and feminine voice. He must’ve changed offices. But, this woman knew her name, so . . .

  “Yes?”

  The mystery woman stood and swayed her way around to the front of the desk, offering a manicured hand for Angie to shake.

  “I’m Delilah Stevenson. Trent will be here in a moment. He asked me to wire you.”

  “Oh, okay.” Angie didn’t know what she found more intimidating, Trent hiding a microphone around her hemlines or a woman who looked like Barbie personified feeling her absence of curves.

  Delilah opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small device. “I have a microphone to pick up your conversations and an earbud for Trent to talk to you.”

  Angie swallowed. She didn’t know how well she could concentrate on driving with Trent in her ear and a drug dealer in her backseat. But she would have to try. Her side job depended on it, her informant pay depended on it, and most of all, Trent depended on it.

  A few minutes later, as Delilah fumbled with fitting the earbud, Trent walked in.

  Angie swallowed as he closed the space between them. Trent’s face softened. Not quite a smile, but a pleasant, reassuring stare. Their eyes locked for a few seconds before he turned to Delilah.

  “Thanks, Delilah.”

  Delilah smiled at him the way most women probably did. The same way she’d smiled at him the day before. Yeah. Just like that . . . except with confidence.

  “I’ve almost got her ready. I’m just having trouble with the earpiece.”

  “Hand it here. Your nails are probably too long.”

  Delilah passed the piece to Trent, taking far too long to move her hand away from his.