Cuffing Her: A Small Town Cop Romance

by Emily Bishop

  “Here you go,” he said, handing over the tickets and taking Luke’s cash. He accepted the beers from me then then did a double take. “Wait a second, you’re that guy. You’re that actor. What’s his name?”

  “Jarryd Tombs,” Luke said, proudly.

  “Nobody. I’m nobody. Like I said, I’m an illusion.” We took our tickets and wandered inside. I made a beeline for the popcorn stall and purchased two massive bags.

  The girl beside the machine grinned at me. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” She tipped a striped cap to one side. “Aren’t you Jarryd Tombs?”

  “Yes,” I replied. Much good that it’d done me. Jarryd Tombs, the workaholic actor who’d been engaged to the hottest A-list celebrity in Hollywood. And then you found her fucking someone else.

  How long was this weird ache in my chest supposed to last? It’d been two weeks, for god’s sake.

  “That’s—wow. It’s so nice to meet you,” the girl gushed, pink-cheeked. She had to be around sixteen years old, with dark brown hair and doe eyes. I’d seen this look hundreds of times. It meant one thing only. “I’m a huge fan. Look, I know you’re here to enjoy yourself, but I wondered if maybe—uh, could I maybe have an autograph?”

  “He’s not doing that tonight,” Luke said, firmly.

  “No, that’s OK.” I patted my buddy on the shoulder. “I’d be happy to give you one. What’s your name?”

  “Felicity,” she said.

  Thunk. A stone weight dropped in my stomach. Felicity. The same name as my ex.

  “Are you OK? You’ve gone pale.” The girl gave Luke the bags of popcorn and wiped her hands down the front of her striped uniform.

  “Fine,” I said. “Do you have a pen?”

  “Right here.” She scooped up a pen, the end all chewed up in classic teenager style, and an empty popcorn bag. “Thank you so much!”

  “Dear Felicity,” I said, as I wrote out the words, gritting my teeth. “Keep working hard and you’ll achieve your wildest dreams. Love, Jarryd Tombs.”

  “Oh, wow.” She took it, reverent. “Wow, wow, wow. Thank you so much. That’s such a nice thing to say. Best autograph ever. My sister’s going to be so jealous! She skipped out on working tonight.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” I replied then then glanced around the grounds. “It’s pretty quiet around here. People don’t like fairs?”

  “Oh, it’s late, and there are clouds gathering, see? We usually shut earlier on storm days. Most of the stalls are closing up at the moment,” the girl said.

  “Is there anything we can do—anything still open?” Luke asked and shoveled a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

  I took my bag from him and did the same. “Oh man, this is good,” I said.

  “Well, hmm.” Felicity pouted her lips. “The carousel’s still going, but, uh, you might be a little big for that.”

  I pictured myself on a carousel horse and managed a chuckle. “What else?”

  “What about the Ferris wheel?” Luke asked.

  “Already closed, sorry. But there’s a new tent out here.” The girl’s eyes lit up. “I’ve been meaning to go myself. Look there, see, the velvety one? It’s the fortune-teller’s tent.”

  “A fortune-teller,” I said, flatly. I’d never bought into that type of thing.

  “That’s right. The woman in there is such a sweetheart,” Felicity said. “She read my palm the other day, for fun while she was waiting for her popcorn, and she was so nice about it. And pretty, too.”

  “A fortune-teller, eh?” Luke asked. “That’s interesting. Don’t you think that’s interesting, Jarryd?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “You have to try it,” the girl said. “You’ll like it. And her. She’s so nice.”

  I didn’t see myself liking any woman for a long time, not romantically. Ridiculous. That’s not what the kid means. The fortune-teller is probably in her sixties.

  “Come on, Jay, do it,” Luke said. “Get out of your comfort zone for once. Maybe she’ll tell you your future.”

  I eyed the velvety tent, shrouded in mystery. A purple-lettered sign planted in the ground outside read: Mistress Mystery.

  “You won’t regret it,” the teenager said.

  I hedged. What harm could it do? Shit, it might even be fun, interesting, and the tent itself gave off an atmosphere of mystery. Candlelight flickered within, and the tent’s flap hung slightly open, providing a glimpse of its interior—a collection of crystals, a bookshelf, and a shadow that shifted along the wall. The silhouette of curvy woman.

  “I’ll try it,” I said.

  “Have fun,” Luke replied.

  “You’re not getting yours done?”

  “Nah, I already see my future. A warm bed and a hangover in the morning.” He paused and looked up at the gathering storm clouds. “Besides, you know how I am about storms. You go on ahead, Jay. I’m going to hit the hay. Tell me about it tomorrow, all right?”

  I shrugged.

  In the distance, thunder rolled, and a cold wind picked up and buffeted the outside of the tent, tugging at my suit jacket. I didn’t look back but hunched over and entered the tent, immersing myself in the scent of flowery incense and something else. Something illusive.

  I halted just inside.

  A woman with long, raven curls swaying past her shoulders, stood within, back to me. She wore a silken blouse, just transparent enough to hint at the curves beneath it, and a long skirt that swayed each time she moved her ample hips. This was her? This was the fortune-teller?

  Damn, I’d come to the right place after all.

  Chapter 2

  Aurora

  Candles flickered on the top shelf of my bookcase, right beside a collection of crystals, each which caught the light and refracted it. I moved from the shelf to the small table in the center of the room and placed an amethyst crystal, the size of a fist, on the velvet cloth.

  It’d been a pretty slow night. I probably should’ve packed it all up, but I was in the mood for a little fun. A little mystery. One last tarot reading, if only for myself.

  I hurried back to the bookcase and picked up my favorite card set—I had many but this one, drawn in the Rider-Waite style, artsy and colorful, had been my mother’s.

  “Mistress Mystery?”

  I jumped and scattered tarot cards to the ground. “Shoot!” I spun around and faced the visitor.

  The man who’d entered sucked the air out of the space. He stood just inside the tent flaps, straight as a rod, towering in a fancy suit.

  His hair, mahogany and windswept, fell across a tan forehead creased only slightly by what had to be worry more than age. Crystal blue eyes stared at me, set either side of a slightly hooked nose. Luscious lips—not too thick—centered above a strong chin, covered in stubble.

  I lost my breath.

  Gorgeous. That was the word to sum him up, except it wasn’t enough.

  My gaze danced lower, over the crisp suit—had to be a designer label—which was tailored to perfection and fit his broad shoulders, a barrel-chest.

  I stopped myself from going any lower than the tapered waist. Staring at a customer’s crotch was a no-no of epic proportions.

  He swayed slightly on the spot, he was tipsy. But not drunk, if the glint in those blue orbs was anything to go by, and that suit screamed businessman. Or full of shit.

  Did I enter the Twilight Zone? That’s Jarryd Tombs! I wasn’t exactly an E! Entertainment nut, but this guy was the hottest of the hot, in more ways than one. He’d starred in the Oscar-winning thriller movie, Eye See You, among others. And he was good, too, not like those actors who acted like ‘themselves’ in every movie.

  “I—” I cleared my throat. Professionalism, darling. This isn’t your first rodeo. “Welcome,” I said. “Please, take a seat at the table. You’ve come for your fortune, yes?”

  He stared at me a while longer, a strange expression haunting his perfect features. “Yes, if that’s not too much trouble.” The actor
bent and picked up a few of the tarot cards, stumbled and caught himself on the table. “Sorry about this.”

  “No, no, that’s quite all right. I didn’t expect anyone so late.”

  “I can leave if you’d prefer.” He was so stiff shouldered—broad shouldered, too, yum—but tense all over.

  “Take a seat, please,” I repeated. I had a strict policy about turning people away. I didn’t do it unless they made me super uncomfortable. People needed help in most places, and they didn’t realize how much they needed it until they came to me.

  Jarryd Tombs handed me the cards he’d collected, and we touched. Electricity sparked through me, and I inhaled sharply. Wow. He’s magic.

  The moment lingered, and he plumbed the depths of my soul with a look. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  I blushed.

  “And younger than I expected. Shit, sorry, I had a Bud Light or five before I came.”

  “I—well. I’m twenty-three. I’ve been doing this for a while. And that’s quite all right.” Did he think I was too young to know the cards?

  “Sorry, that was inappropriate.” He gave a sheepish grin then then dragged back a chair, sat down. Definitely a little tipsy, I thought as he touched a finger to the candle holder on the table and snapped it back, instantly, examining the hot wax now cooling on his finger. “Shit, I’m an idiot.”

  “Here,” I said and fetched a paper towel from my shelf.

  “Thanks.” He scraped off the wax and blew on the sore spot.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  “As much as I can be. Let’s say this isn’t where I usually take my advice.”

  A skeptic. I’d encountered plenty of those on the road. In my experience, there were two types: the ones who plain hated what I did and wouldn’t hear about it, and the ones who didn’t want to believe because it scared them.

  I always preferred the latter. They usually opened up during a reading.

  “Would you like a glass of water? A cup of coffee?”

  A slight shift of his hands on the table, a tilt of his head to one side, bright blue eyes watching me, waiting. Every motion took on meaning. Candlelight flickered, caught the hard plane of his jaw—rough with stubble. “No, I’m fine, thank you for offering. So, you’re Mistress Mystery, the tarot expert, right? What can you tell me about this stuff? Call me a virgin.”

  “I’ll walk you through it as we move along. It’s nothing scary. It’s not magic—it’s an expression of your subconscious. Yeah, that’s the best way to put it, I’d say.” I smiled. Oversized butterflies swooshed around in my stomach. It wasn’t that he was famous. It was the way he swept his gaze around the room, rested it on me, sat tall—as if he owned everything here. And me, too.

  I clasped the tarot cards to my chest.

  “Great, thanks. So, Mistress Mystery… Is that your real name?” Jarryd asked then then laughed at himself. “Of course, it’s not.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said and shuffled the cards.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “That’s—let’s call it a secret,” I whispered and winked at him. Oh, god, I winked at Jarryd Tombs. He probably thinks I’m fangirling.

  But Jarryd didn’t waver. He stared me down, and silence built between us, heat building, a low flame that brightened. I gulped. “A tarot reading,” I said, “isn’t a fix all. You’ve got to understand that going in. It’s not meant to answer all your questions.”

  “So, you’re not going to tell me when I’ll inherit my great-aunt’s fortune?”

  “Wha –?”

  “I’m kidding,” he said, and put up a sexy half-smile. “I don’t have a great-aunt.”

  “Oh, I—well, no questions like that will be answered.” I tried smoothing over the tension but it didn’t work. Each time I met those crystal blue orbs, my insides turned to jelly.

  “Mr. Tombs,” I said.

  “Wait, how do you know my name?” He froze. “That’s too fucking creepy. How do you know that?”

  “Uh, I—uh. You’re famous.” I giggled.

  He laughed, too, a burst of mirth, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course. Yeah, not Tombs, call me Jarryd, please.”

  “Jarryd,” I murmured. “What brings you to Moondance?”

  “Work,” he replied. “Scouting locations for a movie, actually.” He shook his head. “That’s why I’m here. Things have been… complicated lately. I could use some clarity. And also, my buddy kinda forced me into this.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Not that I didn’t want to. I’d like to see where this goes. Go on, do your magic.” He wriggled his eyebrows up and down.

  “It’s not magic, really,” I said, placing the tarot deck on the table between us. “At least, not like David Copperfield. It’s a feeling. It’s intuition. It’s soul.” I kept my fingers on the top of the deck. “You need to shuffle them.”

  “I do? What am I paying you for?” The corners of his lips twitched—my insides whooped again. He touched the deck, skin brushed skin, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the gasp inside.

  Electric. As electric as watching him move. I couldn’t fathom the kind of life he led. Riches and stability, and people admiring him, wanting to be around him. That was the literal opposite of the life I’d led, skipping out from town to town and carrying a stigma above my head like an ever-present sword of Damocles.

  Watch out for the fortune-teller! Depending on the town, I was either a phony or the creepy witch lady.

  “Special trick?”

  “Sorry, what?” I focused on him again. Get it together, Aurora. He’s a client, not eye candy, for heaven’s sake. “You what?”

  “Is there a special trick to it? Do I have to do something, uh, you know? Weird?” He held the cards as if they might come to life and strike him.

  “Yeah, you have to sacrifice a cat at full moon, while dancing naked to ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ by Rick Astley.”

  He chuckled, a quick tight burst of mirth that rumbled through the inside of the tiny tent then shuffled the cards.

  “Now, give them back to me.” I laid out my palm.

  He placed the cards in it, dwarfing my hand with his. Another gasp pressed at the back of my teeth. What’s the matter with you? You’re not this woman. “Thanks,” I said, lamely.

  “I would say it’s a pleasure, but we’ll have to see how things progress.”

  I gulped audibly. Of course, he didn’t mean anything sexual. Of course not. Ridiculous. That was my long dry spell talking. I placed the deck and sighed. “I need you to ask the cards a question.”

  “What kind of question?” he asked, brow furrowed.

  “Something specific, anything that has real meaning to you. But you have to be honest and open. Really mean it, when you ask.” I buzzed, watching him again, those sure movements, and balled my hands into fists in my lap, hid them in my skirt.

  “A question, all right. I can do that. Am I making the right choice with Pride’s Death?”

  “What’s Pride’s Death?” I asked—it had to be specific.

  “It’s my movie. A thriller. It’s pre-production. It’s the reason I’m here, as I said, scouting locations.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Ask it again, please.”

  His sucked his bottom lip, released it. Whoops, there go those waves again. “Am I making the right choice with Pride’s Death?”

  I lifted the cards and shuffled them one last time then put them down again. “I’m about to show you the Celtic Cross reading. It’s great for questions like this and will hopefully give you some clarity on your question. The first card represents your current state of being.”

  “Tipsy?”

  “Ever considered trading in the thrillers for comedies? You could make a killing.”

  Jarryd grinned again.

  “The first card,” I continued and drew it, placing it face up on the table. My, my. Intriguing. “Your current state of being. The Seven of Cups. You’re considering yo
ur choices, trapped in fantasy. You have yet to choose.”

  Jarryd perked up. “Choose what?”

  “Only you’ll know that. The cards are showing you what’s inside, in your subconscious, Jarryd. The answers are all within you—this is a tool to help you see the truth.”

  “Truth. I need truth.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place.” I avoided his gaze. Each time it swept over me, a tide of shivers rose. “The second card is what opposes you.” I drew it and placed it crosswise over the first. “The Hierophant. He represents tradition, conformity. You’re faced with a choice and held back by your need to conform to your current path.”

  He was frozen, eyes on the cards now. I took the opportunity and studied him. How could one man give off this much energy? I prickled all over, longing to touch him, but I tamped down the emotion.

  “The third card,” I said, softly, “represents the origin of your question.” I drew it and placed it above the first two, on the velvety tablecloth. “The Five of Cups. See here on the card? The man is looking at the cups that have spilled and ignoring the full cup behind him. It symbolizes loss, regret, disappointment. And it means you’re ignoring an opportunity that is close to you.”

  He looked up and speared me again. “Close to me.”

  “Yes,” I whispered, allowing the moment between us to lengthen. Oh, gosh, so much for my professionalism. If it gets around that I flirt with clients, it certainly won’t be good for business. Forget about the attraction. But it was easier said than done with him across the table. “The fourth card represents your recent past.” I let out a tiny gasp this time. I placed the card below the first two.

  “What is it?”

  The card pictured a heart, stabbed through three times with sharpened swords. “The Three of Swords. Heartbreak.”

  Jarryd gritted his teeth. “Makes sense, I guess. Things have been tough the past while. A breakup.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He waved it off. “And the next card?”

  I hid my pity. He’d been hurt. Was that why he was here? The longing to reach out to him, drag my fingers down his arm, embrace him even, struck me speechless.