Cuffing Her: A Small Town Cop Romance

by Emily Bishop

  “Stefan!” I commanded. “Walking off the set is not an option. This is what we pay you for. Deal with it.”

  Models in robes and lingerie dashed around the warehouse, flitting between hair stylists, makeup artists, and wardrobe fittings. Their fake tits, pouty lips, and inflated egos were all in attendance, but Stefan had yet to find his muse.

  “I cannot, Barrett,” the Italian photographer insisted, his hands gesturing wildly as he explained himself. “These girls are beautiful, but they’re on every cover of every magazine.”

  The models rushing around us were both of those things: gorgeous but familiar. They were costing me top dollar for every minute Stefan wasted, and all of them had their pick of modeling jobs. But I understood where Stefan was coming from. We needed something fresh. Something different.

  And it sure as hell wasn’t in this warehouse.

  He shoved his hands through his black hair, like he’d been doing since he got here. His hair stuck out in every direction, making him look like a crazy person. Although he was an artist, so I supposed he was eccentric, not certifiably insane.

  “I cannot keep shooting the same thing,” Stefan objected. “This is not art.”

  “Then make it art,” I said, offering the simplest solution I could think of. “Walking away won’t accomplish anything. Find the creative spark in that brilliant head of yours, and we can share your vision with the rest of the world.”

  He seemed to consider my words, just like I knew he would. Everyone was motivated by something different. For a man like Stefan, I appealed to his artistic vanity. It was easier than holding his hand and setting up the shots for him.

  There were two different kinds of shit, his and mine. I wasn’t about to make his mine. He was one of the highest paid photographers in the business, and I was signing his damn paycheck. He could figure something out.

  “Make it art,” Stefan muttered. “How much free rein do I have?”

  “Until I tell you to reel it in,” I told him. There was little chance that I would, though, seeing as how I agreed with him.

  The warehouse had been decked out specially for the shoot, but the sets were so mundane that I had wanted to vomit a little in my mouth when I arrived earlier. There was the typical bed against a random brick wall, the severely overdone rooftop that offered cityscapes, and not much else.

  The girls were gorgeous, but Stefan wasn’t kidding when he said they were on every cover of every magazine. At BHA Models, we prided ourselves on pushing the envelope.

  Suffice it to say, there was no pushing going on at this shoot, unless I counted the models who tried pushing themselves on either myself or Adam every so often.

  Adam was my right-hand man, my best friend, and my most vocal critic all at once. His short blond hair always looked like he’d just enjoyed a vigorous fuck, which was true most of the time, and his bright blue eyes sparkled in a way that women wrote books about. We were complete opposites. While he was baby-faced and golden, I was the dark, brooding one. My eyes and hair are both dark, and the strength of my cheekbones has always made me seem serious. He has a country boy style, while I’ve always favored a sharp suit.

  “We need something different,” I said to Adam.

  “What do you mean?” Adam asked, stretching his arms behind his back and drawing his fair share of attention from doing so. Women loved the soft Southern lilt of his accent almost as much as they loved his classic looks.

  “If you’d stop eye-fucking the goddamn models, maybe you’d see what I mean,” I said.

  He smirked. “But then why are we in this business? Eye-fucking the girls is one of the big reasons I bought in.”

  The models prancing around the room wore everything from underwear, to the jeans they were supposed to be modeling, to fluffy robes that were completely unnecessary for New York City in June. Adam’s eyes were feasting on each and every one of them.

  “Eye-fucking the girls isn’t going to keep us on top, making the kind of money that allows you to keep ogling half-naked girls instead of busting your ass in an office somewhere,” I told him.

  “I do love a good ass busting,” Adam quipped. “What did you have in mind? You are the rainmaker, after all, oh, Captain, my Captain.”

  “If only you were half as funny as you think you are,” I said drily.

  “I’m twice as funny as I think I am,” Adam countered. “Your sense of humor has just gone on a vacation recently.”

  I swept my arm out to gesture at the girls around us. “And this shit is why. We need a new face for the company. A new model with a look we haven’t seen twenty million times.”

  “Hey, you know you can always rope me into auditioning beautiful women.” He waggled his eyebrows and broke out laughing.

  I laughed with him, but it was more from the irony of the situation than humor. Most men would likely sell their first-born child or pledge their balls to be in my shoes. As the CEO of one of the top modeling agencies in the world, I was surrounded by beautiful women who were almost all down for a quick fuck. I enjoyed sampling their charms as much as any guy would, but it was getting boring. Fast. If anything, the fact that the models were mostly plastic molds was getting to me.

  One of the models sauntered up to us. Her full lips were red, and her fingernails, painted to match, were long enough to leave deep scratches on your back as you fucked her into oblivion. She did absolutely nothing for me.

  “Hi, boys,” she purred. “You having fun today? You’re Barrett Hart, right?” Her eyes zeroed in on me.

  No surprise there. Much to my dismay, the press had sniffed me out a couple of years ago when one ambitious fashion writer did a piece on the agency’s meteoric rise to power in the industry. Since then, I’d become something of a poster boy for the agency, and my name and face had become well-known in the world of modeling.

  “I am,” I said. “And this here is Adam Campbell. He’s the brains of the operation.” It was a lie, but it turned her attention from me to Adam.

  “Gloria Ryan,” she said, squeezing each of our hands in turn. Thankfully, she took the bait and focused on Adam. “You must be quite the smart guy, then. I’d love to hear all about it.”

  “And I’m always happy to oblige a pretty lady.” He slung an arm effortlessly across her shoulders. “What would you like to know?”

  Adam and Gloria started walking in the direction of the dressing room as she quizzed him. Adam threw me a wink over his shoulder, and I waved him off before the throng of people on the set swallowed them up.

  Models like the one Adam was busy seducing were a dime a dozen. I needed someone special if I wanted to keep leading the pack. And I did.

  Loud electronic music started blaring from speakers, and I took it as my cue to leave. Stefan appeared like magic at my side just as I turned around.

  “Are there any acrobats in attendance?” he asked.

  “No, and our liability insurance doesn’t cover that kind of thing,” I told him. “But you can always fake it if you use the right camera angles.”

  Stefan beamed at me. “I never fake it, but for you, Barrett, I will make an exception. Brilliant.”

  “I knew I could count on you to come up with a fresh concept. I have to take off. You’ve got it from here, right?”

  “Thanks to you,” Stefan said.

  “Make me want to buy those jeans, Stef.”

  “At the very least, I’ll make you want to make love to the model.”

  Fat chance at this stage. “Bear in mind that we were hired to sell jeans, not the people wearing them.”

  Stefan laughed. “I will do that, old friend.”

  Someone cranked the volume on the music so much that I had to yell my goodbye. “Send over your proofs ASAP. See you around!”

  Now that I knew the photoshoot wasn’t going to implode because Stefan refused to take a single picture, it was time to get to work on finding that new look. I stepped out of the warehouse into the hot noonday sun. The sounds of traffic rumbled o
n the street.

  I spotted a newsstand on the corner, and I decided to head over to pick up my daily copy of the Financial Times before I headed back to the office. As I neared the stand, however, it was not the Financial Times that caught my eye, but instead, it was a picture of me attending a charity fundraiser the week before, emblazoned on the cover of a gossip rag.

  I scowled. I hated seeing my picture on magazine covers. I’d chosen to start the agency so I could be behind the cameras, not in front of them. I was grateful for every bit of exposure the agency received, of course. There was no such thing as bad publicity.

  Still, I had an intense dislike of being the cause of said publicity. Especially when it meant that the female sharks would start circling with renewed force when they were reminded that I was still a bachelor.

  “Is that you?” a feminine voice asked me as if on cue. Karma really was a bitch.

  Turning toward the voice with my megawatt smile in place, I played the part I was known for. The arrogant billionaire playboy with a little black book as thick as the entire Lord of the Rings series stacked on top of one another, and I knew exactly how big they were. Nancie was obsessed with those books.

  “Yup, that’s me,” I said.

  “Wow, I can’t believe I’m meeting the guy on the cover of Talk New York,” she gushed, her eyes wide.

  “I just went to a fundraiser. Nothing to see here.”

  She batted her eyelashes. “On the contrary. Those pictures don’t do you justice.”

  A glint of a camera nearby caught my attention, and combined with the woman’s obvious attempts at flirtation, it was time for me to get out of here.

  “Thank you. I’ve got to run. It was nice meeting you.”

  “You, too,” she called after me as I jogged across the street. I had no idea what could possibly have been nice about that encounter, but at least she’d had her OMG I saw that guy today moment.

  Whatever. I had bigger problems. More cameras waited up the block. The paparazzi weren’t there for me, but they would have a field day if they spotted me anyway.

  One of our models on the shoot had complained that morning when she’d arrived that the vultures were following her because of her recent split with an up-and-coming rock star. I’d honestly thought she was exaggerating, but she clearly hadn’t been.

  Things got worse when I rounded the corner and spotted a billboard in a luxury storefront promoting Talk New York. It figured that my mug would be on the cover of the magazine the week they released their ad blitz.

  A bus zoomed by, close enough to make my hair ruffle, with my same smile beaming out at me from its side. I’d had enough. Disgust roiled in my stomach.

  Usually, the free exposure would’ve delighted me. I’d always been a ruthless self-promoter when it suited my needs, but I was getting sick of everyone knowing my name and speculating about the size of my bank account.

  Then things got even worse when one of the vultures finally recognized me and started rushing toward me.

  Fuck.

  The sidewalk was too quiet to disappear completely, so I darted between the bodies that were filling it and ducked into a family style diner, packed with a lunchtime crowd. I didn’t know if I’d lost the man, so I donned a hat from a coat rack near the door, jammed it onto my head, and went in search of a booth.

  To add an extra layer of protection, I grabbed onto the wrist of the first waitress who passed me and pulled her onto my lap as I sat in the booth.

  “Well, hello to you, too,” a melodic voice crooned.

  I hadn’t bothered to look at her before I’d pulled her onto me. I was too busy searching out the photographers on the street who were gathered in front of the diner, but it didn’t look like they knew I’d ducked inside.

  Turning to face the woman I’d all but assaulted, my apology died on my lips when I was met by the full force of light blue eyes the color of glaciers meeting the ocean. Her full lips, inches away from mine, were curled into a surprised smile, and her jet-black hair was piled on top of her head. Wisps of it escaped to frame her beautiful face.

  “Were you aware that pulling waitresses onto your lap is the new thing for the summer?” I asked, completely aware that my game seemed to have checked itself at the door.

  The waitress, however, didn’t skip a beat before lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I hope no one tells old Mr. George over there.”

  She pointed at a customer with white hair who must have weighed at least four hundred pounds.

  “I’ll cross my fingers for you,” I said.

  “Much appreciated.” She glanced at a man wearing a red shirt before letting go of my hand, which I hadn’t realized she’d been holding. As soon as her hand disappeared, I felt its absence like a limb had been cut from my body.

  She stood with an easy grace and smoothed her navy-blue skirt. It dawned on me that the man was probably her manager. I didn’t know too much about the hospitality industry, but I guessed that sitting on customers’ laps was frowned upon.

  She didn’t seem too concerned about it, though. An amused gleam lit her eyes when they met mine, and she magicked a pencil and pad into her hands. “So, other than trying out summer trends, what are you in the mood for today?”

  You. “All work and no play, huh? Okay. I don’t know. What’s good here?”

  She laughed. “All work when I’m at work, yes. Which I am right now, just in case you missed it. And everything’s good here.”

  Was that banter? I perked up. Women never bantered with me anymore. “Tell you what, how about you surprise me. Just nothing with pickles. Do me a favor, though. Just stay with me a few more minutes. I’ll pretend to study the menu so you don’t get in trouble.”

  Chapter 2

  Demi

  “Oh, my god, did you see that guy I was just talking to?” I squealed to Mandy when I got back to the kitchen. Mandy’s flaming red hair hung like a curtain around her face from the way she leaned with her head on one of the gleaming countertops.

  “No,” she grunted. Her voice was so low that I almost hadn’t heard her over the clanging of pots and food being dropped into deep fryers all around us.

  When she lifted her head, I noticed that her forest green eyes were red-rimmed and watery. That must be why she had missed the entrance of what had to be the hottest customer Roy’s Diner had ever seen.

  “So, that’s why your hot guy radar isn’t working. You did it again, didn’t you?” I laughed, crossing to the sink to get her some water.

  Mandy nodded and managed a weak smile when she took the glass from me. “From now on, if I so much as say Club Tonixx, you have to physically restrain me or something.”

  “You’d Hulk out of any restraints,” I said.

  Mandy was what some might refer to as the quintessential New York City party girl, but her exploits never failed to produce hilarious results—which I was sure I was going to hear all about as soon as she got over the worst of her hangover.

  “True,” she groaned, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Why do I do this to myself?”

  Mandy continued to lament her sometimes questionable life choices in a bout of post-party guilt that would soon subside. My phone buzzed in my apron. I fished it out and sighed when my mom’s face smiled up at me from the display.

  I declined the call without a second thought and stuffed my phone into my apron. I was so not dealing with that drama right now. I had just met the first guy to pique my interest in ages, and my family was not going to ruin that for me, too.

  I ordered an Old-Fashioned Brooklyn Burger for Mr. Hot Witty Stranger’s surprise lunch, and I turned my attention back to Mandy while I waited for my order to be called up.

  “You know,” she said. “If I could just win the lottery, I could get out of this shithole, and I wouldn’t be subjected to the smell of grit and grease every time that I’m hungover. In fact, I would be so rich, I could probably pay someone to be hungover for me.”

  “T
here are so many things wrong with that sentence.” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “First, you actually have to play the lottery to win it. Second, I’m not sure planning your life around hangovers is healthy. Last, we’re living the real life here, not staring down at it from gilded cages and ivory towers.”

  “Well, thanks for the lecture, Mom.” Mandy grinned. “But I’ll happily take the gilded cages and the ivory towers, thank you very much.”

  “Fine,” I sighed. “Never say that I didn’t warn you.”

  She gave me a sidelong look. “Do I even want to know what crawled up your ass and died there for you to say something like that?”

  “Not today,” I said. There were things about my past that Mandy didn’t know, but it would take several hours and at least two bottles of wine to get through it. Besides, my past was staying firmly right where it was.

  “Okay, when you’re ready to talk about it, I’m right here.” She clapped her hands together, some of her larger-than-life personality beating out the hangover. “Now, you mentioned something about a hot guy. Nothing like a little eye candy to cheer a girl up.”

  “Or sober her up, in your case,” I joked.

  Mandy stuck her tongue out at me. “Whatever. Show me to your hot guy.”

  I led her to the serving window between the kitchen and the dining area, pointing at him surreptitiously.

  “Holy mother of Carrie Bradshaw,” Mandy gasped, her Sex and the City addiction shining through. “My hot guy radar isn’t just broken if I missed that. I think I’ve lost it.”

  She fanned herself with a laminated menu she grabbed from the counter. I wished that I could tell that she was just being her dramatic self, but in this instance, she had a point.

  “I think I have to agree,” I said.

  Even draped over the faded red vinyl of the booth and set against the backdrop of the slightly yellowing walls, the man was model hot.