First

Then he says, ‘Too bad impulsive splurges sometimes lead to awkward mornings.’

I gape at him. He did not just say that in front of Catherine.

She pounces on it. ‘Awkward mornings? What’s that supposed to mean?’

Jake ignores my horror and lifts his glass. ‘Remember how I went to Travis’s party the other night?’

Dallas nods. Catherine is still too busy watching me for any sign of explanation.

‘Well, we were sitting there, having a good time, and there was a party going on. Some kind of celebration thing.’ He takes a sip of water. ‘And guess who’s sitting there on a bar stool?’

‘You?’ Catherine asks, eyes widening as she looks at me.

I groan and try to jump into the story, cutting off Jake before he really screws us over. ‘It wasn’t a big deal—’

‘That asshole who bumped into me thought it was,’ Jake says, cutting me off. ‘What was his name again? Richard?’

‘Richard?’ I squeak.

‘Isn’t that the name of the guy you started making out with? I should have asked.’ Jake shakes his head and frowns. ‘But I guess there wasn’t really any chance. Kind of hard to have a conversation when your tongue is down someone’s throat.’

A deep, heated flush burns up my neck into my cheeks while Catherine sputters. Richard was one of my worst boyfriends … or whatever he was since he never wanted us to be seen in public together. At the time, I’d appreciated the lack of emotional pressure about taking our relationship more seriously. Then I found out he was screwing three other girls on the side.

When we broke up, Catherine provided me a shoulder to cry on and bought me the twenty rolls of plastic wrap I used on his car. The bastard shouldn’t have cheated on me. Catherine made me promise I would never, ever consider Richard again, no matter how handsome and charming he tried to be when he realised he’d made a mistake.

And now Jake’s thrown me to her indignant, misplaced rage. I can’t even argue against his story because the truth would come out and I’d be in a bigger mess.

The smug grin on his face tells me he knows that.

I give him my best death-stare as Catherine launches into a stern lecture. He ignores me and starts some kind of manly conversation with Dallas.

Another reason to add to the good doc’s list of why I can’t stand Jake and why anything between us could never last: he always has to get in the last word. Well, I’ll be damned if I ever let myself be weak enough to feel warm fuzzies for him again.

Chapter 3

‘Spaghetti?’ Nelson protests as he glances at our shopping list. ‘Doesn’t Travis know how to cook anything else?’

‘I doubt it.’ I drag a cart out. ‘Want to split up?’

‘No point,’ Nelson replies. ‘Come on. Let’s get this over with.’

We wander the aisles, smiling and nodding at locals who greet us. It’s one of the weird benefits of working here. We’re a smaller department, but due to our proximity to larger cities like L.A., we get plenty of funding and a continual rotation of new recruits looking to pad their resumes before leaving for the big city. Those of us who stick around for more than a few years get recognised when we’re out in public. I learned a lot at the academy, but dealing with small childrens’ exuberance wasn’t part of it. I guess I’ll have to learn how to put up with it if I manage to stick around long enough to try for captain like I want.

‘So run this by me again,’ Nelson’s saying as we head for the sauce aisle. ‘Why don’t you like this chick?’

He’s still on the whole Maya thing.

‘Fuck off,’ I grumble at him, making sure no one near us can overhear.

He pretends not to catch that. ‘Is she a freak or something? Is she hideous? Why won’t you say anything else?’

I open my mouth to respond, but we round the corner into the aisle and I freeze. Nelson, who hasn’t been paying attention, slams into the cart and swears, rubbing at his knee. I abandon him and hurry down the aisle.

Speak of the devil.

Maya’s clambered up to reach for a bottle of sauce at the back of the top shelf. She drags it closer and closer to the edge with painstaking stretches of her fingers. Unfortunately, she’s not tall enough to see it’s about to fall down and clock her in the head.

It’s starting to tip—a movement that makes her eyes widen in concern—when I reach her. One hand lands on her upper back, nerves searing from the sensation from soft, warm flesh exposed by her halter top. My other hand pushes the bottle back onto the shelf. She lets out a sigh of relief and, still clinging to the metal shelves, glances over at me. For a split second before recognition sets in, her back’s relaxed, her face gentle. Then she realises who rushed to her aid.