Butterface

He braced his hands on the boards closest to him, but they started to creak as soon as he put his weight on them. Oh, this was not going to go well. The more he tried to get himself out, the worse it seemed to get. It was like her house was trying to eat him.

“I need to get help,” she said, pulling out her cell phone from her back pocket with shaky hands.

Ford continued to survey his situation. “Who are you going to call?”

“The fire department,” she said, already scrolling for their non-emergency number. “They got one of my cousin’s kids’ head free after he’d gotten it stuck between two banisters at my grandma’s house.”

“Do not dial that number,” Ford said, each word coming out as a staccato punch. “I’d rather live the rest of my life in this hole than have you call the fire department.”

“That makes no sense.” That wasn’t rhetorical. It really made no sense at all. If she hadn’t seen him fall through the porch herself, she would have figured he’d banged his head hard to be talking such bologna.

The vein in his temple pulsed, and he squared his jaw with enough force that it made the muscles on the side of his face bulge out. Ignoring her question, he tested out the boards within reach, each of which wobbled under the pressure. Finally, he let out a frustrated huff.

“My brothers and my dad are firefighters. I would never hear the end of it if they had to come pull my ass out of a hole in a porch. They’d stop and take pictures before they did it. They’d probably call my mom and FaceTime her during the process. I could save the entire family from a deranged serial killer, and they’d all still be telling the story of the time I got stuck in a hole on your front porch.”

After having lunch with his family, she had to admit he wasn’t wrong. They wouldn’t do it out of meanness, but they’d totally give him a hard time for a good long while. And she could understand why. Ford was always so damn sure of himself that seeing him in this situation was something to savor for a little bit.

“I don’t know,” she said, letting her finger hover over her phone. “Calling the fire department seems like the standard operating procedure here. I know how much you love following protocol. Remember when you refused to start painting the hallway until you’d stirred the paint for exactly thirty-five seconds?”

“That’s what the guy at the paint counter recommended to achieve the best sheen,” he declared as he crossed his arms across his chest as if the truth of the statement was obvious.

Which it was. Just not in the way he was thinking. “Like I said, you always follow recommended protocol.”

“Not in this case,” he shot back.

“Ford Hartigan, are you breaking the rules?”

“I seem to be making a habit of it whenever I’m around you,” he groused.

Now this was something worth exploring, and since he didn’t seem to actually be hurt apart from his pride, she put her phone away in her back pocket. “Well, since I have you trapped, you’ve got to tell me everything.” She was being an ass. She knew it, but how often did a woman like her have the hot guy she lusted after trapped in her porch? This was a situation that needed to be savored like a fine wine or a greasy cheeseburger when she had a hangover from savoring too much of that fine wine. “Why are you here instead of at work?”

“I punched a fellow detective who happens to outrank me.”

Whoa. It took a few seconds for his words to sink in. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

His face darkened, and for a second she didn’t think he’d answer. Finally, he grumbled, “I had my reasons.”

“Don’t suppose you’ll tell me?” Because she was dying to know what in the world could push someone like By The Book Hartigan to punch a superior.

He just held her gaze.

Wow. Throwing punches at another detective. She would have to follow up with Fallon about that, because Mr. Tight Lips wasn’t going to give up any of the goods, which was really too bad. Of course, it wasn’t enough of a reason to let her house eat him, no matter how nice it was to have him around again.