The Nice Guy Next Door (When In Waverly 1)

Jameson

Millie is in the passenger’s seat of my patrol car, nervously twiddling her thumbs. Every time she shifts her weight, the heavy-duty raincoat I have her sitting on makes loud noises, cutting through the silence. She looked at me like I was insane when I insisted that she sit on it. Everyone I arrest sits in that seat she’s in right now, and I’ve arrested some interesting characters, to put it kindly. Drunk people have peed on that seat. Sure, it has been thoroughly cleaned since the last time, but I still don’t trust it.

She looks around at all of the equipment in the car and asks questions when something draws her attention. The leg restraints were especially intriguing to her. I’ve had to use those several times. Once when a woman kept knocking my computer over with her knee and another time when a drunk man tried to kick my windshield out.

She’s incredibly uncomfortable being in this car with me. I hope it’s just because it’s a patrol car and not because of me. She made it crystal clear that she didn’t want to ride with me, but she didn’t have another option. Tess and Hannah were going to the grocery store to pick something up for Gertrude, and Millie wanted to get back to the library to avoid angering ol’ Gertie for a second time on her first day of work.

“Do you like being a state trooper?” she asks out of the blue, not realizing that it’s a massively loaded question. How much do I want to unload on this woman I only met a few days ago? Do I want to explain to her that the reasons I wanted to work in law enforcement are still valid? I want to make a difference: help people, protect people, be someone who shields others from the worst evils in this world. But how do I explain that there are days that I’m not so sure it’s worth it anymore? Especially now that it seems someone is threatening me. It could be someone I’ve dealt with in the past, or it could be someone who simply hates law enforcement. I’m still hopeful that it was just a harmless prank, but with the way this world is, I doubt it.

I don’t tell her any of that. Instead, I simply say, “Sure,” because I don’t know what else to say. People tend to accept that answer without digging any deeper, because most people don’t actually care. They’re just trying to make polite conversation. The real, honest answer isn’t polite and would make most people uncomfortable.

But Millie isn’t satisfied with my surface-level answer, because she asks, “What do you mean ‘sure’? What kind of answer is that? That would imply that it’s a given that someone would like being a state trooper, and I can promise you that I would hate it. Not that it isn’t a great job. I don’t do well under pressure.”

My jaw momentarily drops open, and I take a moment to recover from the shock. “It has its days. It’s a hard job, but I stand by why I do it.” That answer seems to appease her. She nods her head and then turns to watch out the window.

We pull into the library parking lot, and before she can get out of the car, I snatch her hand up in mine. She tenses up and stares into my eyes with surprise written all over her perfect face. I take a moment to appreciate the soft waves of hair flowing down to her waist before I say, “I know you’re new in town and still trying to get settled, but I would like to take you out to dinner.”

She looks down at our clasped hands and opens and closes her mouth a few times, unable to decide what to say. I just hope it involves the word yes, or maybe even sure.

“I could really use a friend,” she says, and my heart sinks to my stomach. Maybe it’s too soon. She grabs a piece of paper and a pen out of her purse and scribbles her phone number down for me. “Let me know when you’re free.”

She climbs out of the car, and I watch her walk into the library. Her gray skirt swishes around her calves that are exceptionally defined thanks to the dark-red heels on her feet.

The door closes behind her, and I lay my head back against the headrest and groan loudly. Mr. Wilson, an old, retired history teacher, taps on my window, forcing me out of my pity party. “You okay in there, Jameson?” he asks.

“Just fine, Mr. Wilson. How are you today?”

“Well, I don’t have any ladies putting me through the wringer these days, so I’d say I’m doing pretty good.”

“She put you in the friend zone? I did not see that coming,” Colby says, choking on a huge bite of pizza. It has been a part of our weekly routine for years. Once a week—whatever day works best with Seth’s and my weird work schedules—we order pizza, bring over our favorite drinks, and do man stuff, like play cards, work on someone’s house project, or sit and talk about women.

“I was sure she was feeling something for you. Did you see how nervous she was, sitting next to you at lunch?” Seth says.

“It was probably the gun and the taser freaking her out. A lot of people get weird around weapons,” I say. I’ve been doing this job long enough to have experienced the full spectrum of reactions to law enforcement. Some people simply stare. They try to be sneaky about it, but they never are. Older people usually thank me, which is kind but makes me uncomfortable. Others openly glare at me. I’m used to it after eight years on the job.

“I don’t know, man,” Seth says, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Anyone want some of my pizza?”

“Absolutely not. Pineapple does not belong on pizza,” Colby answers, disgust written all over his face.

“Under any other circumstance you would be correct, but with the ham and bacon, it creates the perfect blend of savory and sweet.”

“I don’t want my pizza to be sweet. I want every form of greasy protein and nothing sweet or even remotely healthy,” he says. Colby is a regimented health nut ninety-five percent of the time. He lives on vegetables and lean protein and works out daily. But all bets are off on guys’ nights. I’ve never seen a man savor a slice of pizza the way Colby does.

“Y’all are ridiculous, but I have to agree with Colby on this one. Pineapple is a disgrace to pizza everywhere. So, are we gonna watch this football game or what?” I ask. Seth glares at both of us and reassures his pizza that he still loves it before settling down to watch the game.

I don’t care about either of the teams playing, but I need something to take my mind off things for a while.

It’s the Patriots and the Steelers, though. The Patriots are sweeping the floor with them, and it’s the most boring game I’ve ever watched. My phone saves me by dinging. I pull it out of my pocket, and Millie’s name pops up on the screen.

“Dude, no phones!” Colby scolds and tries to swipe my phone out of my hand.

“It’s my nana,” I lie. “She might need something.” I stand and walk to the kitchen under the guise of getting something else to drink before glancing at the text.

Millie: Hey, it’s Millie! Have you decided when you want to grab dinner? My calender’s getting booked over here. (Joking.) I’m bored. Save me.

I laugh out loud at her jokes. She’s so quiet in person that I wouldn’t have expected her to be so open in a text. I didn’t expect her to text me, period.

“I didn’t know Nana was so funny!” Seth shouts from the living room.