CHAPTER 1
Charlestonians vented all their aggression on the roads. It was how they managed to keep the city’s famous Southern charm from wearing thin elsewhere. So, Belle didn’t think much of pressing the pedal to the floor to pass a particularly awful driver who’d nearly caused her to rear-end their vehicle.
She wasn’t a Charlestonian, but she was a South Islander, and that was close enough. A steel bridge united the island with Charleston, supporting a constant stream of traffic in both directions. As she crossed it, she forgot about lifting her foot off the gas pedal – something she realized when lights flashed red and blue in her rear-view mirror.
“Damn it.” She slowed, barely off the bridge. The cop had been sitting there, waiting to welcome drivers onto the island with speeding tickets.
The cruiser slowed to a halt behind her on the shoulder of the road, and she fought to smooth her expression. The officer might let her off with a warning if she didn’t make herself a pain in his ass.
She watched him in her mirrors as he stepped out of his vehicle, revealing himself to be muscular and broad-shouldered, a strikingly masculine vision in dark blue. As he approached her car, her irritation ebbed, giving way to begrudging admiration.
If she had to get pulled over, it might as well be by a hot cop. Silver linings and all that.
After lowering her window, she could hear roadside gravel crunching beneath his boots as he came close and leaned down so she could see his face – sort of.
The sun was glaring behind him, and he wore dark glasses. Still, she could just make out a hint of dark blond stubble on his jaw, as if he was near the end of a long shift. It made her spine tingle.
Her gaze drifted down to his arms. They were thick with muscle, and the left one was wrapped in a sleeve of ink, black designs against golden skin. The intricate tattoos ran from his wrist to his biceps and beyond, disappearing beneath his sleeve.
“License and registration please, ma’am.”
His voice was steady and leaned toward the deep end of the spectrum. What she really noticed, though, was the way her breath hitched when she heard it. Consciously exhaling, she wracked her mind for the reason. Who did he sound like?
Meanwhile, she opened her purse and her glove box, producing the necessary items.
He stared at her license twice as long as her registration – longer than she could imagine it taking to read the sparse information printed there. Did he think it was a fake, or was the picture just that bad? The DMV photographer had caught her looking dazed whenever she’d procured a South Carolina license after her move back to her home state four months ago.
She barely repressed a snort, her gaze drifting to the small arsenal strung around his hips on a heavy belt. The large gun and silver handcuffs caught her eye in particular.
“You were driving twelve miles over the speed limit.” Every word he spoke teased her memory, frustrating.
“Sorry.”
“Have you ever had a speeding ticket before?”
“Once, when I was seventeen.” That’d been an entire decade ago.
“I remember that.”
“What?” She snapped her gaze from his belt to his face, squinting against the glare of the sun.
Realization hit her with all the force of a speeding freight train. “Jackson?”
She barely kept her voice from squeaking.
“Ms. Morrissey.” A grin cracked his stern expression. “I had no idea you’d moved back.”
“Four months ago. I had no idea you were a cop.”
“Surprise. Been an officer with the South Island PD for the past four years.”
Her head spun with this revelation, and she couldn’t stop staring into those dark glasses, as if she might magically develop x-ray vision and be granted a view of the eyes beneath.
He started scribbling on a pad, and guesses at what he might be writing tumbled through her mind. Could he be giving her his phone number?
She eyed his tattoo sleeve as he wrote. The designs were myriad sea creatures, swirling across his skin in a rush of water. He hadn’t had them all last time she’d seen him, but she remembered a couple – the bare bones of what had become a sleeve.
It suited him.
He stopped writing and handed over a blue slip of paper.
Oh, no. The truth hit her when she saw it.
“You’re writing me a ticket?” As soon as she asked, she wished she could take it back – the question had come out sounding petulant.
“You haven’t had a ticket in ten years; it’s not like you’ll lose your license over this.”
She schooled her features, trying to look composed. “Admit it – you just want an excuse to see me again, and court is a sure bet.”
Her attempt at humor earned her a bark of laughter from Jackson. Or Officer Calder, as he was apparently now known.