Project Produce(6)

Eight ball, corner pocket.

Stop that, you wacko.

I yanked my eyes back up, my mouth going dry. I had never seen a man that gorgeous in my life. “Long gone. Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Good Lord, I really had gone crazy. Time to figure out a plan to get rid of the bad boy, fast.

I risked another peek at the impressive bulge cradled by his revealing jeans, and my eyes nearly crossed. Hot Britches was no pickle, I’d bet the last of my savings on it. My gaze dropped lower, and my mouth fell open. I stood there like an imbecile, gawking at what had to be size twelve or thirteen boots. Holy Mother of God, I had no idea they made them that big. And by ‘them,’ I meant his feet, not his...

“I’ll need to ask you a few questions, ma’am.” Hot Britches slid his gun into the shoulder holster under his jacket. He set a trash bag on the floor by his boots and pulled off his gloves.

My brain said he had to be a cop. He acted like a cop, but I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t trust my judgment when it came to men, and that was the same trash bag I’d thrown at Flasher Freak. He must’ve dropped it outside, making easy pickings for this guy, so why come inside? Unless he wanted a little something more. I moaned.

The man snapped his head in my direction. “Something wrong, ma’am?”

“Wrong? What could possibly be wrong?” A shiver raced down my spine. I was stunned and a little disturbed to realize it wasn’t entirely generated from fear. That settled it. I’d lost my mind completely. I’d left scandal behind with my old life, only to invite craziness into my new one. I snorted in disgust at myself and started choking.

“What is it? Do you see something?” He spun around on the balls of his massive snakeskin boots and drew his weapon at a lightning-quick speed.

This was my chance to act. Trust me, I didn’t hesitate. “Y-Yes. I saw a man outside the window.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded so fast my head hurt.

He shoved me behind him. “Get down while I check it out.”

I flopped onto the floor, until Hot Britches stepped out on the sidewalk and searched the street. Springing to my feet, I sped to the door like my life depended on it--my sanity sure as heck did--then I turned the lock.

Click!

He whirled around. “What are you doing?”

“I called the cops,” I said with a shaky breath.

“I know.” He just stared at me.

“They’re on their way. Any second now, they’ll be barreling through this door.” I looked out, hoping to see a patrol car, a person, anything. Nothing but a vintage car. What crazy person left that there? It was a wonder no-one had stolen it yet. My knees knocked and I prayed the glass was bulletproof, but I had to stay calm. Losing my head would probably get me killed.

His mouth fell open, and he hesitated a beat before he responded, “Look-it, lady, I am the police.”

I folded my arms and arched a brow. Maybe. But I still couldn’t be sure. “Yeah, then where’s your badge?”

“These are my street clothes. I’ve been undercover and came straight here when I heard the call. Forgot my badge at the office. Now, do us both a favor and open up.”

I could hear police sirens off in the distance, and obviously, so could he. His mouth formed a hard line, making it clear he did not want to be caught in this predicament. My gut told me he wouldn’t hurt me, but then again, my gut stunk when it came to men. No way would I let this guy in.

“You really expect me to believe you’re the police without proof?” I surveyed every inch of him and sighed in regret. “Of course you are. You can be anything you want to be, but please, be it somewhere else. Hurry up and shoo, now.” I swept my hand at him, then repeated, “Shoo, shoo. I’d hate to see you get into trouble.” The funny thing was I meant it. I’d just narrowly escaped being assaulted, yet here I was trying to help him get away. I frowned.

His shoulders shook as though he were trying to hold back a laugh, probably at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Then his smile faded and he stared at me, probably trying to figure me out.

Good luck, pal. I’ve been trying to figure me out for thirty years, and I’m still not there yet.

His sunglasses made it impossible to know what he was looking at. I squirmed. I’d always hated being the center of attention. The only reason I’d worked in my parents’ general store instead of going to college was because I’d thought they needed me. Twelve years wasted for being wrong. It still hurt to admit it, but they only needed me when everything went according to “their” plan.

I cleared my throat and pulled my shirt away from my neck, suddenly warm. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t give you a chance to escape. Why don’t I call the police again? I’m sure they can clear this up.”