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“I do?”

And idiot that I am, I look over my shoulder as if I’d be able to see the broken light.

“Yes, you do. The left one is out. Make sure to get that fixed. Can I have your license, registration, and insurance, please?”

I’ve never been pulled over before. This feels a little like being in a movie or TV show. Hopefully, not an episode ofCops.

Reaching across the car, I open the glove compartment—thank God, River is quiet for once—and take the registration and insurance cards and hand them to him.

He looks at them for a minute.

“Who’s David Devereux?”

“Our dad.”

The car may be ours, but it’s still under Dad’s name.

He looks at the IDs again. I still can’t see his face. “You’re a little far from home.”

“We go to Riggins.”

He nods. This is a college town, so I’m sure I’m not the first RU student he’s stopped. Nor the last.

“And the driver’s license?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.”

I turn around to grab the license from my purse and it’s not there.

No, no, no. A moment of panic hits me like a punch to the chest. Did I lose it? Did River lose it? I search for it in a rush, behind our seats, the car floor, and back where it’s supposed to be—on the console between the two front seats—as if it would magically appear there.

Then I remember. I know exactly where my purse is. Back home, on the chair where I left it minutes ago. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to gather a calmness I don’t feel before turning to the window.

“Officer, I’m sorry, but it seems I forgot my wallet at home, and my license is in it.”

He shifts outside the door, as if in slow motion. I watch as broad shoulders fill the entire space of the open window. He’s illuminated by a parking lot light, and when his face comes into view and he looks at me at eye level, my chest contracts as air leaves my lungs in a rush.

He’s beautiful, like someone took the genes of Chris Hemsworth and Ian Somerhalder, put them in a bottle, shook it all around, and poured this perfect representation of the Y chromosome. His clear blue eyes are in sharp contrast with his tanned skin and dark hair. A strong, square jaw, his bottom lip a little fuller than the top.

He narrows his eyes at me, his lips a thin line. He looks angry.What did I do?

“Step out of the car, please.”

“What? But . . . why?”

For a moment, he doesn’t look like he’ll answer me. His eyes shift over my face, my shoulders, my chest. My heart is beating so furiously, I imagine he can see it hammering against my breasts.What’s happening to me?I don’t understand my body’s reaction. My stomach clenches, my breath catches, and I feel the need to squeeze my thighs. A small gasp leaves my lips when I realize... I’m aroused. I’m nervous, embarrassed, worried about my sister being drunk, scared even, but the primary emotion running through me at this very moment is... lust.What the heck?This is so not me.

My brain and my body are at war. The even-tempered and rational me is being challenged by a hormonal reaction the likes of which I’ve never encountered. I suck in a breath, shake the lustful thoughts off, and try to get back to the task at hand. My missing driver’s license. When our eyes meet, I’m certain he can see all of it in my face. My cheeks burn.

His eyes open slightly, and his lips move but stay silent. He blinks a few times and his pupils darken. He hesitates. His gaze falls to my chest again, then he looks away.

“Step out of the car, please.”

His voice is a little huskier now.

“I smell alcohol on you.”

“What? No, I’m not drinking—”