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I’m still looking at the brunette when Skye responds to her.

“Yes, I do, and I was reading a very good one when you called me to rescue your ass, yet again!”

“She likes to read smut.”

More giggles.

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do. All those books have half-naked men on the cover.”

Normally, this is where I’d halt the conversation, gain control of the situation, and put a stop to it. Well, if I’m honest, it would’ve never gotten this far. Instead, I repress a smirk, still trying to do my job, but relaxing and enjoying myself for a change. This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time. Too long to count, and it almost makes me feel like I’m back in college again. The poor girl stammers.

“I—I’m not responsible for what an author puts on the cover of their book.”

“You need the real thing. You should just get laid. I bet officer Hot Cop can help you. You know, protect and serve. He canserviceyou.”

Now, there’s an idea I can get behind.I shake my head as if doing so would get rid of all the random thoughts in it. I cross my arms over my chest and try to pull my head out of my ass and do what I always do when something doesn’t go as planned. I take a step back and analyze the known facts.

One: I’m attracted to this girl.

Two: She’s scared, embarrassed, and out of her element.

Three: I’m in a position of authority, in uniform, at work, and behaving in a way that’s not professional or up to my own personal standards.

Four: There’s no way I can act on this attraction.Maybe not right now . . .

Five: I have to get this mess under contr—

“River!” Despite the cold, her face burns with embarrassment.

“Or not. I know! You should use your vibrator,” the brunette quips, like it's the greatest idea of the century.

“I.

Do.

Not.

Have.

A.

Vibrator.”

Skye enunciates each word.

“I'm buying you one for your birthday. It's a great twenty-first birthday gift!”

The brunette slurs between giggles and looks at me.

“We're twins, you know. Fra-ter-nal twins.”

And now she’s confessed to underage drinking, which for a college town is common, but damn it! I walk up to the front of the car to get a closer look at her. It doesn’t matter if she’s just buzzed or drunk. It’s still underage drinking. She’s able to hold eye contact, her breathing is normal, not labored, and her words are clear enough, a little slow and a slur here and there, but still coherent. She’s tipsy for sure, but not plastered.

“Can I see your driver’s license, please?”

She fishes in her back pocket and hands it over. I tilt it to the light to get a better look. Her birthday is September twenty-second. She’ll be legal in a week.