Page 3 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Reese

"Sheriff, possible break-in at the Victorian on Main Street. Neighbor saw someone lurking."

Clara's place. She and Ashton are probably sound asleep inside. My protective instincts kick into overdrive as I throw on my uniform and race out the door.

Six blocks through sleeping Fairwick, past dark windows and empty streets. I cut my lights as I approach, rolling up quiet.

What I find makes me question if I'm actually awake.

There's a man standing on an overturned recycling bin, stretching toward a second-story window.

His white dress shirt glows in the moonlight, pulled tight across broad shoulders.

Even from here, I can see the way his body moves—controlled, athletic.

His dark hair catches the light as he turns his head, studying the window like it holds the secrets of the universe.

I sit in my cruiser, observing. He can't quite reach. Steps down with surprising grace, and that's when I get a better view. The way his jeans fit perfectly, the confident way he moves. This isn't the typical desperate burglar.

He's muttering in some foreign language, melodic and frustrated. Drags the bin to another window. This one has a flower box beneath it.

"Perfect," he says in accented English, loud enough I could hear.

He climbs up, one foot on the bin, one testing the flower box. It immediately cracks under his weight. He windmills his arms, trying to keep balance, then jumps down before disaster strikes.

"Merda," he tells the broken flower box. Then, bizarrely, he pats it gently. "Sorry. You were not made for this."

He's apologizing. To a flower box.

He circles the house and finds rose bushes growing up a trellis near another window. His face lights up like he's discovered electricity.

"Perfect!"

He approaches the trellis, tests it with one hand. It seems solid enough. He starts climbing, and halfway up, stops. Looks at his shirt. Makes a decision that changes everything.

He climbs down, unbuttons his shirt completely, and pulls it off in one smooth motion.

My mouth goes dry. His torso is carved marble in moonlight—defined chest, abs that create shadows and highlights, those lines that V down into his jeans. A tattoo flows down his ribs in script. He tosses the shirt onto the porch railing and goes back to climbing.

This time he makes it higher before the roses fight back. He jerks his hand away, loses his grip, and slides down into the bush with a string of what must be curses in his language.

"Ow! Madonna—"

Extracting himself from the roses, he examines the new scratches on his chest and arms. His expression shifts from pain to determination.

"You win this round, American roses." He retrieves his shirt, looks at it, then at his bleeding arms. Uses it to wipe away some blood, then tosses it aside. "Violent plants."

He returns to the front door. Tries the handle. Locked. Obviously he must have tried that before, so did he expect it to magically be unlocked now? Then—and this is when I know I'm dealing with someone unique—he gently pats the door.

"Not your fault," he says softly to the door. "I'm the idiot of the two."

Now he's having a conversation with a door. While shirtless. While bleeding.

He circles the house, clearly searching for another entry point. Finds a large decorative rock and brightens. "Ah! Americans always hide keys under ridiculous fake rocks."

He flips it over. Nothing. Places it back with surprising gentleness. "I'm sorry, rock. Not your fault you're empty inside." He pats it. "We've all been there."

Is he... having a heart-to-heart with landscaping?

I should probably step in before this gets more absurd, but part of me needs to know what he'll try next.

He retrieves a credit card from his pocket and approaches another window.

"I saw this in a movie once," he tells the window confidentially. "The hero looked very cool doing it. But I think he had better lighting."

Time to end this circus.

I exit my cruiser silently, hand on my weapon. "Sheriff's Department. Step away from the building."

He startles so violently he drops the credit card. Green eyes go wide—shocking green, like mine but darker, like forest shadows.

"You scared me," he says.

"That's what happens when you're breaking into houses."

His eyes travel over me, starting at my boots, moving up slowly, lingering on my face. His expression shifts from surprise to something else entirely.

"Dio," he breathes. "You're magnificent."

"I'm the sheriff."

"Magnificent sheriff."

His accent makes the words sound like poetry.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he murmurs.

I gesture with my weapon, keeping my distance. "Hands where I can see them."

He raises his hands slowly, still grinning. The movement makes his chest muscles shift, blood trickling from one scratch. "You know, there are easier ways to ask a guy out."

"Turn around. Hands behind your back."

"Kinky. I like it."

“Rotate one-eighty, Casanova.”

He glances over his shoulder. "Massimo Tucci. And you?"

"Sheriff Ramsey."

"Sheriff Ramsey." He tests it out. "Very official. Beautiful name. Powerful. Like you."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Turn everything into a line."

"I'm not. I'm genuinely impressed. Female sheriff in a small town? That's not easy."

Something in his tone makes me pause. His eyes have softened, looking at me with what seems like actual respect.

"It's not," I admit.

“This looks... not good, yes? Sheriff Ramsey?"

"It looks like breaking and entering."

"To be fair, I haven't actually broken anything. Except possibly my pride." His eyes—startlingly green in the security light—travel over me, lingering on my face. “More like failing at entering. There's a difference."

“Sure. Now turn before I add resisting arrest to the charges.”

"Straight to handcuffs?" He turns, revealing a back that belongs in an anatomy textbook. "I usually prefer dinner first, but I'm flexible. I can show you."

I approach, pulling my cuffs free. "You always joke when committing felonies?"

"Only when beautiful sheriffs catch me. Which, admittedly, is a first." He pauses. "But I should mention—women with handcuffs are incredibly attractive. It's a thing for me."

I click the cuffs around his wrists, trying not to notice how warm his skin is, or how he smells like expensive cologne and whiskey and something else—something distinctly male that makes my brain short-circuit.

"You have the right to remain silent."

"A right I've never been particularly skilled at exercising."

"I've noticed."

I pick up the shirt—soft, expensive, bloodstained now. He can't wear it properly, so I drape it over one of his shoulders. It immediately slides down his arm.

"This isn't working," he observes.

"Just... hold still." I tuck part of it into his waistband so it hangs against his hip. Our faces are close for a moment, and his green eyes lock with mine.

"Why did you take your shirt off anyway?" I ask.

"The roses were very passionate about keeping me out," he says. "I didn’t want to destroy a three-hundred-dollar Armani. Seemed like a waste to ruin it just to break into—sorry, enter —a house I have permission to be in."

"Most people would give up after the roses attacked."

"I'm not most people, Sheriff Ramsey. Persistence is my most charming quality." He pauses. "Well, second most charming."

I won’t ask what the first one is.

"You have incredible eyes," he says quietly. "Like sea glass."

"Stop."

"Stopping."

I guide him to the cruiser. "Watch your head."

"So considerate while arresting me. Small towns really do have better service."

He maneuvers into the back seat with surprising grace for a handcuffed man, then leans forward against the partition. "You know, this is actually my first time being arrested. How am I doing?"

"Talking too much."

"That's fair. My mother says the same thing."

I slam the door, cutting off whatever other family insights he was about to share.

As I slide into the driver's seat, I catch his eyes in the rearview mirror. They're intense, intelligent, and entirely too amused for someone in handcuffs.

"Why two AM?" I ask, pulling away from the house.

"Stopped at a bar when driving from Dayton to Fairwick. There was a band. Lost track of time listening to music. You know how sometimes you hear something so soul-stirring you forget everything else exists?"

"Sounds irresponsible."

"Sounds like living." He shifts, the movement making his abs flex. "You should try it sometime."

"I'm busy arresting shirtless men at two AM."

"Your first?"

"First what?"

"Shirtless arrest."

"Actually, no. But you're definitely the first to flirt through the entire process."

"I'm Italian. We flirt through everything. Weddings, funerals, apparently arrests."

"Is that what the foreign language was?"

"Italian, yes. Mostly curses my grandmother would wash my mouth for saying."

"Why were you breaking in?"

"I wasn't breaking in. I was trying to enter a house I have permission to be in, but I left the keys in Detroit because I'm an idiot who stopped at a bar and got distracted by good music and bad decisions."

"That's either the worst lie or the stupidest truth I've ever heard."

"Story of my life, Sheriff,” he says. “But call your friend Clara," he suggests. "Tell her husband he needs to come save the fettuccine."

I pause, hand on the ignition. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Fettuccine. It's me. My nickname. Tucci… fettuccine… you know. Hockey thing."

I should call Clara to verify. But it's after 2 AM, and protocol says book first, verify later.

"I'm taking you in until we sort this out."

"To jail? Do I get my one phone call? Orange jumpsuit? Prison tattoo?"

"To the station.” I correct. “And why would you ask about a tattoo? Do you have a fixation?"

"Can't help it. I'm thinking your badge number would look good. Right here." He nods toward his chest, just over his heart.

"Seriously—do you ever stop flirting?"

"Is it working?"

Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. "No."

"You're smiling. That's a yes."

"I'm not smiling."

"Your eyes are. They're doing that crinkle thing at the corners." He leans forward as much as the seatbelt allows. "They're stunning, by the way. Oh I think I had already said that."

No kidding, this man can’t stop talking.

"So," he says, "do I get my one phone call? Or is that just on TV?"

"You get a call at the station."

"And if I use it to order pizza for us both, would that be a bribe or just good manners?"

I fight the smile threatening to break through my professional mask. "It would be a waste of a call."

"Not if you're hungry. Are you hungry, Sheriff Ramsey?"

I glance at him in the mirror again. He's leaning back now, somehow looking completely at ease despite being half-naked and handcuffed in a police cruiser at 3 AM.

"I'm working," I say.

"That's not a no."

It's going to be a long night.