Page 4 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Reese

"Your accommodations aren't exactly five-star," I say, locking Massimo in the cell. "But they'll do until morning."

He examines the small space—cot, toilet, sink, and a patch of moonlight streaming through the high barred window. His bare chest catches the silvery light, those scratches from the roses like artistic lines drawn across his skin.

"It has a certain rustic charm," he decides. "I once stayed in a ski lodge in Switzerland that was more cramped."

"Somehow I doubt that."

"It's true! I had to duck to get through the door, and the toilet was so close to the bed I could brush my teeth while lying down."

Despite myself, I snort. "That's efficient."

"Exactly! I'm all about efficiency." He sits on the cot, which creaks ominously. "So, Sheriff Ramsey, what happens now? Do I pose for a photo? Get a lawyer? A flannel pajamas?"

I study him, still trying to figure out what his angle is. Nobody's this cheerful about being arrested.

"Shirt," I decide, noting the rose scratches have left several bloodstains on his discarded Armani. "You can't put that back on—it's evidence of your trellis wrestling match."

I disappear into the supply closet and return with a gray Fairwick Sheriff's Department shirt that's about two sizes too big even for him. "It's the best I can do."

“Thank you.”

"But first, those scratches need cleaning," I say, eyeing the angry red lines across his chest and arms. "Roses are filthy with bacteria."

He looks down as if noticing the scratches for the first time. "My battle wounds."

"Wait here." I return with the first aid kit and unlock the cell door. "Sit."

He obeys, watching curiously as I pull on latex gloves and dampen a gauze pad with antiseptic. When I touch the first scratch, he hisses.

"Sorry," I murmur, gentler now.

"It's fine. I just didn't expect the sheriff's touch to be so... tender."

"I'm gentle with all my prisoners." I clean each scratch methodically, trying to ignore the warmth of his skin under my fingertips.

"Somehow I doubt that."

When I finish, I hand him the shirt. "Your Armani's seen better days."

"Thank you," he says again, and there's something in his voice that wasn't there before. "For patching me up."

He pulls it on, and I try not to stare at the way his muscles flex with the movement.

It hangs loose, brushing low over his hips, making him look oddly vulnerable.

For a stupid second, my brain supplies a mental image of what’s under those jeans —unhelpful, vivid, and far too easy to imagine easing the zipper down.

He rolls up the sleeves to his elbows. "It smells like lemons."

"Nancy uses lemon detergent for the department laundry."

"Nancy sounds thorough."

"She is." I hand him a thin scratchy blanket. "You get your call in the morning. It's too late to wake people up."

"Even Clara and Ashton?"

"Especially them. Clara's pregnant. She needs her sleep."

His eyebrows shoot up. "She's pregnant? Ashton didn't tell me!"

I realize I've revealed something I shouldn't have. "It's still early. Don't say anything."

"Of course not." He mimes zipping his lips, then adds, "I'm good with secrets."

“Uh-huh.”

“Especially the kind you tell me in the dark.”

"That sounds exactly like what someone untrustworthy would say."

"Or someone very trustworthy. The line is thin." He grins, leaning against the wall. "So, Sheriff Ramsey, are you going to leave me here all alone?"

"That's how jail works."

"But I'm your only prisoner. And it's—" he glances at the clock on the wall, "—past three in the morning. Surely you're not going home?"

I'm not, actually. I never leave prisoners alone overnight, not since the Miller kid tried to hang himself with his shoelaces two years ago. But Massimo doesn't need to know that.

"I'll be at my desk," I say. "Doing paperwork."

"Sounds thrilling."

"Crime doesn't sleep."

"Neither will I, on this." He pats the cot, which emits another concerning creak.

I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.

"You know, I've never been arrested before."

"Congratulations on your first time. It's very special."

"I'm serious," he says, and something in his tone makes me turn back. The smile is gone, replaced by a thoughtful expression. "I'm usually more careful."

"About breaking into houses?"

"About everything." He looks up at me. "I've spent my whole life being careful."

I don't know why that surprises me. Maybe because everything about him—from the way he climbs rose trellises shirtless to the way he flirts with a woman arresting him—screams reckless.

"You don't strike me as careful," I say.

"That's the point." He runs a hand through his dark hair. "Everyone sees what I want them to see."

For a moment, we just look at each other, and I feel something shift. Like we've stumbled into a different conversation than the one we started.

My stomach growls, breaking the moment.

"Hungry?" he asks.

"It's been a long day."

"You didn't have dinner?"

"I had..." I try to remember. "Coffee. At some point."

He looks genuinely concerned. "That's not dinner."

"It has calories."

"It has caffeine. Not the same thing." He stands. "Let me buy you dinner."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're locked in a cell."

"Details." He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. "I still have this. You have a phone. Pizza delivers everywhere."

"You want to order pizza? To a jail cell?"

"I want to order pizza for a beautiful sheriff who's working too hard and not taking care of herself." His green eyes are sincere. "Consider it community service."

"I don't need you to feed me."

"Of course not. But wouldn't it be nice if someone did, just this once?"

I stare at him, trying to figure out his angle. Is this more flirting? A bribe? Or is he actually being... nice?

"Fine," I say finally. "But I'm paying."

"Absolutely not. I insist."

"I can't accept gifts from prisoners."

"It's not a gift. It's..." he thinks for a moment, "civil forfeiture. You're seizing my assets for the public good."

I can't help it—I laugh. "That's not how civil forfeiture works."

"Then educate me, Sheriff." He sits back on the cot, looking up at me with interest that seems genuine. "I want to learn."

"About law enforcement?"

"About you."

I cross my arms. "There's nothing to know."

"I disagree." He leans forward. "I know a lot already."

"You know nothing about me."

"I know you're ambitious." He ticks off a finger.

"I know you work too hard." Another finger.

"I know you're underestimated because you're a woman in a man's job.

" A third finger. "I know you're from here because you called Clara your friend, which means you grew up together.

" A fourth. "I know you're smart because you caught me, even though I was being incredibly stealthy. "

"You were talking to a flower pot."

"A very suspicious flower pot." He grins. "I know you're compassionate because you're worried about Clara's sleep even though you're exhausted yourself. And I know you're lonely."

That pulls me up short. "Excuse me?"

"You're alone at three AM instead of home with someone who makes sure you eat dinner."

I open my mouth to argue, but something stops me. He's not wrong, and it's unnerving.

"Your turn," he says softly.

"My turn?"

"To tell me what you know about me."

"You're a hockey player named after pasta."

"Wounded! But accurate." He clutches his chest dramatically. "What else?"

I study him. "You're hiding from something in Fairwick."

His eyebrows lift. "Good. Why do you think that?"

"Nobody comes to Fairwick unless they're hiding, running, or born here."

"Which are you?"

"Born here. Your turn."

"Hiding," he admits. "From a scandal I didn't create but can't escape."

"What kind of scandal?"

"The kind where a woman lies about you to the press, and everyone believes her because it fits what they expect."

There's a bitterness in his voice that rings true. I've been on the receiving end of small-town expectations my whole life.

"What do they expect?" I ask.

"That I'm a player. That I'll sleep with anyone. That I only care about hockey and sex." He shrugs, but the casualness feels forced. "That I'm charming but empty."

"And you're not?"

"I'm definitely charming." The smile returns, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "The rest is... complicated."

"Everything is." I check my watch. "If we're going to order pizza, we should do it now. Luigi's closes at three-thirty."

"Luigi's?" He perks up. "Is it authentic?"

"It's Ohio authentic."

"So, not authentic at all."

"The owner's name is Bob Johnson."

He clutches his chest again. "You're killing me."

I pull out my phone and dial the familiar number. "Hey, Marcy. Yeah, I know it's late. Can I get a large pepperoni? Delivering to the station." I pause. "Yes, again. Thanks."

I hang up and find Massimo watching me with amusement.

"Again?" he questions.

"I work late a lot."

"Alone?"

"Usually."

"That's a shame."

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. "Why?"

"Because you deserve someone bringing you pizza at three AM without you having to ask."

I don't know what to say to that, so I change the subject. "The pizza will be here in twenty minutes."

"Perfect." He settles back against the wall. "Just enough time for you to tell me a secret."

"I don't share secrets with strangers."

"We're not strangers. I'm wearing your shirt."

I roll my eyes. "That makes us laundry-mates at best."

"Then tell me something not secret. Tell me about Fairwick."

"What about it?"

"Why you stay. Why you're sheriff. What you love about it."

I pause, considering. It's a simple question, but it feels loaded. I pull up the chair from the corner and sit across from his cell.

"I stay because it's home," I say finally. "I'm sheriff because my dad was sheriff, and when he retired, I was the most qualified deputy. And I love..." I search for the right words. "I love that I know every corner of it. Every family, every story."

"That sounds suffocating."