Page 6 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Massimo

The morning light hits my face like an accusation. For a disorienting moment, I can't remember where I am—then the bars come into focus and everything rushes back. Roses. Breaking and entering. Sheriff Reese Ramsey with eyes that cut through bullshit like a hot knife through burrata.

"Rise and shine, Fettuccine," she says from the doorway, keys jingling in her hand. "Your friends are here."

I sit up, wincing as the cot creaks beneath me. She looks different in daylight—still striking, but the softness from last night has disappeared behind her professional mask. The woman who shared pizza and bourbon and secrets has been replaced by Sheriff Ramsey, uniform crisp, badge gleaming.

"Good morning," I say, stretching deliberately so the department shirt pulls against my chest. Her eyes flick down, then quickly away. "Sleep well?"

"I worked. Unlike some people."

"Prison labor is illegal in Ohio."

The corner of her mouth twitches. "You're not in prison. And you're free to go."

Behind her, Clara appears, looking both amused and exasperated. "You couldn't stay out of trouble for even one night?"

"What can I say? I'm gifted."

Ashton looms behind Clara, grinning like this is the funniest thing he's ever seen. "Told you he'd get arrested."

"You did not," I protest, standing as Reese unlocks the cell. "You said, and I quote, 'Don't get arrested.'"

"Which clearly means I thought you would."

The cell door swings open. I step out, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I look in borrowed clothes, my designer jeans wrinkled from sleeping in them.

"Thanks for the hospitality," I tell Reese, keeping my voice light despite the strange heaviness in my chest. Last night feels like a dream—the kind where you wake up feeling like you've lost something you never actually had.

"Don't make it a habit," she says, but there's no bite to it.

"Your shirt—"

"Keep it. Souvenir of your first arrest."

Reese hands me a plastic bag containing my bloodstained Armani. "Evidence of your battle."

Our fingers brush as I take it. The contact is nothing, really—except it’s not. A spark, quick and sharp, that has me looking up. Her eyes meet mine for a second too long, then she’s all business again.

But I know she felt it too.

"Thank you," I say, trying to infuse those two words with everything I can't say in front of an audience. For the pizza. The bourbon. The conversation. The feeling, however brief, of being seen.

She nods once, professional. "Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael have vouched for you. Don't make me regret releasing you."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Sheriff."

We leave, me sandwiched between a smirking Ashton and a curious Clara as they lead me to their SUV parked outside. The morning is bright, the small-town street already bustling with people starting their day.

Once we're in the car, Clara turns in her seat to study me. "You look different."

"Prison changes a man," I deadpan.

"It was one night in a county jail," Ashton says.

"The longest night of my life," I say, which is both a joke and somehow true, though not in the way they'd assume.

I stare out the window as we drive through Fairwick, taking in the neat storefronts, the town square with its gazebo, the people who all seem to know each other. "This place is exactly as small as I feared."

"It grows on you," Clara says.

I think about Reese, about how she talked about knowing every corner of this town. About safety and suffocation. "Maybe."

They show me to my room in their house. It’s on the second floor, ironically the window I tried to climb through.

"Well, we'll let you get settled." She starts to leave, then pauses. "Oh, and there's a welcome dinner on Sunday. Seven o'clock. Nothing fancy."

After they leave, I shower away the jail cell grime and change into clean clothes. I find myself absently touching the scratches on my chest, remembering the surprising gentleness of Reese's hands.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of unpacking and half-hearted exploring. Fairwick is quaint in the way that makes city people think about buying craftsman houses and growing vegetables. I wonder how long before I'm climbing the walls with boredom.

At precisely 4:27 PM, I run a red light.

I'm driving my Audi, testing the limits of small-town traffic. I see her cruiser two cars back. The light turns yellow, then red, and instead of stopping, I accelerate through the empty intersection. If I’m gonna get pulled over, might as well be by her.

Immediately, lights flash in my rearview mirror.

I pull over, heart racing, and watch in the side mirror as a familiar figure approaches. Sheriff Ramsey, looking both annoyed and unsurprised.

"License and registration," she says, leaning down to my window.

I hand them over with a smile. "We meet again, Sheriff."

"Running red lights now? Are you trying to get arrested again?"

"Just testing the local law enforcement response time. Very impressive."

She stares at me, unimpressed. "You did this on purpose."

"I would never."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Actually, I'm an excellent liar. Just not with you, apparently."

Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or grudging amusement. "I should write you a ticket."

"You absolutely should. It's your duty."

She shakes her head, handing back my license. "Consider this a warning. Next time—"

The rest of her sentence is cut off by the sound of screeching tires and a dull thud from the intersection behind us. We both turn to see a small fender bender—a silver sedan has rear-ended a blue hatchback.

"Stay here," she orders, already moving toward the accident.

I ignore her, of course, and follow.

The drivers are already out of their cars—a harried-looking woman in scrubs from the sedan, and a man in a button-down from the hatchback. Neither appears hurt, just shaken.

"I'm so sorry," the woman is saying. "I had to brake suddenly because—" She stops, looking around in confusion. "There was an elderly woman crossing. I could have sworn..."

"It's fine," the man says, examining his bumper. "Barely a scratch."

"I should still give you my insurance—"

"Don't worry about it," he says, and I notice the way he's looking at her—like he's just discovered something unexpected and fascinating. "Maybe you could buy me coffee instead? To discuss... bumper damage."

She blinks, then smiles. "I'd like that."

Reese is watching them with narrowed eyes, her head tilted slightly. I move to stand beside her, close enough that my arm almost grazes hers, close enough to catch the faint scent of lemon from her shirt.

"Aren't you going to intervene, Sheriff? Ensure justice is served?"

"They seem to be handling it," she says, still watching the pair as they exchange phone numbers.

"Very efficiently," I agree. "Almost as if getting rear-ended was the best thing to happen to them today."

"Hmm." She turns to me, eyes sharp. "What were you really doing running that red light?"

I could lie. Make up something about being distracted or not knowing the area. But last night's honesty lingers between us.

"I wanted to see you again," I admit.

She studies me, and I watch her wrestle with how to respond. Finally, she sighs.

"There are easier ways to get a woman's attention than breaking the law."

"Are there? Because this method seems very effective." I smile, gesturing to our proximity.

"You're impossible."

"Yet here you are."

A call comes through on her radio—something about a disturbance at a place called the Dew Drop Inn. She answers briefly, then turns back to me.

"Don't run any more red lights."

"No promises, Sheriff."

She walks away, pausing to check once more on the couple from the accident, who are now laughing together like old friends. As she passes me again, she says quietly, "There's a dance bar on Elm Street. The Copper Cat. Sometimes I go there. When I'm not on duty."

Then she's gone, sliding back into her cruiser and driving away.

I stand there a moment longer, grinning like an idiot in the middle of the street, before returning to my car.

Fairwick just got a lot more interesting.