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

Massimo

"You need help."

I say it casually while passing Reese the salad at Clara and Ashton's welcome dinner. After our night together, we've been pretending nothing happened—at least in public. Her eyes flick to mine, warning clear: Don't .

"I have a deputy," she says. "He's coming back for desk work soon."

Clara cuts in, ever helpful. "But Todd won't be able to do field work for what, six weeks? Mom mentioned you're drowning in paperwork."

"Four," Reese corrects, stabbing her steak with unnecessary force. "And I'm fine."

"You didn't even want to come tonight," Clara points out. "Said you had too much work."

"The food's worth it," Reese concedes, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

"Four weeks handling everything alone during festival season?" Ashton raises an eyebrow. "Sounds risky."

"I'm managing."

"You're working eighteen-hour days," Clara says, turning to me. "My mom says she's always been like this. Thinks she has to do everything herself."

"I do not—"

"She does," Clara confirms. "At least since Mom's known her."

"Your mom knows Reese better than you do?" I ask, curious.

Clara nods. "Well, as you know, Ashton and I only come to Fairwick during off-season. We're barely here. But Mom's lived here forever. Reese has been her guardian angel—kept an eye on her, fixed things around the house..."

"The Fairwick welcome wagon," Reese mutters.

She shoots her friend a betrayed look, and I find myself fascinated by this glimpse into her life. The woman whose bed I shared—who whispered things that made even me blush—now looks almost vulnerable.

"Massimo needs something to do anyway," Ashton adds. "Otherwise he'll keep running red lights and climbing through windows."

"That was one time," I protest, my accent thickening with indignation. "Madonna mia, make one mistake..."

"Two criminal acts in twenty-four hours," Reese points out.

"I'm efficient. Very American of me, no?" I wink, and Ashton snorts.

She fights a smile, and I count it as a victory.

"Seriously though," Clara says, leaning forward. "Can't you deputize someone temporarily? Like, give them a badge and authority to help?"

"Technically, yes, but—"

"Then it's perfect! Massimo can help until Todd's back on full duty."

Reese sets down her fork. "You want me to deputize a professional hockey player with no law enforcement experience who I arrested two days ago? Give him a uniform and a badge?"

When she puts it that way, it does sound ridiculous. But I've never backed down from ridiculous.

"I speak four languages," I offer, counting on my fingers in Italian fashion. "Italian, English, French, enough Spanish to flirt. Five if you count how well I communicate with dogs. I'm good with people. I'm observant. And I'm extremely bored."

"Everyone speaks English in Fairwick, we don't arrest dogs, and being bored isn't a qualification," she counters.

"But it is a problem, cara." I lean closer. "Bored people run red lights. Break into houses." I lower my voice. "Cause trouble."

Her eyes narrow. She knows exactly what kind of trouble I'm implying.

"You'd have to follow orders," she says finally. "My orders. Wear a proper uniform. Respect the badge."

"I'm very good at following specific... directions." I keep my voice neutral, but the way her cheeks flush tells me she's remembering exactly how bad I am at following certain directions. "And I look fantastico in uniform. Ask any hockey fan."

Clara glances between us, clearly sensing something but unable to pinpoint it. "So that's a yes?"

Reese sighs, defeated. "Trial basis. One week. You'll get a temporary deputy badge and the department's spare uniform."

"Perfect!" Clara claps her hands. "See? Problem solved."

"Or just beginning," Ashton mutters into his coffee.

Later, as I help Reese clear the table, I brush against her deliberately, enjoying the slight catch in her breath.

"So, boss," I murmur, keeping my voice low. "When do I start this deputy business?"

"Tomorrow. Eight AM." She doesn't look at me. "And what happened the other night—"

"Was just one night. I remember." I touch my heart dramatically. "Cross my heart, as you Americans say."

"Good."

"Although," I set down the plates and step closer, not quite touching her but close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. "If you need help with any... late night patrols, I'm available. Very available."

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see the woman from two nights ago—the one who whispered my name like a prayer, who left marks on my shoulders that I can still feel.

"That won't be necessary," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

"If you say so, Sheriff." I step back, giving her space. "See you tomorrow then. Eight AM. I'll bring coffee. The real kind, not that American acqua sporca you drink."

As I leave the kitchen, I hear her exhale shakily, and I smile to myself. Forced proximity with Reese Ramsey for the next four weeks?

Fairwick is looking better by the minute.