Page 103 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

PERRI

“Giraffe! Do a giraffe!”

The order comes from Molly, who introduced herself officially to me, along with the sleeping baby in the stroller. Today, Molly is tutu-free—she’s decked out in cowgirl boots and a red cowgirl hat. I have no idea what sort of sound giraffes make, but the concentration distracts me from my libido.

I’m so damn grateful for giraffes right now, and for the obscurity of their vocalizations, forcing me to scroll through my mental list of animal sounds.

Perfect lust-killer.

I turn to Derek. “Any chance you know what a giraffe sounds like?”

He shrugs too, flashing a crooked grin. “I’m stumped. I bet Google knows.”

Before I can grab my phone and ask the all-knowing search engine, Molly shakes her curly head and thrusts a piece of pink chalk at me. “I brought my sidewalk chalk. Can you draw a giraffe with me instead?”

“She’s been drawing up and down the whole street,” Derek adds.

I narrow my eyes and straighten my lips as I face Molly. “Aha! I see I’ve nabbed the mad Sidewalk Drawer. We’ve been looking all over for you.” I stretch out my arms as if to grab her.

She squeals and clomps down the sidewalk in her boots, watching me the whole way and shouting, “Come get me.”

I chase her, grab her waist, and declare “Gotcha” in my most over-the-top voice.

“Oh no! You caught me!” She giggles, and I let her go. “Now, draw!”

“Draw, please,” Derek corrects as he pushes the stroller with the sleeping baby in it.

“Draw, please,” Molly adds, batting her eyelashes at me.

“Now that you’re in my custody, sure. I’ll do it.”

Molly laughs again. “Do it in blue. Please. ”

“I will draw a blue giraffe. But would you let me change first?”

She sighs dramatically. “Okay. I’m not allowed to color in my school clothes either.”

I smile broadly at her we’re all in this together comment. “Exactly.”

Derek stares at my work attire. “You don’t need to change. You can draw in that, right?”

I toss him a flirty look, remembering his comments from the other night. This man clearly has a thing for a woman in uniform.

All the more reason to change. Best to avoid temptation.

“Be right back.” I head inside the house and turn the corner to my bedroom. I strip off my uniform and tug on exercise pants, a sports bra, and a tank top.

Then I go to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and take a deep breath.

I can handle sidewalk chalk–drawing with a hottie pushing a baby and tending to his precocious four-year-old niece. After all, I don’t even want to have kids.

Yet.

Maybe someday. But I definitely don’t have baby fever, so there’s no reason the sight of him with two absolute cuties should make my heart speed up or my skin sizzle.

I return to the front lawn, where the man looks me over again from stem to stern. “Nice yoga pants, but I still miss the uniform.”

Spotting Molly twenty feet away, I whisper, “That’s because you have some sort of uniform fetish.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “A big one.”

“Why’s that? You want to be cuffed? Told what to do?”

He scoffs and stalks closer, shaking his head. “Not at all, kitten.”

The way he says kitten —so raspy, so commanding—sends a shiver over my flesh. “Not at all?”

“What I want is the complete opposite.”

Holy hell, he can tell me what to do all night long. Tie me up, pin me down, cuff me.

Except I can’t go there. We can’t go there.

Fortunately, Molly skips to her Lou right on over to us, thrusting a bucket of sidewalk chalk at me. “You do a giraffe, and I’ll do a hippo.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

And it sounds like what the doctor ordered to stop the quick spread of a lust relapse.

Molly squats on the stretch of sidewalk in front of my house.

“Giraffe time,” I declare as I bend down to the concrete, working on the shape of the long neck as Molly draws a big bulbous blob for a hippo head. “That’s not too bad.”

She smiles. “I want to be a vet.”

“For safari animals?”

“Yes.”

“That’s awesome,” I say as I outline the tall creature’s face. “So you’d be a big-game vet.”

“Or I’ll be a cowgirl.”

“That could be fun too.” I draw giraffe ears next, as Molly works on the hippo’s belly.

“Or a ballerina, or a rock star.”

“What if you’re all four?” Derek chimes in as he joins us on the sidewalk. In the stroller, the baby’s eyes flutter, and she stretches her little legs and arms, looking too adorable for words.

“Yes! I can be all four.”

“You can be anything you set your mind to,” I add as I finish the giraffe’s tail.

“Whoa!” The praise comes from Derek as he surveys my handiwork. “You sure can draw.”

“Thank you. It’s just something I do for fun.”

“That’s a helluva talent for fun.”

“Uncle Derek, you said a bad word,” Molly calls out.

“Want me to arrest him?” I offer as I stand, dusting one hand against the other.

Derek offers me his wrists, his eyes twinkling. “Yes, please lock me up.”

And I walked right into that one.

Devon’s eyes flicker open, and I brace myself for a scream, but Derek swivels around, scoops her up, and peppers kisses on her cheeks.

And, I’m a ghost pepper. I’m the hottest jalapeno in history. Wait, nope. I’m the surface of Mercury because of the way Devon coos and tugs on his beard.

That’s it. I’m a goner.

“She sure likes you,” I say as casually as I can while he nuzzles the cutie-pie.

“The feeling is quite mutual.”

“How old? Six months?”

“She’s six months and two days,” Molly interjects as she scoots down the sidewalk to work on the hippo’s tail. “Come join me.”

I make my way to Molly. “You do his face,” she tells me.

I swivel around and fill in the hippo’s eyes. “And how old are you?”

“I’m four years, eleven months, and sixteen days.”

“Wow. You sure are a very specific counter.”

Derek bounces Devon on his hip. “Molly also loves to talk. Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Uncle Derek!” Molly chides.

I smile. “That’s cool. I like to listen.”

Molly chatters on about her favorite animals, her favorite friends, her favorite clothes, and her favorite games as we illustrate an entire savannah in front of my home while Derek holds the baby and plays with her.

It’s weirdly . . . domestic.

It’s also thoroughly unexpected.

I didn’t anticipate coming home and finding my hot housemate playing with his nieces.

“Where’s your nephew? Doesn’t your sister have three kids?”

“He’s playing basketball,” Molly answers.

“At a friend’s house,” Derek adds, and Devon cuts him off with a wail.

“And someone is officially hungry.” He glances at the time on his watch. It’s past six thirty. “We should go. Make you guys some dinner.”

Molly claps. “Can we have dinosaur nuggets and french fries?”

Derek shakes his head. “No, you can have chicken and broccoli.”

Molly’s nose wrinkles, making it clear what she thinks of that idea. “Pretty please.”

He shakes his head. “If you don’t like that, you’re welcome to have a delicious salad of beets, carrots, and organic apples.”

“Gross.” Molly makes a gagging sound.

“C’mon, then, porcupine. Time to go.” He glances at the artwork, then turns to me, his eyes landing on mine. “Guess I’ll see you later, officer.”

A strange feeling envelops me—the wish that he’ll say, “Let’s have a drink,” or “Want to watch a show?” or “Should we grab a bite?”

But those are crazy thoughts, so I shake them off.

My stomach doesn’t though.

It rumbles loudly.

“Someone wants chicken and broccoli,” Derek teases.

“Seems I do,” I admit.

“I’ll make you something later if you’d like.” The offer is sweet and completely welcome.

I smile and say yes.

As I head inside, I feel a little buzzed, a little tipsy.

A little like my feet don’t touch the ground.

I’ve seen a whole new side to Derek, one I never imagined existed when I met his flirty, cocky, handsome ass on the bike. Just a few days ago, he was a typical bad boy, dirty to the bone. But I’ve learned he’s determined, straightforward, and giving too.

He cares deeply for his family, and he dotes on his nieces. He’s devoted to his sister.

And we share a passion for work with the community. We both wake up every day and help others. Being a cop—and being a paramedic, I presume—can be thankless, emotionally draining, and woefully underpaid work.

And yet, I wouldn’t change it.

It’s not my hormones banging the drum inside my body as I go into my house.

It’s some other part of me. A part I haven’t exercised in a long time. A part I don’t let out to play very often.

That dumb heart.

Even though I told my brother I have a type, the problem is, that type doesn’t usually work out in the end.

I’ve dated, and I’ve had some semi-serious boyfriends, but the last person I liked— really liked—was Nick, who ran a tattoo shop in Santa Cruz.

I’d met the growly, inked artist on the boardwalk one weekend when I was there for a girls’ getaway.

Nick and I hit it off in the way that two people who don’t live in the same place can. Our connection was instant and electric. He was 100 percent my type, and I was utterly gaga over him.

So gaga, I managed the three-hour drive to Santa Cruz as often as I could, visiting him on weekends and whenever I had time off, this little arrangement going on for several months.

He was sexy and funny and hot as sin.

Turned out he had a girlfriend too. Just hadn’t mentioned her to me. Slipped his mind.

Oops.

I was the other woman.

Since then, I’ve been as cautious as I can, dating locally, screening men online through and through.

What the hell? Why am I thinking about dating? Derek and I aren’t dating. We aren’t an item. He just offered to make me dinner.

I head to the gym to work out and work off these silly hormones.

Yes, they’re just hormones.

That’s all.

When I return, I don’t see him. I take a shower, loop my wet hair in a ponytail, and tug on shorts and a tank top. I dust on some powder and add a pinch of lip gloss, then head to the living room where I turn on some music.

It’s eight thirty, and I’m ready to eat the table.

What the hell?

This girl has had a long, hard day, and she’s hangry.

That’s when I hear a key clicking in the back lock—the door that leads directly to the room above the garage. Will he go straight upstairs or come downstairs to the kitchen? And why do I care? Why do I even want to see him? I like living alone.

I flip through my sweater patterns, and when his footsteps fade, telling me he went upstairs, I grit my teeth and try to tamp down my disappointment. I shouldn’t be disappointed. In fact, I’m not disappointed at all.

I study my patterns, trying to decide what to make and who to make it for, when I hear water running.

The shower.

He’s taking a shower.

He’s naked in my house.

What the hell was I thinking?

What the hell was Shaw thinking?

I head to the kitchen, pop a frozen pad thai meal into the microwave, and grab it before it’s fully cooked. I take the dish, a napkin, and a fork to my room and shut the door.

Sitting on my bed, I shovel the half-warmed pad thai into my mouth, then I grab my laptop and open up the reports I’ve been working on. Work. That’s what I’ll do. Work on reports to impress the chief.

I don’t think about Elias. I don’t entertain the dash of guilt. And I definitely don’t think about my roomie who ditched me.

It’s not like we had a date.

Not really.

Well, maybe it felt a little bit like one.

And that’s just the problem.