Page 88 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

PERRI

His tongue is seriously down her throat.

Well, I’m speculating on the exact location.

But based on the vise-like grip his lips have on hers and the way she seems to wriggle underneath him on the park bench, esophagus might even be a good bet.

The blond guy and the blonder gal have been going at it for close to five minutes.

Granted, that’s not necessarily a long time for PDA. But let’s be honest—how often does one see this level of PDA in the town square?

In my nine years working the streets, this has to be the most make-out-y of make-out sessions I’ve ever witnessed.

“Are we approaching public indecency levels yet?” Vanessa whispers, nudging me as we pass the gazebo on the way to her work.

“Nah. We’d have to have boobs out or wands on display for me to slap them with indecency.”

She snaps her fingers in an aw-shucks gesture. “Dammit. I was hoping I’d get to see you go badass cop.”

“You’re in the mood for a good old-fashioned public flashing just so I can make an arrest?”

Her brown eyes sparkle. “Oh yes. I can picture it now. A trench coat, a belt, a quick peek at some sculpted body.”

“Maybe it’s not an arrest you want. Perhaps you’re a Peeping Tom.”

“For the right Tom . . .”

“You do realize flashers don’t have Magic Mike bodies?”

“They don’t? Darn,” she deadpans. “But it’s still exciting. The idea of having a flasher. Well, if they looked like The Rock or something.”

“Maybe you should write a fairy tale starring your very own Dwayne Johnson–style flasher.”

She sighs contentedly as if daydreaming. “The thought is almost as delightful as the idea of watching you haul someone away to the pokey.”

Laughing, I pat her shoulder. “I’ll be sure to give you a heads-up before I make a lewd behavior or public indecency arrest in our exceedingly civilized town,” I say, waving at the classy assortment of establishments right here on Main Street—a wine bar, an artisan ice cream shop, a trendy jewelry boutique, an olive-tasting room, and a bookstore run by our other best friend, Arden.

I’ve patrolled this block countless times, and the most trouble I’ve seen with my two eyes is too much toking up now and then.

But that’s hardly a crime anymore in this state.

We reach the edge of the square, stopping at the statue of an old dude riding a horse.

Some fourth graders scurry past me in khaki skirts and polo shirts, their matching school uniforms. “Hi, Officer Keating,” they say in unison.

“Hey, Hayden, Becca and Madison. Are you rushing home to do your homework?”

“Of course we are,” Becca shouts for the trio.

“Good job.”

I return my focus to Vanessa, but my gaze catches on the tangled-up couple again. Going at it still. “Sheesh. It’s close to eight minutes now. Don’t they need to come up for air?”

“Are you actually timing their PDA?”

“Hell yeah. This is impressive. I’m dying to know how long they can last. We’re talking serious stamina display right now.”

She laughs, flicking her chestnut hair off her shoulder. “I’ll require a full update later. I need to get back to the bowling alley.”

“Have fun with your balls.”

“You will literally never not enjoy saying that.”

I stare at the sky as if deep in thought then nod. “You’re right. I will never not.”

She turns on her heel, her cute polka-dot swing dress swishing as she heads off to the bowling alley.

I resume my patrol around the center of Lucky Falls, strolling past the olive-tasting room where a peppy Trudy Lafferty waves and asks if I want to try the new kalamatas.

“When I’m off duty, I’ll be buying a whole bucket,” I tell her, since I have a savory tooth the likes of which can rival any sweet one.

“You know your money’s no good here, Perri.”

“And you know I don’t take payola, even in the delectable form of kalamatas. You’re still going to have to pay your parking tickets.”

“I paid them! I’m turning over a new leaf. I only park legally now.”

“Excellent. Keep it up. And I will stop by later to buy the olives.”

As I turn the corner, Theresa Jansen pops out of the yarn store, grabs my arm, and whispers, “Got the new pink merino wool for you. Want it now?”

“Shh. Gotta maintain my street cred. I’ll grab it tomorrow.”

She gasps. “Oops. Sorry. I forgot. It’ll be our secret that you’re crafty.”

I mean, really. I can’t be the knitting cop. I’m already the face-painting one, and it’s enough of a challenge being one of the few ovary-owning police officers here.

I return to the town square, finding the bench couple still in the thick of it. The blonde in the sundress and her guy in pegged pants are on the cusp of a record—close to thirty minutes.

They’re on the cusp of something else too.

A ticket.

His hand rides up her thigh, slipping under the flowered skirt. I don’t page Vanessa because I don’t actually want this scene to escalate to the next level.

I march over to the lip-locked couple, clearing my throat.

But the ahem-ing doesn’t work.

They are two octopuses curled around each other, limbs circling every which way.

His other hand—the one that’s not en route to the NSFW part of her—is threaded through her wavy hair.

Her hands are . . . It’s like watching a game of Whac-A-Mole.

One second, her hand is on his chest. The next second, his abs. Then it’s destination crotch.

I clear my throat infinitely louder. So loud I bet Trudy can hear it even over her usual four p.m. demonstration of picholines versus castelvetranos.

For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to want to kiss someone for this long, and in public. I furiously sift through my memory banks, trying to recall a kiss like this.

But I find zilch in the file of kisses past.

What would a man who could kiss me for hours even look like?

Out of nowhere, I picture dark scruff, chocolate-brown irises, hair that’s nearly black with a wild wave to it. Big hands, toned arms, and ink as far as the eye can see, caressing biceps and triceps and forearms, oh my .

Derek McBride.

The man I stopped the other day looked like he could kiss a woman senseless on a park bench.

Like he could kiss me senseless.

I blink away the thought since I have no time for relationships, nor any inclination to look him up.

Plus, I have a job to do. Using my most serious voice, I say, “I’d say ‘Get a room,’ but what you really should do is tone down the level of tonsil hockey in the middle of the town square.

Like, maybe go from the pros back to Triple A. ”

She startles. He freezes. Miraculously, they detach their mouths from each other.

I expect twin spots of red on her cheeks, embarrassment in his eyes. Instead, all I see are two people tousled, frazzled, and turned the hell on.

Lucky fuckers.

“Oh, hey. Sorry.” She smooths her skirt, blinking back the haze in her eyes perhaps. “I guess we got carried away.”

“I’d say.”

“Sorry about that,” he breathes out heavily, shoveling a hand through his hair. “Uh. Wow.”

It’s like witnessing after-porn. “Just dial it down a notch. Or twelve.”

“Yeah, of course,” she says, her voice clearing as if she’s coming out of her fog. “We were just so into it.”

“Trouble is the whole town was about to see how into it you were.” I turn my glare on the guy. “Your hand was up her skirt in public. That’s on a fast track to lewd behavior.”

He cringes, but not as if he’s embarrassed. More like he’s surprised. He sits up straighter, rubs his palms on his jeans. “Are we going to be arrested?”

Nerves thread through the woman’s voice as she jumps in. “Because we were only practicing.”

I knit my brow and tilt my head. “Excuse me?”

“Are we getting a ticket for . . . whatever this is?”

“It’s called lewd behavior, and no, you’re not getting a ticket, because you didn’t cross the line. But when you’re getting too frisky, and there are schoolkids around, you really should consider your whereabouts.”

She sighs gratefully, pressing her palms together. “Thank you. We’ll practice in private from now on. We were just trying to win.”

“Win what? An award for PDA? A trophy for the public affection most likely to result in public copulation? Because that’s not something to aspire to.”

She smiles. “We’re entering a kissing contest.”

Things I’ve never heard of. “And this was practice?”

“Yes. We’re entering in the marathon category. The state record is seven hours. I think we made it to . . .”

I look at my watch. “Thirty-two minutes. Keep up the good work.” I stare at them, adding, “ In private .”

“We will.” But she heaves a disappointed sigh then turns to the guy. “That was only thirty minutes. Babe, we need so much more practice.”

He drapes an arm around her. “I know, babe. We’ll keep trying.”

They stand and take off, presumably to suck each other’s faces some more. Call it a lucky guess.

At the end of my shift, I return to the police station and check in with the chief, Jeff Jansen, who puts the grizzled in grizzled old dude.

He wears gruff like a second coat of paint, but he’s a teddy bear underneath.

That’s what Theresa tells me—his wife runs the yarn shop and regularly knits for the man.

She made him a fisherman’s sweater for Christmas last year, and he looked adorable when I bumped into them caroling.

“Keating,” he barks from the hallway door.

“Yes, sir?”

“Did you know that there’s a promotion opening up?”

My ears perk. My mouth waters. “You mean for Slattery’s job?” The patrol sergeant left for Sacramento last month. Rumor has it his spot is going to an outsider.

“That’s the one. I’d like to see you consider it.”

I maintain a straight face. He wants me to consider it? I’d like to be considered for it. “I’d love the opportunity, sir.”

He nods, the expression on his square, sturdy face barely budging.

“Good. You’re a go-getter. I appreciate that you take on the traffic-duty shifts.

I admire that you did the stint in the K-9 unit recently.

You’re always willing to tackle whatever needs to be done, and your reports are top notch.

Plus, you’ve done a fine job making the department friendlier, embracing the local community.

Keep that up. Like the farmers market stuff you do, and any local fundraisers. ”

I smile. That’s easy as pie. “Absolutely. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I love everything about Lucky Falls. I’ve told the local schools I’ll put my hand up if they’d like to do a Dunk-a-Cop booth at the summer festival to raise some money.”

“Perfect. My wife and I are entering the kissing contest for first responders in Whiskey Hollows. It’s held at the Windemere Inn.”

I blink. “You’re doing that?”

“What makes a cop seem friendlier than seeing him or her kiss someone special? It’s perfect for our image. Theresa says a lot of local business owners are entering, but man, would I love to see our precinct win.”

“Good luck, then, with the kissing, sir. Judging from what I saw in the town square, the competition is going to be fierce in the marathon category.”

He winks. “Good thing Theresa and I have been practicing for years.” He shifts gears. “Keep up the good work, Keating.”

I thank him and leave the station, a burst of excitement in my step.

This is the first advancement opportunity that’s opened up in years. A promotion is everything I’ve been working toward. It would mean more money, more seniority, more prestige.

It would mean everything, and I intend to maintain a laser focus on getting that job.