Page 92 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

PERRI

Some girls can never have enough butterflies.

They want them in emerald green, in sapphire blue, in candy pink.

A platoon of three-, four-, and five-year-olds skip and jump around the market with painted butterflies on their faces, courtesy of the local police department booth, where residents can learn about our community initiatives and not be freaked out by cops, thanks to face painting and lemonade.

It’s a strategy Jansen implemented, and it seems to be working so far. We have a great relationship with the citizens of this town.

They know our names. We know many of theirs, and I believe that plays a part in keeping crime lower than low.

“What if I drank the rest of this lemonade all by myself?” My colleague Elias Nicholson holds up the pitcher, a glint in his brown eyes.

We joined the department around the same time nine years ago and have been moving up the ladder together.

He’s running the booth with me today, pouring lemonade as I decorate faces.

“Then there’d be nothing for the kids, so get your mitts off it.”

“But it looks so delish.”

“That’s because your wife makes amazing lemonade from scratch for you to give away to children .”

“She is a wizard in the drink department.” He pours himself a cup and downs it.

“You’re the worst, Nicholson.”

He wipes his paw across his mouth. “She’ll bring me more.”

“She’s seven months pregnant, and she’s going to bring you lemonade? Shouldn’t you bring her whatever she needs?”

“I brought her chicken wings and caramel popcorn last night. And I rubbed her feet. I’m damn good at the husband gig. To wit—I put the baby in her belly the first month we tried.”

“TMI!”

“It’s the truth though. We went to our favorite spot for brunch—the Silver Tavern—and then once we were home . . . Bam. ”

“I don’t know how she puts up with you,” I say, but I’m smiling.

“It’s a miracle to me too.”

The par-for-the-course ribbing ceases when a curly-haired blonde in a tutu wanders over to my tent, surveying the paints. “Can you paint my face?”

“You bet I can. Let me guess. You want a butterfly, a unicorn, or a rainbow?” I suggest with a smile.

She laughs, shaking her head. “No.”

I tap my chin, looking skyward. “Maybe a kitty cat? Meow.”

She giggles. “No. No. No.”

“I see we have a tough customer here. Maybe a doggy?” I bark.

“Guess again.”

“A horse?” I offer a neigh.

“Do a cow!”

I launch into my best rendition of a moo.

“Frog!”

“Don’t think you can trick me. My animal repertoire goes deep.” I show off my fantastic ribbit.

She shakes her head. “No, can you draw a frog on my face, Mrs. Lady Cop?”

I smile. “Of course I can.”

I scoot my stool closer, dip a brush into the green face paint, and draw a frog on the girl’s face.

When I’m done, I grab a mirror and show her my handiwork. “Does it meet your approval?”

“I love it. I’m going to go show my mom and my uncle Derek.”

She takes off running, darting down an aisle teeming with tables full of peaches, pears, and strawberries. I tend to the next group of kids, painting a dragon, Spiderman, and another butterfly until I need to take a quick break.

“I’ll be back in ten.”

“Damn, you women take long to pee.”

I punch Elias in the arm. “I need avocados too. Also, if you finish off all the jugs, I’ll have to haul you in and throw away the key.”

“Please. I know where the keys are.”

I take off to the ladies’ room at the edge of the market, spotting my favorite food truck a half block away.

I jog over and wave to my friend Staci Winters in the window, serving up a chocolate-covered strawberry waffle treat to a waiting customer.

“Stop by later, Perri. I’m here till one,” she calls out.

“I’ll save enough to make your favorite. ”

I blow the waffle mistress a kiss. We went to college together. She helped me in my required bio class, and I repaid the favor a few years later, helping her navigate the fastest path to procuring a permit for her food truck. “You’re a goddess of tomatoes, cucumbers, and parsley.”

“And tzatziki! Don’t forget the tzatziki.”

“How can I forget it, even if I can’t pronounce it?” I turn around and head to the bathroom for a pit stop. On my way back, I detour through the veggies. I have about six minutes, so I trot over to the avocados since I need to pick some up for dinner.

I look for the affable guy usually running this stand, but no one’s here at the moment. I’ve just reached for an avocado to see if it’s ripe, when I hear a voice, all low and smoky. “Hey, officer. I think you might have been walking too fast through the market.”

The hairs on my neck stand on end. That gravelly, too-sexy-for-words tone delivers a wave of sensation across my skin.

It could only be Mr. Trouble.

With an avocado in hand, I turn around, and my eyes feast. How is it possible for him to be even hotter today? Is this a trick only the handsomest men can employ? The ability to multiply their good looks?

Somehow, maybe a trick of the light, he’s exponentially sexier in those shades, his gray T-shirt showing off swirls of ink, and jeans so well-worn they cling caressingly to his legs.

Lucky jeans.

But it’s his face, most of all, that draws me in as soon as he flicks off his glasses and I get a full dose of dark, soulful brown eyes full of naughty wishes.

Oh, wait. Maybe those are my naughty wishes reflected back at me.

Because I want him.

Do I ever. I want to climb him, rope my hands through his hair, and haul him in for a wild kiss.

Whoa.

That bout of desire was brought to you today by what-happens-when-lust-slams-into-you-like-a-freight-train.

“Gee, was I speed-walking?” I toss out, mainly to keep him standing there, because I’m mesmerized next by his tattoos. Sunbursts and tribal bands curl over his sinewy arms, and I’d like to lick them. I’d like to know if he’s inked elsewhere and how far, or how low, the artwork on his body descends.

To his hips? The top of his ass? The V of his abs?

A woman can dream.

With a tilt of his head and a far-too-knowing grin, he answers, “Let me guess. You either didn’t realize it, or you have someplace real important to be?”

“So important. I have to . . .” I trail off then make my voice as husky as can be as I set down my avocado, “. . . make guacamole.”

“You don’t say,” he rasps, his low baritone caressing me all over. “I could help you with that, officer.”

“Are you Mr. Avocado Farmer?”

“I’m Mr. I Can Show You How Ripe They Are.” He steps into the booth, moving next to me, getting into my space.

Closer than he needs to be.

A tremble rolls over my shoulders as he crowds me. “Let’s see.” He strokes his neat beard, and I rein in a whimper. I want my hands on that scruff.

He studies the sea of avocados, reaching for one at last and then sliding even closer, so his shoulder touches mine. It’s the match to my kindling and strikes a fire inside me.

If anyone tried to tell me a woman doesn’t have a type, I’d call that person a liar.

I have a type, and the type lights me up from sea to shining sea.

He cups the fruit in his palm, then brings it near my chest. I draw a quick breath, then flick my hair off my shoulders.

“By the way,” he says, “I like your hair up, but I fucking love it down.”

Dead.

I am dead from desire.

Before I can reply—I’m honestly not sure I can form intelligible words—he rubs his other hand over the rind. “See, you want to find the one that’s ripe and”—he pauses and turns his face to meet my gaze, his dark eyes holding mine—“ready to eat.”

A shudder hijacks my body. “Is that so?”

I don’t need a tutorial in picking avocados. Please. I know how to pick them just fine.

But I want his lesson. Want to hear his voice. Watch those hands move. Feel him slide closer.

“It’ll feel slightly soft, and it’ll yield to just the right amount of gentle pressure.”

And that pressure builds between my legs, an insistent throb. “How do you tell if it’s enough pressure?”

He pushes a thumb against the flesh of the fruit, making a husky hum low in his throat. “Just like that. See how it responds?”

“How’s it responding?”

He turns, angling his body nearer to me, his dark eyes shining with desire as he roams them over my face, my hair, my breasts. “Just the way I like it.”

This man is going to ruin me in the best possible way.

While I don’t have the time or inclination for dating, dinners, or fitting someone into my very busy schedule, I’m pretty sure I could deal with a little ruination.

Yes, I could definitely do with getting ruined.