Page 23 of Hidden Fears

“I can break the window,” he suggests cheerfully, and I rear back in horror. He just looked scandalized about me picking the lock, and now he wants to smash this lovely window. The original, may I add.

“Don’t touch my baby!” I bring my index finger to his face.

He swats it away like an annoying fly. “Then we’ll open it tomorrow when I tow it.”

“No one can tow it today?”

“It’s a small town in Maine, for fuck’s sake.” He looks tired, saying it like he’s been trying to explain it to me for years, and I still haven’t listened.

I guess that’s my answer.

“Let’s go.” He motions for me to follow with a deep sigh.

Opening the passenger side of his cruiser, he’s waiting for me to climb in. I’ve never seen a cop car from the front row. Feeling a bit like Christmas came early, I move his notepad from the seat (the very same one he wrote me a ticket with), get in the car, and start looking around before Sheriff comes in and scolds me for being nosy.

The inside is clean. Nothing is out of order. A green thermal mug. A pen. Two sticky notes with numbers on them. That’s it. No donut or cheeseburger wrappers. No old coffee cups. Nothing I used to see. Sheriff Benson is not a slob.

When he’s inside, he buckles up and asks me, “Where to?”

“Bed and breakfast.”

He snorts.

“What?” I ask, confused, not understanding why even his snort sounds doubtful.

“I can’t believe they found a room for you.”

I half turn toward him, crossing my arms over my chest. “And why is that?”

He sends me a funny look. “Relax. I just meant they never have any vacancy.”

I remember Alicia mentioned something like that too. “Who’s staying there?”

“Fuck if I know.” He chuckles and shifts gears. “You tell me when you get to your room.”

I sigh. “I don’t have a room there, but I hope they can find something for me.”

He sends a puzzled look and shifts his full attention to the road while I switchmyfull attention to the arm porn happening next to me. I’m so grateful that it was a pretty, sunny, and warm day (at some point), so the sheriff felt compelled to wear short sleeves. Even though I’m freezing my ass off in a sweater, it doesn’t seem to bother him.

He places his left elbow on the window while holding the wheel with his right hand. His fingers are long and large. And I meanhuge. One can do somegoodwith them, but two could do some realgooddamage.

My thighs clamp shut on their own accord while I swallow a sudden dry lump in my throat, suddenly imagining them on me.Insideof me.

The muscles on his forearm are corded, adorned by popping veins. I love veins. I may have been a vampire in a previous life. His knuckles are red and white and a bit disfigured—old scarring, probably from some fight. Maybe even multiple. It explains his slightly crooked nose. Did he use his fists a lot? Does he?

I give him a side glance, expecting to find his eyes on me since I haven’t exactly hidden my ogling, but to my surprise, he’s fixated on the dark road ahead, and his body language screams ‘relaxed.’

We drive in silence for ten minutes before I finally crack, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer.

“Thank you.”

He glances at me quizzically.

“For coming to my rescue,” I clarify.

“Yeah. No problem. It’s my job.” He shifts his attention back to the road, but his cheeks slightly pinken. He’s clean-shaven today, or at least he was this morning, and now he has this dark, mysterious shadow over his square jaw.

The sheriff absolutely doesn’t know how to accept gratitude.