Page 41 of Wrangled
“How do you not trip over that giant ego of yours?”
“I’m used to carrying around big things.” He winks, grabbing the top of the door and effectively pinning me against the car.
“This could be classed as police harassment,” I tell him, annoyed that I sound flustered.
He dips his head, his eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to extract all my secrets. “Tell me, Poppy, do you feel harassed?”
“Poppy?”
“Calliope is a mouthful. I like Poppy. It suits you.”
I shake my head. “You’re taking liberties, Sheriff. Some see poppies as a symbol of death. Is that how you see me?”
“They’re also a sign of rebirth, of peace.” He leans closer, his lips hovering over mine but not touching. “You’re also quite addictive. Yes, I think Poppy suits you.” He presses his lips to my cheek before pulling back and nudging me aside so he can climb into his car.
I press my hand to my cheek as he closes his door and lowers the window. I move out of the way, needing to put some distance between us.
His eyes rove over me, heat blazing under his watchful gaze, leaving me shaking in response. They pause on my wrist for a moment, and I feel my birthmark throb in response as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Nice tattoo.”
I swallow, crossing my arms. I don’t correct him. The past and present are warring for my attention as my brain flips to another time and another man’s attention to my birthmark.
“What do you know about your friend’s tattoos in there?”
“Enough to know they’re part of his history, not his future.”
“Every story has a villain, Poppy. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Every story has a hero, too, Sheriff. But I don’t need saving anymore. I can save my damn self.” I shake my head, taking another step back. “You see a path he once took, but you don’t see how far he walked to escape that life.”
“And you do?”
“More than you’ll ever know.” I turn to walk away, but pause when he calls my name. I look at him over my shoulder.
“I’ll be seeing you.”
“Why does that sound like a threat?”
He grins and tips his hat at me. I stay still as he pulls away, feeling like a fool courting trouble, but there is something about that man that calls to me.
I head back to the house, stopping when I find Riggs at the table, reading through the forms I asked him to.
He lifts his head, his gaze moving over me in a way that feels protective. “You good?”
I nod and take my seat once more.
“So that’s the sheriff,” he states.
I nod again, pretending to read the form in my hand. Riggs tugs it free before flipping it the right way up. Busted.
“You know he has a hard-on for you, right?”
I sigh and lean down, banging my head on the table until a hand slips between my head and the wood.
“Stop, you’ll hurt yourself.”
I lift my head and groan. “He’s a cop. I’m an ex-con.”
