Rhys Page 2

  I sniff, feeling a tiny bit embarrassed that I unleashed on him when he didn’t mean any offense. “Well…thanks.”

  He sighs and flops down on the floor, back to the wall beneath the window. He checks the volume on the radio. I hear low static and a hum of voices, but I’m not close enough to make out what they’re saying.

  “Men would probably learn a hell of a lot more about women if they did read it,” he adds, almost to himself. “Me included.”

  I perch on the edge of the sofa, totally unsure of what to do. “Well, maybe you should. I’ve written tons of books that are basically guides on how to make your wife happy.”

  He flashes a one-sided smile, but doesn’t meet my eyes. “Nah. I don’t have a wife.”

  I shrug. “Okay, girlfriend, then.”

  “Don’t have one of those, either.”

  Rhys is an exceptionally fine man. His face alone would stop anyone in their tracks, but based on the way his arms strain against the short sleeves of his uniform shirt under that scary-looking—and super hot—vest with all his gear on it, I know he’s got the body to match. And he’s kind of nice. For a cop, I guess. My interactions with them have been limited, so I don’t have a huge point of reference.

  “I’m sure that’s of your own making,” I say, tilting my head. “I mean… Not to be forward, but you don’t strike me as the type who has to struggle to find a date.”

  He lifts a shoulder, then glances over it to check the situation across the street. “Not a lot of women are interested in signing up for the job of being with a cop. We ask a lot. Usually, too much.”

  Ooh. This could be good book fodder. I itch to grab my laptop to take notes but resist the urge. “Too much, like what?”

  He glances up at me. “It’s hard to sign up to be with someone who could very well die every time they go to work.”

  I don’t know why, but it sends chills down my spine, and the look in his eyes is so sad, I suddenly want to go over there and give him a hug.

  “That sounds…lonely,” I tell him.

  “It is.” He cuts another glance at me. “Do you ever get lonely, Violet?”

  3

  Rhys

  Now, why did I go and ask her that?

  Something about her makes me more open with her than I would be with most other people, especially considering I’m technically working right now. This isn’t a social visit, even though what I told her about hostage situations taking a long time is true. They can. And the last thing I heard on the radio was that the negotiator was on the scene and beginning talks with the man in the house over the phone. When I glanced out the window a moment ago, nothing had changed.

  It might be a long night. Why not chat with her? The reason I want to, it occurs to me, is because…I am lonely.

  I never really considered it in those terms for a long time, but when my best friend Dominic got together with his girl Serena this summer—and got engaged a couple months later—it struck me. I’m thirty-two years old, and I haven’t let myself have a serious relationship with a woman since I graduated with my master’s degree.

  Over the years, I made less and less time for relationships until I didn’t have time for them at all. I’m a firm believer that anybody will make time for something they care about. I just never had a relationship I cared enough about to make the time for.

  Yeah, I know that makes me sound like the world’s biggest asshole. I’m being honest. Sue me.

  And something about Violet Randall makes me want to continue being honest…and I want her to be honest, too.

  I think it’s cool she’s a writer. And pretty cool she’s a romance writer. I can’t help but wonder what her love life is like.

  She splutters at my question, which I find to be damn near the cutest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. Her cheeks redden. “I…beg your pardon?”

  I once read that “I beg your pardon” is the polite way of saying, “What the fuck did you just say to me?” and that makes me have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her.

  “I just wondered,” I say hastily. “I’m guessing writing is your full-time job, right? And you work from home most of the time?”

  She swallows, and I find myself distracted by the way her graceful neck moves as she does. She has the kind of neck that makes me want to bury my face and mouth in it before my lips make their way to her shoulder, where the big V of her cozy-looking sweater starts to slide off one arm, revealing a lacy strap that must be the sorry excuse for a bra that does nothing—praise God—to conceal the pert nipples I noticed standing at attention a moment ago.

  Does she have any idea how fucking appealing she is?

  Did you forget you’re working, Officer?

  “It is my full-time job,” she says. “And I do work from home the majority of the time. As of recent, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had an office job for a long time,” she replies. “While I wrote on the side. But recently I started a new series, and readers have loved it, so it’s really taken off, and I’ve been able to quit my day job and focus on the writing.”

  She almost winces when I ask, “What’s the series about?”

  Violet clears her throat. “Well, it’s about—it’s about these guys and how they find love. They’re…what we in the romance world call ‘alpha males.’”

  That term isn’t foreign to me. I shrug. “Guys with chips on their shoulders who engage in pissing matches with each other. Forgive me for asking, but what woman wants to read about them?”

  Violet shakes her head, her long, blonde braid dancing around her shoulders. It looks soft and full, and my hands itch to touch it. “No, no. An alpha male—at least in romance—is a guy who’s strong and assertive and powerful, and not afraid to take what’s his. But at the same time, he’s sensitive to the needs and wants of the woman he’s pursuing. Sensitive to her desires.” She blushes again when she says that.

  I cock my head. “So do you write…like, all the sexy stuff?”

  I had no idea it was possible for a person’s cheeks to turn as fiery as hers are right now.

  Her tone gets sharp and snappy like it was a moment ago when she told me in the polite way to fuck off. “I mean, consenting adults have sex, don’t they?”

  “Is this making you uncomfortable?” I ask. “We can talk about something else. It’s cool. I’m just asking questions because I don’t know anything about it, and you’re a full-time romance writer, so that means you’re the subject matter expert here.”

  “I don’t know if I’d consider myself a SME of writing.”

  “You are between the two of us.” I smile. “Your guy must be pretty lucky. I mean, what man wouldn’t want to be with a romance writer? Then again, it’s probably a lot of pressure. You guys are writing about the perfect guy, after all.”

  Violet glances down at her hands, flexing her fingers like she’s checking her nails. “I don’t have a guy.”

  Now, if she thought me being single was a surprise, I’m floored. She’s gorgeous and obviously smart, has a cool job… She must prefer to be single. It’s the only way that makes sense.

  “Only because you want it that way, right?” I say and shift my gaze over my shoulder. The negotiator’s still working. I pick my sergeant out of the crowd, and he’s standing with his hands on his hips in a relaxed position. That means there’s no emergency for the moment—he’s a very alert guy.

  A long moment goes by, so long I turn to study Violet. I regret my question. “Hey, I’m sorry,” I say softly. “It’s none of my business.”

  “I write about the men I’m too shy to find,” she murmurs, not meeting my gaze. She toys with her fingers. For the first time, I notice the heart outline tattooed on her little finger, on top down near the knuckle of her hand. It’s delicate. Pretty. Like her.

  “I guess you could say…I pour a little of myself into each of my heroines. I have them say the things I’m too nervous to.
I have them make the first moves. I have them do all the things I wish I could but can’t or don’t.”

  “That seems empowering,” I say, hoping it’s not the wrong thing.

  “It’s silly.” She shakes her head. “I’m thirty years old. I have a couple of degrees, one of them a master. I should be able to do the boy thing better than I can. So your theory about romance writers having amazing love lives is wrong. My love stories are only that—stories.”

  She sounds sad. It hurts my heart a little bit.

  I want to tell her it’s only because the right guy hasn’t come along yet, but before I can get the words out, she glances at her watch. “Wow. How is it already four o’clock?”

  Indeed, the autumn sun is lowering in the sky already. Things don’t seem to have changed much.

  “Time flies,” I say, but I don’t mean it the traditional smart-ass way. Talking to her has been pleasant. I’ve never been so drawn to another person before. Not like this. Not this quickly.

  And not this powerfully.

  “Want something to drink?” she asks.

  “I’m kind of working here.” I gesture to the rifle and radio. Now I am kind of being a smart-ass.

  Her bright green eyes narrow. Damn, she has beautiful eyes. Even her glasses can’t hide them. Long, thick dark lashes. I don’t think she’s wearing any makeup, but I learned from my sister a long time ago not to have opinions about a woman’s makeup and just to appreciate the beauty I see. Either way, her light tan skin seems to glow, and she’s…

  There’s a word for it. Give me a second.

  Radiant, that’s it. She’s goddamn radiant.

  “I’m aware of that,” she snips. “I meant like, water. Tea. Coffee.”

  “Water’s always good.” I peek through my scope. I can’t see the hostage-taker at all through the windows, though the curtains appear to be open. “What kind of tea? Like hot, iced…”

  “Do you have a preference?”

  “I like hot tea.” I need some updates from my sergeant. I don’t like being so out of the loop like this. I grab my radio. “If you have any. If not, water’s just fine. Thank you.”

  Violet looks at me dubiously, then pads off into the small kitchen area. Her place is a spacious open floor plan, the kitchen and living area making one big room. She fills a tea kettle with water and sets it on the stove.

  Yeah, I’m a dude who likes tea. So what?

  I push a button on my radio. “Sarge. Hartley. You copy?”

  “Copy. What do you want, Hartley?”

  “Sit-rep. I feel like I’m floating out here.”

  My sergeant sighs. “You’re going to need to sit tight for a while, Hartley. The hostage-taker has made some requests for money and vehicles and to talk to his therapist. It’s going to be a while. Just keep an eye out and stay where you are.”

  “Roger.” I click off the radio as the tea kettle starts whistling.

  A moment later, Violet carries over a bottle of water and a cup of tea. “It’s just lemon tea, I think. Whatever I had in my cupboard. I’m more of a coffee kind of girl.”

  “It’s fine, thank you.” I take a sip, enjoying the hot liquid flowing down my throat.

  “So what’d they say?” Violet asks, twisting the top off her own bottle of water.

  “Going to be a while.” I flash her a sympathetic look, then tick my chin at her laptop. “Sorry. Looks like you were in the middle of something.”

  “My newest book,” she replies, reaching out to shut the laptop lid. “I’m supposed to be pumping it up next Saturday at my book signing.”

  I raise my brows. “You’re having a book signing? That’s huge.”

  “My first. I’m a little nervous.” She gives me an uncomfortable, one-sided smile before glancing away. “I’m a writer because I’m shy. I’m not a good public speaker. I’m socially awkward, actually.”

  I shrug. “You seem cool to me.”

  “Thanks, but it’s just us. Put me in a room of people and watch me go. Or rather, not go.”

  I blow on my tea. “Well, it’s a book signing, right? All you gotta do is sit down and sign people’s books. Maybe take a couple pictures, shake some hands. That’s it, right?”

  She shakes her head. A lock of blonde hair comes loose from her braid and I have the worst urge to brush it away from her face, to feel the silkiness slide over my fingers.

  “Yes and no,” she says. “I have to be on. That gets tiring after a while. And—and they want me to do a reading. From my last book.”

  Even though I’m not shy or an introvert, I don’t need to ask for clarification as to why that would be hard for her.

  “Well, hey,” I say. “You know that old show business trick? Just picture everyone in the room naked, and then you won’t feel so shy. Want to practice on me? You can read. Picture me naked.”

  Her blush suffuses her whole face and neck this time, and I wonder how far under that sweater of hers it reaches.

  Now I’m the one picturing her naked.

  4

  Violet

  I can’t believe the sexiest man I’ve ever seen who happens to be a SWAT officer and sitting inside my living room and who requested fucking hot tea from me and is actually a really sweet guy just told me I should banish my stage fright by picturing him naked.

  As if I haven’t been doing that this whole time.

  He watches me closely, his gaze gliding down my neck. He doesn’t seem at all embarrassed by what he said. In fact, by the little one-sided grin he’s giving me, I’d say he’s pretty freaking pleased with himself.

  And can I ever stop turning red as a beet?

  You’d think with the sexy stuff I write, I’d get my blush response under control.

  “Well?” he says. “How about it? You gonna read me something from your book? And I mean, I want the hot stuff. That’s what you’ll read at your signing, right?”

  The thought of saying words like “pussy,” “cock,” “fucking,” and “sucking” in front of him, let alone a crowd of people, makes me want to crawl under the bed and hide. Now, listen. I’m no prude. I’m not a virgin. I’ve had “the sex” a few times in my life. Has it been mind-blowing? No. That’s partly why I write what I write. I’m writing the fantasy as much for me as for my lovely readers. But I can also be painfully shy…and especially around a guy who makes me feel like I’m fifteen around my high school crush again, well. So to read those things to him?

  In the infamous words of Randy Jackson on American Idol, that’s a no from me, dawg.

  “Right. Um, I’m hungry,” I say to change the subject.

  It could be my overactive imagination, but I swear his eyes go all smoldery. “Me too.”

  If he looks at me like that again, I really will go run and hide in my bedroom. “I—I’m gonna order a pizza,” I stammer, getting up from the couch. “What do you like on yours?”

  He licks his lips—a coincidence, that’s all—as he lifts his mug of tea. “Whatever you like. I’m not picky.”

  I left my cell phone on the kitchen counter, so I go over to it and use the pizza restaurant’s app to order. “Okay. Should be here in an hour.”

  “You didn’t call,” Rhys points out.

  “I prefer online ordering,” I say. “That way I don’t have to actually speak to another human being.”

  He laughs. I don’t see what’s funny.

  I fold my arms. “It appears we have quite a bit of time to pass.”

  He lifts one eyebrow. “Potentially, we do.”

  “Well, there’s only one thing I can think of to pass the time that really lets you get to know someone.” I walk over to the bookshelf and squat down, searching for a particular item.

  “Strip poker?”

  I can’t say I believe he’s kidding. I retrieve a cardboard box from the bottom shelf, then hold it up triumphantly.

  He blanches. “Scrabble? Are you shitting me? You’re a fucking writer. That’s not fair.”

  “You scared?”
I taunt.

  Those beautiful blue eyes of his narrow. “Bring it on.”

  By the time the pizza comes, I’ve beat him in four games. To be fair, a couple were pretty close. He lets me get up to answer the door, but stops me from reaching for my purse sitting on an end table. He reaches into the front pocket of his cargo pants and withdraws his wallet.

  “It’s fine,” I tell him.

  “No way.” He peels off three tens and passes them to me. “I barged into your house. The least I can do is buy you pizza and let you win at Scrabble.”

  “Let me win,” I scoff, heading to the door. “Sure. Don’t peek at my tiles!”

  I give the pizza delivery guy all the cash, and take the large, hot box back to where our game is sprawled on the floor, grabbing a handful of napkins from the kitchen counter as I pass.

  After setting the pizza on the coffee table, I grab him another bottle of water and a can of Riesling for me.

  “Canned wine, huh?”

  I stick my tongue out at him, and don’t miss the way his gaze darts to it. “You could have started,” I say, noticing he hasn’t even opened the box.

  “My mother taught me manners. When dining with a beautiful woman, you wait until she has her food and is settled before you eat.”

  “Is that right?” I have a feeling he’s being coy, but it’s sweet nonetheless.

  He sketches a cross over his left pec. “Scout’s honor.”

  “First of all, you’re not a Scout,” I say. “Second of all, Scout’s honor looks like this.” I hold up three fingers on one hand.

  “Sorry. I must be delirious from hunger.”

  I shove a slice of pepperoni at him. “Eat. Now let’s get back to the beatdown.”

  We eat pizza and I continue to beat him at Scrabble until I lose track of time and it grows pitch dark outside, except for the red-and-blue police cruiser lights still flashing across the street. Rhys’s radio hasn’t crackled since he called down to his “sarge,” even though every few minutes he’s been looking out the window and peeping through his scope.