Page 17 of Cowboy and the Convict

When her shift was over at The Inn, Janie packed up and headed home, tidying up and grabbing a quick lunch before going into town for her solitary afternoon at The Baking Rack.

Dianna had hired a few more employees, but they all worked the morning shift since that was the wild one. For now, she was still able to handle the afternoons herself, and today was no different. Her period was finally finishing up, so she wasn't struggling with bloating or cramps or any of the litany of other things that came with it, and getting through the bucket of dough waiting for her was a breeze.

Even without a maybe-nice, but also occasionally dickish, small-town cop to help.

Her eyes slid to the large apron hanging on the wall. She gritted her teeth, hating herself for almost wishing he’d stop in again. Only for the extra set of hands, of course.

Possibly also for the conversation. Talking to him hadn’t been hateful, and had given her something to do besides mental math as she worked. Normally calculating how close she was to being caught up on her student loans and credit card bills was what got her through the silent afternoons of repetitive work, but having Devon to entertain her made the time fly by.

When he wasn’t lecturing her on the baldness of her tires or her decisions about pain management, the man was actually pretty nice to talk to.

And even nicer to smell.

She had a thing for good scents—that’s why there were a million candles around her home—and whatever Devon sprayed on in the morning was like freaking catnip. It was rich and masculine and carried an oaky hint that made her think of the outdoors. There was also another note to it. One she hadn’t been able to identify yet.

Her eyes drifted back to the apron she’d been working hard to avoid all afternoon. Even with the heavy scent of cinnamon and buttercream hanging in the air, she kept getting a rogue whiff of Devon’s cologne.

What in the hell was that last scent? Not leather. Not coffee. Not spice.

“Fuck.” Janie dropped what she was doing and marched over. Grabbing the apron off its hook, she smashed it against her face and inhaled, pulling the too-familiar smell into her lungs. Her eyes slipped closed, and for a split second she let herself remember what it felt like when he held her close the night he took her home.

It was an indulgence she couldn’t allow again, but there was no one here to witness this particular moment of weakness. Or insanity, depending on how you looked at things.

Pushing the Devon-scented air from her lungs, she dumped the apron into the hamper to be washed and went back to her prep work, still fighting to figure out what that last hint of an undernote was.

An hour later, all the cinnamon rolls were assembled and stacked in the refrigerators, the doors were locked and the lights were off, but she was still no damn closer to figuring out that fucking note of his cologne. It was driving her crazy enough she considered pulling the apron from the hamper for one more smell, but that felt like taking things a step too far.

She was not going to give a shit about Devon Peters or how he smelled or whether he was a nice guy or an asshole. It didn’t matter. It’s not like she was interested in him—or any man—taking up space in her life. She learned a long time ago they were all more hassle than they were worth.

After switching on the security system, she ducked out the back door, determined to go home and hit the reset button on whatever part of her brain was shorting out thanks to Devon and his confusing, conflicting ways. But she only made it three steps toward her car when she looked up and stopped so short her runners skidded across the blacktop.

“Shit.” The word came out under her breath as she stared at the exact same man she’d decided to forget existed no more than two seconds before.

Devon was leaned back against his cruiser, well-defined arms folded over his broad chest, an odd look on his face.

She lifted her chin, sucking in a steadying breath as she marched toward him, doing her best to look unaffected by his unexpected appearance. Stopping in front of him, she gave him her best glare, trying hard to fall back into old ways. “You here to lecture me about my tires again?”

Devon studied her for a minute, his expression strangely unreadable. Finally he shook his head. “No.”

Janie swallowed hard, because if he was there for something else—something that might result in more of his taunting scent permeating her brain—she might just be stupid enough to forget how to tell him to fuck off.

And the realization was terrifying.

But then Devon said something that ensured her ability to keep hating him was alive and well.

“I’m here to arrest you.”

8

Devon

IT'D BARELY BEEN a half-hour since he found out about the warrant another jurisdiction put out for Janie's arrest, but it was more than enough time for him to come up with a few different scenarios for how this might play out. Not a single one of them involved her laughing in his face.

But here she was, standing in the middle of the employee parking lot at The Baking Rack, head thrown back, laughing so loudly it echoed off the building behind them.

It wasn't a great start.

Straightening off his cruiser, Devon walked her way, doing his best to keep his tone calm even though he was already struggling. "I'm being serious. We got a call this afternoon from Tukwila. They issued a bench warrant over unpaid parking tickets."

---