Page 31 of Fletch

He fixes me with a glare that tells me he’s about to erupt, so I sigh again for dramatic effect and go after her.

She’s almost at the gate when I catch up and grab her arm to slow her down. “Not so fast,” I say with a laugh. “Why are you so mad?”

“Because this shitshow was a setup,” she yells, turning on me. “I am a fucking police officer, Fletch. I lock people like you up, and here I am, sitting at a table with you and your boss.”

“He’s not my boss,” I mutter.

“Whatever he is,” she screams, waving her arms in the air. “And they’re all questioning my motives like they have no idea what I am or who I am.”

I take her hand and tug her a step closer. “I remember who you were before this,” I say, tucking her hair behind her ear. “And tonight, I just wanted to see her again.”

“Why?” she demands.

“Because I liked her.”

“I’m not that girl anymore, Fletch,” she snaps. “You saw to that.”

“Then maybe I need to get to know who you are now.”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” I groan, “maybe I just want to.”

“It’s not enough,” she mutters, going to turn away, but I keep hold of her. “Fletch, this can’t happen between us.”

“What can’t?”

“This,” she hisses, waving a hand between us, “whatever this is, just stay away from me.”

“I can’t,” I blurt. The panic that she’s trying to walk away for good, and how Axel will react to that, makes me pull her back to me. “I can’t,” I repeat, cupping her cheek and placing a gentle kiss to her lips.

“I’m gonna take down your club.”

I give a slight nod, pressing my forehead against hers. “I know. We survived for two years living in secret.”

She laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

I shake my head and kiss her again. “There’s nothing wrong with two adults hooking up.”

“Hooking up?” she repeats.

“We’re both single, consenting adults.”

“Only I’m a police officer and you’re a criminal.”

I grin. “You have no evidence to back that, officer.”

She begins to pull away again. “I can’t.”

“At least until you have something on us,” I try. “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” She begins to walk, and I follow her out the gate. “Come for a drink with me,” I add, giving puppy dog eyes for added effect, and a smile pulls at her lips.

I guide her to the nearest bar, and we sit in a dark corner away from everyone else, nursing two whiskeys. “I feel like we’ve reached an understanding,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes. “Hear me out. We’re actually talking now, so that’s a start, isn’t it?”

“My father would have a shitfit if he saw us together,” she mutters.

“He still a wanker?”

“He’s certainly taking ‘grumpy old man’ to the next level.”

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