Page 5 of Saved By the Sergeant

“It has two floors.” I squint. “And two porches.”

“It also has a hot tub. What’s your point?”

“It’s not a cabin,” I huff.

“It’s my damn house. I can call it whatever I want.”

“Are you always this grouchy?”

“Yes,” he growls. “Park the damn truck, will you?”

“Fine.” I glare at his profile. “Where do you want me to park?”

“Beside the shed.”

“You should have a garage.” I ease forward over the snow. “Shoveling must take you hours.”

“You don’t say.” He turns my way. “Lucky for you, I have two shovels.”

I ignore the shovel comment and cringe at the sight of his swollen eyes. “Are you in pain?” I turn off the engine.

“Yes.” He blows out a long breath. “But it’s burning a bit less now.”

“Good.”

“What perfume did you douse me with anyway?”

“I didn’t douse you.” I sigh. “I sprayed you.”

“Trust me, you doused me. It’s in my eyes, my mouth, my throat. That’s not a spraying, sweetheart. It’s a damn dousing.” He grunts. “Name of your lethal weapon?”

“Happy.”

“Happy? You’ve got to be effing kidding me.”

“No, I’m not kidding. It blends bergamot, red grapefruit, Hawaiian wedding flowers, and spring mimosa. I love it. It’s a delicate, flowery scent with a soft, fruity aroma. Not too--”

“Save the infomercial speech, will you, please? I need to empty the truck, start a fire, and shove my face into a bucket of ice water.”

“I’m really sorry…” I squeak. Out of nowhere, my throat tightens, and tears roll down my cheeks.

“Are you crying?” He snaps.

“Well… umm… sort of.” I swipe away tears. I’ve harmed an innocent man. My life is in shambles. I have seventy-three dollars and ten cents to live on because I can’t risk accessing my debit account. And now a man the size of the Chrysler Building is barking at me.

“Stop it.” He barks again.

This time, his tone is so harsh I jump, and what was a few tears turns into a rainstorm.

His hand fumbles across the front of the glovebox until he finds the latch. “God damn it,” he mutters, then grabs a package of tissues and thrusts them into the air. “Here.”

I rip out a tissue. “You don’t have to be so mean.”

He drops his head back, rubbing his temples. “This has turned out to be a real shit day.”

“You can say that again,” I sniffle.

“This has turned out to be a real shit day.” He almost smiles as he peels one of his eyes open. “So, how about we start over? My name is Archer Bentley. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

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