Page 1 of Curvy Girl for the Cop

one

?. . .?

Ryan

The winding mountainroad stretches before me, an endless ribbon of asphalt leading into the heart of nowhere. I grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, jaw clenched. This "vacation" is a joke. A punishment.

Towering pines close in, their shadows casting an ominous shroud over the car. I glance at my bandaged hand, still raw from the fight that landed me here. I should be on the city streets, amidst the chaos and grit where I belong. Not exiled to some backwater town playing at finding inner peace.

The GPS dings, signaling my arrival in Pine Hollow. I pull up to a row of rustic storefronts, their weathered facades proclaiming small-town charm. Letting out a heavy sigh, I step out, stretching my taut muscles. The mountain air chills my lungs, crisp and foreign.

My gaze lands on a cozy bookshop nestled between the hardware store and post office. Through the window, I glimpse a flash of mahogany hair, soft curves. Something stirs within me,primal and unbidden. I blink it away. I'm here to clear my head, not muddy the waters with distractions, no matter how enticing.

I let my eyes wander, taking in the quaint storefronts lining the main street. A dingy diner with a flickering 'Open' sign. The obligatory general store boasting everything from fishing tackle to homemade jam. A run-down movie theater marquee advertising titles months old.

This place is a time capsule, cut off from the rest of the world and stuck in some nostalgic past. The kind of town where everybody knows each other's business and outsiders stick out like a sore thumb. And here I am, a walking cliché—the jaded city cop looking for answers at the bottom of a bottle and the end of a winding road.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the bitter thoughts. I came here for a reason, even if it wasn't by choice. To clear the cobwebs, exorcise some demons, and maybe, just maybe, remember what it feels like to breathe again.

But damn if I can focus on any of that noble bullshit when my traitorous gaze keeps drifting back to that bookshop and the tantalizing curves I glimpsed through the window. There's something about the way she moved, an unconscious grace that spoke of quiet confidence and raw sensuality. I can almost picture tracing the slope of her hip, the dip of her waist, with calloused fingertips...

I clench my fists, feeling the sharp sting of my split knuckles. I didn't drive halfway across the state to get my head turned around by some small town librarian. I'm here to get my shit together, not fall into bed with the first attractive woman I see.

Except I can't seem to tear my eyes away from that storefront. Can't stop imagining what it would feel like to lose myself in soft flesh and honeyed sighs, to bury my demons in the welcoming heat of her body until all that's left is blessed oblivion.

"Fuck it," I mutter under my breath, propelling myself forward on leaden feet. Toward the bookshop. Toward her. Toward the inescapable gravity that draws me in like a moth to a flame, heedless of the inferno that awaits.

The bell above the door jingles cheerfully as I step inside, announcing my arrival like a harbinger of doom. The scent of ink and paper and something uniquely feminine washes over me. My heart pounds against my ribcage as I venture further into her domain, each step a battle between desire and self-preservation.

I round a corner and there she is, all generous curves and flushed cheeks, hazel eyes widening as they meet mine. In that moment, I know I'm well and truly fucked. And I can't bring myself to care.

Ava

The bell above the door jingles and I glance up from the stack of newly arrived first editions. My breath catches. He's tall, dark, and radiating an intensity that snakes down my spine and coils in my belly.

A stranger. In my shop. In our town.

I smooth my hair, suddenly acutely aware of my generous curves straining against my cornflower sundress.Get it together, Ava.I paste on my best customer service smile. "Welcome to Dawson's Book Nook. Can I help you find anything?"

My words hang in the air between us as his eyes, the color of a gathering storm, rake over me. A muscle ticks in his chiseled jaw. The silence stretches, charged and heavy.

Finally, he clears his throat. "Just passing through. Thought I'd browse." His voice is low, rough like gravel.

"Of course, please, take your time." I gesture to the lovingly curated shelves, my sanctuary. "If you need any recommendations, I'm happy to help."

He nods, a curt jerk of his chin. Then turns and disappears into the stacks, a predator melting into the shadows. I release a shaky exhale.

Lord help me, but I want to unravel the mystery coiled within that man. Want to crack open his hard exterior and consume the pages of his story, no matter how dark.

I shake my head. I've always been drawn to the broken ones, haven't I?

My gaze strays to the "Local Authors" display. To the slim volume of poetry bearing my name. We all have our secrets. Pine Hollow may look idyllic, but it has a way of unearthing the hidden things.

The man prowls through the aisles, his presence electric, inescapable in the small shop. I try to focus on the inventory list in front of me, but the words blur together. I'm hyper-aware of every sound—the creak of a floorboard, the whisper of pages turning. The sizzle of my nerve endings.

Breathe, Ava. He's just a man.

An impossibly gorgeous, mysterious man who makes your knees weak, but still.

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