Page 2 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

Her mouth was dry, and the ice cream had turned sour on her tongue. She gritted her teeth, reaching for the lid as she tried to fit it onto the now-crushed container. Her spoon clattered as she dropped it into a cup holder, and she set the deformed pint of ice cream on the passenger seat. Sticky hands reminded Daphne she hadn’t had the foresight to steal a dish towel or even a napkin during her great escape.

Another glance in her rearview told her that whoever this deputy was, he was taking his sweet time. Meanwhile, her pulse sped and sweat beaded along her temple.

That’s when she noticed her pants. More specifically, the gigantic, obvious wet patch centered around the crotch of her light-wash jeans.

Groaning, Daphne squeezed her thighs together, but all that did was make her feel wet and cold in places that had no business feeling that way at all.

She drummed her fingers on her steering wheel, trying to ignore the sweat gathering under her arms. The jump in Daphne’s pulse made her scowl. It wasn’t that she was afraid; it was just that she hated confrontation and couldn’t bear the thought of doing something wrong, even when she’d been high on ice cream–flavored rebellion. Old habits and all that.

Any hint of strife, and Daphne’s muscles tensed. After all, when she messed up, everyone treated it like some sort of calamity. A ticket would be the talk of the town—especially considering where Daphne would be working come Monday.

In her side mirror, she watched the truck’s door open. It was dark, and he was behind the bright headlights, so all she could make out was the vague form of a man as he stepped out, closed the door, and turned to face her vehicle.

The deputy approached with slow, measured steps. Silhouetted by his overbright headlights, he looked broad and tall and imposing. Despite her best efforts, Daphne’s pulse gave a nervous rattle.

Nothing to be worried about. Right? It was just a traffic stop, and Daphne hadn’t done anything wrong. Had she? There was no need to be this nervous.

She glanced at her crotch, then at the ice cream. Was it illegal to eat and drive? Did it count as distracted driving? Had she been breaking the law without even realizing it? Her breathing became jagged.

No. She was being ridiculous.

Then again, she’d been swerving all over the place! Had he seen? Would he arrest her? Would she lose her job before she’d even had the chance to start?

The officer paused, studying the back of her car. Daphne gulped and lowered her window. His footsteps crunched on the gravel. Daphne waited, listening to the thump of her heartbeat in her ears and the sound of his approach.

Maybe she could talk herself out of it. She could bat her eyelashes or pull out some of that charm her sister had in spades. Ellie could talk herself out of anything, and if she did get in trouble, she somehow always spun it to her advantage.

Daphne couldn’t talk herself out of an open door.

“License and registration.” The deep voice reverberated through her bones, and Daphne made a squeak of assent as she gathered the documents. She passed them through the window, tilting her head to get a look at the man.

In the gloom, she could barely make out the planes of his face below the brim of his cap. Rain spattered it, dripping off the edge like a veil. He wore a dark-blue uniform under a matching blue windbreaker, his hard male lips pinched into a thin line. It hadn’t just been the headlights, Daphne realized. He was broad and tall, especially when he loomed outside her car door with the added height of his authority.

In the wake of all her recent failures, Daphne felt very small as she waited for him to speak. The seconds dragged. The pressure of it was too much. She felt like she’d explode if one of them didn’t say something.

So she went first.

“Just so you’re aware,” she started, gesturing to the dark patch on her light jeans, “I was holding a pint of ice cream with my thighs. This is condensation.”

There was a moment of silence before he said, “Okay.”

“I wanted to clear that up.” Daphne gave him a businesslike nod. Just two people having a chat about the state of her groin, such as it was.

He was still for a moment, and Daphne wished she could see his face. “Daphne Davis,” he mused, tapping her license against his palm. “This is a surprise.”

Oh. He knew her. Of course he knew her! Daphne racked her brain. She’d looked up the Fernley County Sheriff’s Department website when she got the job offer, and she hadn’t recognized any of the names, except for Shirley Newbury, who’d worked the phones at the station since the dawn of time, and Hank Packer, who’d been there almost as long. The rest of the department had recently undergone significant upheaval—hence Daphne’s presence on the island. She’d been offered a job at the sheriff’s department precisely because of that upheaval.

But this man knew her. A local. He had to be.

She tilted her head to try to get a look at him, but the darkness was too deep, and his hat cast shadows over his features. He kept his head tilted, his brim concealing everything but the strong line of his jaw and the small, almost imperceptible curl of his smirk.

Was he staring at her crotch? Did he believe her about the ice cream condensation thing? Why had she even mentioned it?

Wait.Waseating and driving a crime? Had she just incriminated herself?

She sucked in a deep breath.

What would Ellie do? She needed to channel her sister and brazen her way out of this.

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