Page 170 of Hot Cops

He helped her set up the tripod, then moved the bike a couple inches this way or that as she tried to line up the perfect shot. Once she had the position she wanted, she pointed to his shirt. “Some guys have taken their shirts off completely, others have just unbuttoned them and left them hanging open. The musician wore an open vest with his jeans. It’s up to you. Whatever your comfortable with.”

Blake stripped off his shirt without hesitation. With his chest bare, the badge he’d hung from his jeans showed better. They’d discussed whether or not he should wear his gun belt, but decided against it.

Chloe rolled her eyes at his quick disrobing.

“You didn’t really expect me to be shy, did you?”

She shook her head, then bent down to fiddle with her camera. Blake was unnerved by her continued silence. Apart from discussing the photo shoot, she hadn’t engaged in any real conversation. He’d let her get away with that until their work was finished. After that, all bets were off.

She snapped a couple of shots she called testers then nodded approvingly at whatever she saw in the viewfinder. “The crash point on this setup is amazing.”

“Crash point?”

“Sorry. Photography slang. It’s just an expression someone used in one of my classes once that stuck with me. Basically, it has to do with symmetry and the rule of thirds. You are the crash point. Everything in this image draws the viewer’s eye to you.”

She didn’t bother to explain further. Instead, he stood, turning this way and that as Chloe worked her magic with the camera. He was no stranger to being her model. He’d posed for countless pictures that summer so long ago. She had been enrolled in her first photography class and was obsessed with applying everything she’d learned, dragging him along any time she needed a model.

Then he considered her term.Theywere at a crash point. Everything that had happened in their pasts had put them on this course, until now…all that was left was this moment and the truth.

Blake tried to put all that away, focusing on Chloe’s instructions, letting her call the shots. He teased her about it, saying he’d never noticed her dominatrix tendencies. She pretended to crack a whip, then continued to take pictures.

All too soon, she decided she’d captured exactly what she needed. She appeared pleased, but that look passed quickly, replaced by one of reticence, nervousness.

Once they’d finished packing all the equipment away, Blake locked the bag, securing it to the bike.

“Walk with me.” He held out his hand.

Chloe hesitated and he feared she’d refuse. He raised his eyebrows, silently pleading with her to give him a chance to explain.

She sighed. “Okay.”

She accepted his proffered hand and they walked along the shore, listening to the sound of the water repetitively slapping against the bank. It was quiet for a Sunday afternoon in May. The weatherman had forecasted a late-day shower, so Blake could only assume the threat of impending weather had kept most people away.

He led her to a private spot then gestured at the grass. “Wanna sit down for a while?”

She nodded and plopped down on the soft ground. He joined her and they looked out over the lake.

Crash point, Blake thought once more. It was time. “You asked me why I left. I didn’t have a chance to answer.”

Chloe turned her head, looking back the way they’d come. He’d become very good at reading body language during his years on the force. Every fiber of Chloe wanted to run, to escape. But—in typical fashion—his brave woman resisted the urge. She faced him once more.

“So tell me.”

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, Chloe.”

She rolled her eyes, clearly thinking he intended to charm his way out of answering.

“I mean it. When you grow up the way I did, well, let’s just say, I wasn’t all that familiar with women who smiled and laughed and were so genuinely honest.”

A crease formed in Chloe’s brow. “You never told me about your childhood. You just said you lived with your dad.”

He nodded. “Do you know why I volunteered to pose for this calendar?”

She gave him an impish grin. “Because you drew the short straw?”

“I spent one Christmas in the Blessing House. A social worker found me and my dad living on the street. It was one of those rare, cold-ass winters in New Orleans. She told us about the house, said we could go there for the holiday. My dad told the woman to mind her own business. Actually, I think his exact words were ‘Fuck off, bitch’ but she didn’t listen to him. She just handed me a flyer with the address to the house. Promised me I’d be warm and there’d even be presents.”

“How old were you?”

---