Page 38 of Not That Impossible

I didn’t even know what the hell my dick was thinking, to be honest.

Liam yelled stuff at Adam about how he should arrest him and throw him in the cells overnight, Adam talked him down to giving us both a caution, and my mum was steaming mad when she had to come and pick me up from the station.

If you wanted to be picky about it, I suppose you could argue that as it was a caution, technically Liam hadn’t arrested me.

I didn’t think I was going to be that lucky today.

Brand-new Constable Liam Nash catching a child holding a can of (not his) spray paint was a very different situation from Detective Chief Inspector Liam Nash getting shoved by an adult journalist on a crime scene.

God, I was an idiot.

My doorbell rang.

Shit.

I could just…not answer? It was tempting.

Tempting, yes, but there was no avoiding my fate. I stood up bravely. I straightened my shoulders, strode to the door, and snatched it open.

I stared at Liam.

He stared back at me.

He looked determined and focused.

I really wasn’t getting out of it this time, was I?

Fine.

I put my wrists together and stuck my arms out in front of me, ready to be cuffed. “I’ll come quietly,” I said.

“I’ve already heard the noises you make, Jasper,” Liam said. “I highly doubt that.”

I cocked my head. “Are you flirting with me?” I asked cautiously.

“No,” he snapped.

“Oh.” I looked down at my wrists, then back up at Liam. “You can do it, you know,” I said. “I won’t resist.”

He glared at me.

I was doing it wrong, wasn’t I? “Do you want me on my knees? Hands behind my head? Or am I supposed to be facedown?”

His cheeks darkened. “For god’s sake,” he said, and barged in, slamming the door shut behind him.

I followed him into my sitting room. He strode into the middle of the room and turned sharply on his heel. He dug a hand in his bulky jacket pocket and pulled out a bright yellow Post-it note. He held it out, flapping it impatiently when I didn’t move.

“What is that?” I said.

“What does it look like?” He came over to where I was dithering in the doorway, and slapped it against my chest.

He didn’t move his hand.

I glanced down to where it rested against my washed-out old Adidas t-shirt, long fingers spread wide. My heart kicked in response, like it was trying to fling itself into his hold.

He held his hand there, flat on my sternum, for another long, simmering second, before he stepped back. The Post-it note stuck.

Hoping that he hadn’t felt my pulse leap just because he touched me, I peeled the note off my chest and read the scrawl.

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