Page 16 of The Proposal Pact
I might complain about dealing with elderly children twenty-four seven, but I’d rather put out nonsense than actual violence. I’ve seen—lived—enough of it to last a few lifetimes.
Swiftly, I make it out of the station and into my car, dialing the deputies to be on standby as I drive over to the address Marsha gave me. Even in the fading daylight, the bright green of the building color pops as loud as a siren.
It’s a four-story building, right on the main—or in our case, Love—street. The first two floors are occupied by Fifi’s Goods store and the upper two floors are residential apartments. Fifi, the owner of the whole building and store included, said the screaming was happening on the fourth floor, apartment 4A. I put my vest on and rush inside.
Just as I climb the last few steps, I hear a dull smack, followed by a shout. “Take that, you filthy bloodsucker!”
Without hesitation, I draw my weapon and burst through the front door. It might not be the right way to handle the situation, but I’ve learned long ago that the right way doesn’t get shit done.
“Hands up, LCPD!” I shout loud and clear, my eyes assessing for victims and perpetrators right away but that’s not what—or rather who—greets me.
“Argh!Ti skata?”
4
Sophie
“You are allowed to be both a masterpiece and a work in progress simultaneously.” — Sophia Bush
“Argh!Ti skata?” I shriek, jumping off my couch, nearly tripping over my own two feet, just as someone bursts through the front door of my new apartment and yells, “Hands up, LCPD!”
Hands up? Police? What the?
My wide eyes land on a tall athletic man with dark blond hair that curls on top and light stubble on his face, standing in front of me, pointing his gun while his intense green eyes take me in.
If I wasn’t in a state of shock, I might’ve been self-conscious about my look this evening but seeing asI amin a state of shock, I don’t care less that the hottest police officer on the planet earthand far beyond its reach can probably see my butt cheeks and what looks like a fountain of hair up on my head.
Damn me and those kitchen scissors.
I am also in the middle of a very intense game of my favorite hockey team that he’s rudely interrupting.
I don’t care how hot you are, nothing comes before hockey. Not anymore.
For a second, though, both of us are standing frozen in place with me still staring wide at the barrel of the gun—or more accurately the tattooed biceps straining out of the short sleeved T-shirt he’s wearing underneath that vest—and him slowly lifting his gaze up from my colorful toes, over my bare legs and up to my oversized Outlaws jersey until he must catch himself ogling me openly and shifts, holstering his weapon.
Without the gun pointed my way, I snap out of it too. “Ti skata?” I repeat my previous outrage.
The guy frowns, but even his frown is hot. “Do you speak English?”
For a second I consider making his life considerably more inconvenient and only speak Greek since he did kind of barge into my place uninvited, but then I remember that apart from a few phrases and a million curses, I don’t remember my mother tongue all that well.
“What the fuck? That’s what that means—or at least a version of it.”
“Ah, that makes a lot more sense.” He clears his throat, looking away slightly. “Do you mind putting some clothes on so we can talk?”
I look down at myself. Just a few days ago, he wouldn’t even see me looking like this. I’d be in something practical like leggings or sweatpants. But this is a new me, or rather newly-found-old-me, and I hate wearing pants.
And also…I’m not the one feeling uncomfortable around him but I guess I should put…
The thought in my head gets cut off when I hear the cheering and the commentators on the TV behind me amp up their volume andexcitement and I forget what I was thinking about in the first place or who’s even here.
I spin around just in time to see Anez Goram break away with the puck, skating at his top speed toward the Ice Devils net as that asshole Yanis Zima charges at him. “NO! Stay the fuck away from Goram, you piece of crap in a human form.” Just then, none other than my hockey superhero, Exton Quinn, comes out of thin air and cuts Yanis off, sending him toppling down to the ice.
The other Ice Devils catch up to Anez and he has to make a pass, another pass, back to Goram…
“Hello, Miss? I’m talking to you.” I hear from behind, distracting me.
“Shh.” I lift up my finger. “Come on, come on, come on,” I chant as Anez take the shot, but the goalie makes the save, and I groan, throwing my hands up and sending a few more curses in Greek toward the TV.
