Page 24 of Close Encounters of the Sexy Kind
Chapter Eleven
When the alarm wentoff, Ryan hit the snooze button twice before hauling her tired butt out of bed. She hadn’t had nearly enough sleep, though she couldn’t regret her late night out. Spending time with Tiberius had been worth every yawn and grumble.
In the stark light of day, however, she couldn’t help wondering if that expensive drink she’d downed had colored her perception somewhat. Tiberius had been smart, funny, and gallant, not to mention handsome as sin. He just seemed too good to be true, and as her life experiences had often proven, things thatseemedtoo good to be true oftenwere.
No man had ever checked as many items off her “perfect guy” list as he had without having at least a few ticks in the “asshole” column, too. There had to be a catch. The question was: did she want to find out what that catch was? Or was it better to just live with the dream?
She opted for the latter.
For a little while, Tiberius had done something amazing. He had made her feel interesting and desirable. Why ruin the illusion?
Sure, he had said he wanted to see her again, but despite her penchant for paranormals and happily ever afters, she was essentially a realist. Chances were, their paths wouldn’t cross again. She had no intention of returning to Bait, and she definitely wasnotgoing to be one of those women who checked her phone every five minutes, making sure the thing was on. If he called, great. If not, well,c’est la vie.
Now all she had to do was convince herself she wouldn’t be disappointed if that happened.
Ryan dried her face with the soft terry towel then scowled at herself in the mirror. She was a thirty-two-year-old police detective. Was she actually crushing on a guy after a decent conversation, a slice of pie, and a knuckle brushing kiss?
She was at a loss to explain why he had even approached her in the first place, though it probably had something to do with the way she had looked. Fully made up and decked out in a sexy dress and killer shoes, shehadlooked pretty good. The problem was that wasn’t therealRyan. She wasn’t sexy or glamorous or fashionable. She had tried to tell him that, but whether or not he believed her, she didn’t know.
“Gah!” She brushed her hair and yanked it into a ponytail. A fresh face stared back in the mirror, devoid of all the glitz and glam Betty had so painstakingly applied. Gone was the curve-hugging sheath dress, replaced by no-wrinkle pants, a simple blouse, and sensible shoes. What would her perfect Prince Charming think of her now?
Foregoing breakfast, she chugged a cup of coffee and grabbed a protein bar on her way out the door. Betty’s bakery was in the opposite direction from the precinct, and Ryan wanted to make sure she had enough time to do a drive-by. Though they had exchanged the obligatory “home safe” texts around dawn, Ryan felt compelled to double-check.
Betty said she worried too much, but in Betty’s case, Ryan wasn’t sure she worried enough.
As she cruised by, she was pleased to see the lights on, a good crowd, and the flash of bright red hair bopping around behind the counter. Satisfied that all was well, Ryan continued, her gaze landing on the now quiet Bait and her thoughts moving back to Tiberius.
Where was he now? Was he a morning person? How did he spend his days? Was he thinking about her like she was thinking about him?
“Enough!” she chastised herself when she pulled into her spot behind the station. She had a job to do, and hopefully, today’s cases wouldn’t include nude videos of senior citizens twerking or instances of small-time drug dealers being dropped off in fishing nets filled with crabs.
By the time lunch rolled around, Ryan was rethinking her earlier wish and hoping that something, anything interesting would happen. She rubbed her eyes, bleary from lack of sleep and the two hundred-plus pages of complaints concerning one Alfred P. Carmichael.
Mr. Carmichael, age fifty-four, lived with his eighty-two-year-old mother and was convinced that everyone in his neighborhood was spying on him. He had taken it upon himself to hide in the bushes near his home at all hours of the day and night to “obtain proof of the conspiracy.” Among the complainants were his own aunts, who had lived in the house next door since 1962 and said they were sick and tired of being ambushed every time they tried to leave the house.
When her phone rang, Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Detective Winslet.”
“Hey, girlfriend, you busy?”
Ryan smiled into the phone when she heard Betty’s voice. “Not even a little. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to say thanks and sorry-not-sorry.”
Ryan sat back in her chair. “Okay. For what?”
“The thanks is for going out with me last night. I know clubbing is outside your comfort zone, and I appreciate that you’d do that for me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“The sorry-not-sorry is for abandoning you. I feel kind of bad about that, but it was so worth the guilt I’m feeling right now.”
“I take it that means you had a good time?”
“Girl, I can’t even. I swear, that man was put on this Earth just to butter my buns, you know what I’m saying?”
Ryan laughed, buoyed by Betty’s high spirits.
“I never realized I was an exhibitionist, but apparently I am. And you would notbelievewhat they have in those private rooms on the second floor—”
