Page 2 of Beauty and the Cop
"Says the teacher," she retorts, and she's got me there. I don't exactly teach the kind of books she reads, however. Oh my gosh. Parents would have literal aneurysms if I even mentioned those titles to their high schoolers.
Do Me, Daddyisn't age-appropriate for a sophomore.
Actually, I'm not sure it's age-appropriate for me, for that matter. But that's another reason why I love Alice. She's a smutty little devil who always comes through in the clutch with questionable decisions we both live to regret.
"Are you going to introduce yourself to him?" she asks.
"Should I? Do people do that in the city?" Back home, strolling up to introduce yourself to the neighbors was no big deal, but Porter, Texas, consisted of roughly nine hundred people, and five times as many cows. I think Chicago has more than that—people, not cows—in my neighborhood alone.
"How should I know? I've lived in Porter my whole life," she reminds me. "Everyone knows everyone here."
Alice could happily spend her whole life in Porter, gossiping with Ms. Lydia next door. Me? Not so much. I wanted greener pastures, andnotthe kind covered in cow pies and questionable mushrooms.
When the school here offered me the job, I leaped at the opportunity. The pay is terrible, but I don't mind. It's a chanceto see something bigger than the same five square miles where I grew up.
I want excitement and adventure and…something new. I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking for yet. I just know that I have a better chance of finding it in Chicago than I do in Porter.
Back home, you could dream as big as the sky, but in Chicago, it feels a little like you can actually reach out and touch it. And that's not because of the skyscrapers. Dreams just seem possible here in a way they didn't back in Texas.
"Maybe I will—"
A sharp rap on the door cuts me off.
"Hold that thought. Someone is at the door."
"Did you order food again just because you can?"
"What? No." I laugh in protest, striding toward the door. "I only did that twice."
"I warned you that it was expensive."
I ignore her…mostly because she's right. Ordering delivery is expensive. Who knew laziness was a luxury only the rich could afford? Rude.
I had to unpack my kitchen first, just so I could eat something that didn't cost forty dollars and my soul.
My heart leaps into my throat when I put my eye to the peephole and see the same man I've only spotted at a distance standing on my porch.
"Holy crap."
"What?"
"It's my neighbor!"
"The hot, probably-in-the-mafia guy? Don't answer it!" Alice cries in my ear.
"He isn't in the mafia. And he's holding cookies." I scrutinize him through the peephole. "Christ on a cracker. He's hot." Seriously fucking hot. Jesus. I knew he was ripped, but he has muscles for days. He also has wickedly green eyes, hair sodark brown it might as well be black, and a full beard.Policeis emblazoned across the front of his tight blue t-shirt, which pretty much kills her mafia theory.
"Oh, I don't think the mafia would bring you cookies," Alice says. "I mean, not unless they want to lull you into a false sense of complacency so they can kidnap you to sell you, only to accidentally fall in love with you instead."
"You have got to stop reading so much," I mutter, mildly alarmed at the thought of that happening in real life. Surely, it doesn't…right? Maybe I'll ask the hot-cop neighbor. He'd probably know. "He's not in the mafia, and he doesn't want to kidnap and sell me on the black market."
"He could. You never know. Criminals pose as salesmen and service people all the time, and the next thing you know, you're tied up in the basement, hoping someone finds your body before the rats do."
"You really have to stop reading so much," I mutter, both disturbed and impressed by her imagination. "He isn't going to tie me up in the basement and leave me for the rats. I don't even have a basement, and he's a cop."
"He can also hear you," he calls from the other side of the door, amusement in his rough voice.
I squeak, jumping away from the door as his lips quirk into a panty-melting grin.
