And if he was at Willie’s . . . a local.
Local meant off-limits. Damn.
I swallowed my disappointment with another gulp of vodka.
The scrape of stool legs rang through the room as he moved to take the seat beside mine. His arms returned to the bar, his drink between them as he leaned forward. He sat so close, his body so large, that the heat from his skin seeped into mine.
“Winn. I like that name.”
“Thanks.” My full name was Winslow but very few people ever called me anything other than Winn or Winnie.
Willie walked by and narrowed his eyes at the sliver of space between Griffin and me. Then he joined his doppelganger.
“Are they related?” I asked, dropping my voice.
“Willie Senior is on our side of the bar. His son is mixing drinks.”
“Father and son. Huh. I thought twins. Does Willie Senior have the same glowing personality as Willie Junior?”
“It’s worse.” Griffin chuckled. “Every time I come through town, he gets crankier.”
Wait. Did that mean . . . “You don’t live in town?”
“No.” He shook his head, picking up his drink.
I did the same, hiding my smile in the glass. So he wasn’t a local. Which meant flirting was harmless. Bless you, Quincy.
A hundred personal questions raced through my mind, but I dismissed them all. Skyler used to criticize me for going into interrogation mode within ten minutes of meeting someone new. One of many critiques. He’d used his profession as a life coach as an excuse to tell me anything and everything I’d been doing wrong in our relationship. In life.
Meanwhile, he’d betrayed me, so I wasn’t listening to Skyler’s voice anymore.
But I still wasn’t going to bombard this man with questions. He didn’t live here, and I’d save my questions for the people who did: my constituents.
Griffin looked to the far end of the room and the empty shuffleboard table. “Want to play a game?”
“Um . . . sure? I’ve never played before.”
“It’s easy.” He slid off his stool, moving with a grace that men his size didn’t normally possess.
I followed, eyes glued to the best ass I had ever seen. And he didn’t live here. An imaginary choir perched in the bar’s dusty rafters gave a collective yeehaw.
Griffin went to one end of the table while I walked to the other. “Okay, Winn. Loser buys the next round of drinks.”
Good thing I had cash. “Okay.”
Griffin spent the next ten minutes explaining the rules and demonstrating how to slide the pucks down the sand-dusted surface toward the point lines. Then we played, game after game. After one more round, we both stopped drinking, but neither of us made a move to leave.
I won some games. I lost most. And when Willie finally announced that he was closing at one, the two of us walked outside to the darkened parking lot.
A dusty black truck was parked beside my Durango.
“That was fun.”
“It was.” I smiled up at Griffin, my cheeks pinching. I hadn’t had this much fun openly flirting with a man in, well . . . ever. I slowed my steps because the last place I wanted to go was home alone.
He must have had the same idea because his boots stopped on the pavement. He inched closer.
Winslow Covington didn’t have one-night stands. I’d been too busy wasting years on the wrong man. Griffin wasn’t the right man either, but I’d learned in my time as a cop that sometimes it wasn’t about choosing right from wrong. It was choosing the right wrongs.
Griffin. Tonight, I chose Griffin.
So I closed the distance between us and stood on my toes, letting my hands snake up his hard, flat stomach.
He was tall, standing two or three inches over six feet. At five nine, it was refreshing to be around a man who towered over me. I lifted a hand to his neck, pulling him down until his mouth hovered over mine.
“Is that your truck?”
“Shit.” I cursed at the clock, then flew into action, flinging the covers off my naked body and racing for the bathroom.
Late was not how I wanted to start the first day of my new job.
I flipped on the shower, my head pounding as I stepped under the cold spray and let out a yelp. There was no time to wait for hot water, so I shampooed my hair and put in some conditioner while I scrubbed Griffin’s scent off my skin. I’d mourn the loss of it later.
There was an ache between my legs that I’d think about later too. Last night had been . . .
Mind blowing. Toe curling. The best night I’d ever had with a man. Griffin knew exactly how to use that powerful body of his and I’d been the lucky recipient of three—or had it been four?—orgasms.
I shuddered and realized the water was hot. “Damn it.”
Shoving thoughts of Griffin out of my head, I hurried out of the shower, frantically swiping on makeup and willing the blow dryer to work faster. Without time to curl or straighten my hair, I twisted it into a tight bun at the nape of my neck, then dashed to the bedroom to get dressed.
The mattress rested on the floor, the sheets and blankets rumpled and strewn everywhere. Thankfully, before I’d headed to the bar last night, I’d searched for bedding in the boxes and laid it out. When I’d finally gotten home after hours spent in the back of Griffin’s truck, I’d practically face-planted into my pillows and forgotten to set my alarm.
I refused to regret Griffin. Kicking off my new life in Quincy with a hot and wild night seemed a little bit like fate.
Serendipity.
Maybe on his next trip through town, we’d bump into each other. But if not, well . . . I didn’t have time for the distraction of a man.
Especially not today.
“Oh, God. Please don’t let me be late.” I rifled through a suitcase, finding a pair of dark-wash jeans.
Pops had told me specifically not to show up at the station looking fancy.
The jeans were slightly wrinkled but there was no time to find whatever box had stolen my iron. Besides, an iron meant fancy. The simple white tee I found next was also wrinkled, so I dug for my favorite black blazer to hide the worst offenders. Then I hopped into my favorite black boots with the chunky heels before jogging for the door, swiping up my purse from where I’d dumped it on the living room floor.
The sun was shining. The air was clean. The sky was blue. And I had no time to appreciate a minute of my first Quincy, Montana, morning as I ran to the Durango parked in my driveway.
I slid behind the wheel, started the engine and cursed again at the clock on the dash. Eight-oh-two. “I’m late.”
Thankfully, Quincy wasn’t Bozeman and the drive from one side of town to the police station on the other took exactly six minutes. I pulled into the lot and parked next to a familiar blue Bronco and let myself take a single deep breath.
I can do this job.
Then I got out of my car and walked to the station’s front door, hoping with every step I looked okay.
One disdaining look from the officer stationed behind a glass partition at the front desk and I knew I’d gotten it wrong. Shit.
His gray hair was cut short, high and tight in a military style. He looked me up and down, the wrinkles on his face deepening with a scowl. That glare likely had nothing to do with my outfit.
And everything to do with my last name.