Silencing my phone, I shove it in the top drawer of my desk and glance at the stack of papers still waiting to be filed. I probably should’ve tackled that mess before the paperclips. My attention is drawn away from the dreaded task as Penelope clears her throat. I lift my head as she shoves a folder and an iPad in my direction.
“I see you’re hard at work,” she sneers, sarcastically.
This one is going to be a problem—I can just feel it.
“If you wouldn’t mind putting down the paperclips, we can get you into the system,” she continues, dropping the folder and iPad on top of my desk. “You’ll need to fill out these forms for payroll and I’m going to need to make a copy of your driver’s license.”
The ringing phone interrupts her tirade and she turns to answer it, leaving me with the paperwork. I briefly thumb through the pages before reaching into my jacket for my I.D. My hand closes around the ball of tickets and I throw them on the table. Instead of reaching back into my pocket for my license, I let my gaze linger on the tickets for a moment.
Being a glutton for punishment, my treacherous mind wanders back to the hunky cop with the killer arms. It’s a real shame he was such an asshole. I mean, a clean-cut guy with arms like his. His ass was nothing to sneeze at either and let me not forget those expressive eyes and slicked back hair. He had so much going for him. I could probably even get over his beliefs in ridiculous Italian superstitions, but his profession was a big red flag. Cops and I don’t jive, mainly because of my father and while I’m ready to break ties from the Corrupt Hellraisers, I’m not looking to stick it to my old man for a quick roll in the hay with a man who carries a badge.
That’s a hard pass.
Pushing all thoughts of Officer Pirelli to the back of my head, I pull out my I.D. case, only to discover my driver’s license is missing. Figuring I must’ve shoved it into one of my pockets in a haste to get to work, I pat them down. Penelope reemerges and rolls her eyes dramatically.
“Are you kidding me? You didn’t even touch the forms.”
“I can’t find my license,” I hiss, slightly panicking. I dump the contents of my pockets onto the desk and filter through everything. “Maybe it’s in one of my saddlebags,” I say, more to myself than to Penelope.
“Is that a designer? Like Gucci or Dior.”
I lift my head and my jaw goes slack as I stare at her in disbelief.
She can’t be serious.
Before I can explain what the fuck a saddlebag is or even decide if I want to entertain her with a response at all, the phone rings again at the reception desk and the handbag connoisseur rushes to answer it. I take off toward the elevators. Reaching them, I punch the button and glance over my shoulder at Penelope.
“If Soraya asks, I went to the parking garage to see about my license,” I tell her, but she dismisses me with a wave and continues with her phone conversation. I stare at her for a beat, still trying to process the fact she thought a saddlebag was a designer handbag.
The elevator dings behind me, signaling the doors are about to open and I tear my eyes away from the clueless receptionist. Spinning around, I collide with something hard. Strong hands grip my waist, steadying me, and I lift my chin to apologize to whoever I’ve just barreled into. However, the words die on my tongue as I stare up at Mr. Tall, Dark, & Handsome, also known as the hunky cop. That hard thing I bumped into—that would be his chest.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I hiss in disbelief.
What the fuck are the odds?
Chapter Three
Marco
“You!” the sexy as fuck brunette shrieks as she pokes a finger against my chest. For a split second her eyes flit to where she touches me and a look of shock wears on her pretty features. It’s fleeting though, because in a flash those brown eyes come back to mine and a scowl finds her face.
Antonia DeLuca.
I don’t usually make a habit of remembering the names of every bad driver I pull over, but this one left an impression. I don’t know if it’s the eyes that drew me in or her full lips that seem to always be frowning. Maybe it’s the mane of wild curls that I’ve spent the better part of my morning wondering what they’d feel like wrapped around my fist as I bend her over her bike—which, by the way, is a work of art. It’s a goddamn shame she doesn’t know how the fuck to drive it.
It isn’t until she shoves my hands away hastily that I realize I’m still firmly gripping her hips. She lifts her chin and glares at me with fury.
Fuck that’s hot too.
“What are you doing here? Are you following me?” she snaps, narrowing her chocolate-colored eyes into tiny, narrow slits.
“Following you?” I scoff, unable to hide the smirk. Curly Sue may be nice to look at, and I’m guessing by the steam rolling off her, she’s probably a real good time in the sack too. The high-strung ones usually are. It’s all that anger and bad energy, it makes for fantastic sex. But the day I follow any woman around is the day my dick falls off.
“I know your kind,” she sneers, pointing a finger at me again. This time she’s careful to avoid touching me. “You think that badge makes you high and mighty, but I have no problem filing harassment charges against you.”
Being a cop wasn’t my first pick when it came to choosing a career—hell, it wasn’t even my second. I used to bitch about my mother to anyone who would listen. See, growing up, she was strict, and her favorite pastime seemed to be busting my balls. At fourteen she made me get a paper route and sick and all, she made sure I delivered those newspapers every Sunday. Carmella Pirelli wasn’t raising no bum. She was an old school Italian American woman, and if it wasn’t for her insisting I take every city test, I’d likely be sleeping until four in the afternoon on her couch that she still keeps covered in plastic.
I paid the registration fees and took the tests for the police department, the fire department—even sanitation—all just to shut her up. It wasn’t until I lost my job in construction that I finally had an appreciation for my ma’s efforts. The academy called me five days after I cashed my last unemployment check, and I learned a valuable lesson.
Life doesn’t always go according to plan. Take the fucking insurance policy.
The NYPD was my insurance policy and so, yeah, being a cop wasn’t a lifelong dream of mine, but it’s still very much a part of who I am. I bleed blue and I take offense to Curly Sue insinuating I use my badge for any reason other than to protect the citizens of New York. Alright, so I may have picked up a girl or two by telling them I had a pair of handcuffs in my back pocket, but for the most part, I’m all about catching the bad guys and of course, the occasional reckless driver.
“Is that what you cops do? Pull women over, get their credentials and stalk them at their place of employment after handing them a stack of tickets? There’s gotta be a better way for you to get laid. Another method, perhaps. You know, one a little less creepy and that doesn’t make you come off as a giant asshole.”
Hot with a dash crazy—just how I like ‘em.
“Wait a minute, let me get this straight. You think I pulled you over to get you in my bed?” I ask, mildly amused.