The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(11)

“Let’s not talk about my nighttime habits during official police business,” I tease, shoving the keys into the pocket of my red skinny jeans. I’m amused to see a blush creep up his neck. Interesting again, OHT. Maybe there’s some red-blooded man behind that altruism after all.

“To the police car,” I say, giddy despite my dedication to remaining aloof. And I wiggle my hips just a little extra as I jog down the stairs, just because I can. I smile a self-satisfied smile when he joins me and I see the neck blush still in evidence. That joy falters as I see what vehicle we’re walking toward.

“I thought you said this was police business?”

“I only drive a marked car for patrol. My car is a police car.” There’s a silent thankyouverymuch.

He opens the passenger door of a white Toyota Prius and helps me inside. First herbal tea, now this. If it were possible for this guy to be getting less and less my type, he’s doing it in a hurry. Worse than a Muggle, he’s a vanilla Muggle. An herbal-tea-drinking, Prius-driving, vanilla Muggle policeman with gorgeous eyes. I guess we all have our redeeming qualities.

“So what prompted the need for the comics?” I ask mostly to avoid sitting in silence. This car is really quiet.

“I got a piece of evidence back from forensics today, and something tells me that it’s more than coincidence. Trust me.”

“Cop’s intuition?”

“Something like that.”

I’d argue with him, but something inside me is enjoying this adventure, and I’m loath to cut it short, even if he’s dead wrong. Soon enough we’re hurtling with the speed of a turtle down the 110 toward downtown LA and Genius Comics.

We’re back to silence. “A Prius, huh?” I look around the neat interior. Like brand-new off-the-lot clean.

“I don’t actually think someone is running around in a cape,” he says, his eyes still on the road. “And yes. A Prius. It gets good gas mileage.”

“So does my bike,” I say, looking out the window. Palm trees whisk by, hazy in the strong summer sun.

“I’d love to bike to work, but I live too far out of the city. It’s not the distance but the traffic.”

“Oh, I drive when I need to. And yeah, that’s smart—I’ve seen a lot of wrecks where the bicyclist didn’t end up on the upside.”

“I thought you only had a bike?”

I shrug. “I wanted to see the inside of a cop car. I didn’t say I didn’t have a car. You drew your own conclusions.”

Rather than get angry, he laughs again. It’s infectious, and I find myself smiling back at him.

“So your boyfriend doesn’t mind you leaving with a strange person?”

“Ryan’s my roommate.” I glance at him to gauge his intention. “My corgi, Trogdor, is the love of my life.”

“You’re really something,” he says.

It doesn’t sound like an insult, so I accept it as a compliment.

Usually people say that to mean that I’m too much—too colorful, too passionate, too smart, too dramatic, too sarcastic. It’s what people say when they don’t know how to categorize me, as if I should just fit into the social box of a woman who wants a picket fence and two kids, just like my mom.

I know from my failed attempts at dating that even when people say they are okay with my dyed hair and career choice, they usually aren’t. After my last disastrous breakup, I decided I was going to stop letting other people’s expectations bring me down. I was going to be full-tilt me, come hell or high water. I’d colored my hair a bright pink, the most shocking color I could imagine for my mother, to signify my dedication to being nontraditional and never looked back. Instead of being intimidated, Matteo seems genuinely . . . charmed by my quirks. It’s been years since I’ve felt charming instead of like a spectacle. Charming is a nice change. Another two points for the detective.

I pause for a moment, surprised by my own next question. Officer Herbal Tea has intrigued me, which catches me off guard. I’m so used to fending off the overzealous comic-book-nerd attendees at con parties or actively avoiding the stuffy guys my mother tries to shove on me, it’s been years since I’ve even wanted to fish about a guy’s dating life. “How about you? Does your girlfriend know that you pick up strange women and drive them around in your car?”

His face remains passive. “I don’t usually follow up leads in this way, and”—he shoots a quick glance at me—“I don’t have a girlfriend to care that this one is a little . . . different. The case, that is. I live alone, I mean. I like the quiet.” Again the red blotches appear under his collar, giving away that maybe this line of questioning isn’t strictly business. I’m not willing to admit I enjoy getting a rise out of poor Officer Herbal Tea. And even if I do admit it, he’s going to look at these comics, decide he’s completely in left field, and go back to normal vanilla life. And I’ll go back to focusing on the green-light meeting that could mean my promotion instead of cute neck blushes. The trade-off doesn’t sound as good as it should.

I motion that he should take the next exit, even though he’s clearly been to my office before. I’m a terrible side-seat driver. “Living alone for the peace and quiet. Sounds charming. I bet you have stellar houseplants.”