Sweet Dreams (Colorado Mountain #2)(63)

“Captain, we can’t fool around in the hammock at the front of my Mom and Dad’s house with Mack and Carrie in the house,” I informed him as his lips and beard slid up the underside of my chin.

When they reached my mouth, he whispered, “Yeah, sucks.”

He was not wrong.

Suddenly his head came up and he looked over his shoulder.

I looked too, in time to see a police cruiser followed closely by a silver sedan coming around the bend and up my parent’s curving, gravel lane.

“What the f**k?” Tate murmured then I knew he saw what I saw and that was Brad driving the silver sedan. I knew this because he bit out a repeated, “What the f**k?”

Before I knew it we were both rolling out of the hammock and, with Tate firmly guiding our actions, I had a task of keeping my grape Kool-Aid safe. Tate grabbed my hand and dragged me around the tree and we both jumped up the two foot high side of the patio. Caroline and Mack came out of the house, Carrie still holding her tumbler, Mack had two cans of Coke in his hands. They both looked at Tate and me then they looked to the side of the house where the cruiser and the sedan were parking. We all met up and walked toward the side together but stopped when a uniformed policeman entered view and on his heels Brad followed.

Wonderful. Brad.

Again.

The policeman’s eyes scanned us all but they jerked back to Tate, got wide, he stutter stepped and then halted, staring bug-eyed at Tate like he would stare at a movie star he just happened to bump into on a farm in middle Indiana.

“You’re Tatum Jackson,” he whispered and I stared at him then swung my head to look at Tate thinking he must be a really good bounty hunter if a policeman four states away knew who he was.

“I know you?” Tate asked.

“Tatum…” Mack started, trailing off and my eyes moved to him to see he was looking at Tate like he hadn’t seen him before. “Shit,” Mack muttered, “I knew there was something familiar…” he trailed off again as Brad spoke up.

“Yes, that’s him!” he was pointing at Tate. “That’s the man who assaulted me in the Marriott!”

My head twisted around and it did it fast so I could glare at Brad.

“He did not assault you!” I snapped.

“He put his hands on me,” Brad leaned forward, “twice!”

I leaned forward too. “That’s because you forced your way into our room and put your hands on me and wouldn’t let me go even though I asked a million times!” I looked to the policeman and informed him, “And Tate didn’t put his hands on Brad. He only needed to use one hand.”

Caroline emitted a strangled giggle and Tate used one finger on one hand to hook one of my belt loops and pull me into his side.

I felt his lips at my ear when he ordered softly, “Quiet, Ace.”

The policeman was still staring at Tate.

Then he spoke. “Dude, when I was a kid, me and my Dad, shit, we were your biggest fans.”

Tate’s lips left my ear as he straightened and asked, “Come again?”

“My Dad’s Penn State alumni and he still says you were the best linebacker in the history of collegiate football,” the policeman stated. “He was so devastated he didn’t talk for a week when you blew out your knee that second game in for the Eagles.” He shook his head. “Seriously. That sucked, man.”

I felt my body go still.

“What’s this?” Caroline asked the question in my head.

“Holy f**k, Jesus, shit, you’re Tatum Jackson,” Mack whispered, definitely now looking at Tate like he’d never seen him before.

“What’s this about?” Brad clipped. “Why aren’t you taking him to the station or something?”

“Can I have your autograph?” the policeman asked Tate.

“What?” I whispered.

“What?” Brad shouted.

“No,” Tate said.

“It’s not for me, it’s for my Dad,” the policeman continued.

Brad threw up his hands. “This is ridiculous!”

Tate ignored Brad and spoke to the policeman. “Your Dad live in town?”

“Yeah,” the policeman answered.

“We’re havin’ lunch at The Station. Call him, tell him to come by, we’ll have a beer,” Tate offered.

“That would be awesome,” the policeman breathed then said louder, “Dad’ll freakin’ flip!”

“Excuse me, would you mind if we talk about the assault charge?” Brad asked sarcastically and the policeman’s body jerked and he looked at Brad.

Then he looked at me. “You Jackson’s woman?”

“Um…” I mumbled, uncertain of the appropriate response to that query.

“Yes,” Tate answered, not sounding uncertain in the slightest.

“You married to this guy?” the policeman jerked a thumb at Brad.

“They’re divorced,” Tate shared.

The policeman looked at Brad. “Statement said she was your wife.”

“Ex-wife, same thing,” Brad muttered.

“No,” Tate’s rough voice put in and Brad scowled at him, “it ain’t.”

“She says you forced entry into her and Jackson’s room, you do that?” the policeman asked Brad.