The Feel Good Factor(3)

“Of course we are,” Becca shouts for the trio.

“Good job.”

I return my focus to Vanessa, but my gaze catches on the tangled-up couple again. Going at it still. “Sheesh. It’s close to eight minutes now. Don’t they need to come up for air?”

“Are you actually timing their PDA?”

“Hell yeah. This is impressive. I’m dying to know how long they can last. We’re talking serious stamina display right now.”

She laughs, flicking her chestnut hair off her shoulder. “I’ll require a full update later. I need to get back to the bowling alley.”

“Have fun with your balls.”

“You will literally never not enjoy saying that.”

I stare at the sky as if deep in thought then nod. “You’re right. I will never not.”

She turns on her heel, her cute polka-dot swing dress swishing as she heads off to the bowling alley. I resume my patrol around the center of Lucky Falls, strolling past the olive-tasting room where a peppy Trudy Lafferty waves and asks if I want to try the new kalamatas. “When I’m off duty, I’ll be buying a whole bucket,” I tell her, since I have a savory tooth the likes of which can rival any sweet one.

“You know your money’s no good here, Perri.”

“And you know I don’t take payola, even in the delectable form of kalamatas. You’re still going to have to pay your parking tickets.”

“I paid them! I’m turning over a new leaf. I only park legally now.”

“Excellent. Keep it up. And I will stop by later to buy the olives.”

As I turn the corner, Theresa Jansen pops out of the yarn store, grabs my arm, and whispers, “Got the new pink merino wool for you. Want it now?”

“Shh. Gotta maintain my street cred. I’ll grab it tomorrow.”

She gasps. “Oops. Sorry. I forgot. It’ll be our secret that you’re crafty.”

I mean, really. I can’t be the knitting cop. I’m already the face-painting one, and it’s enough of a challenge being one of the few ovary-owning police officers here.

I return to the town square, finding the bench couple still in the thick of it. The blonde in the sundress and her guy in pegged pants are on the cusp of a record—close to thirty minutes.

They’re on the cusp of something else too.

A ticket.

His hand rides up her thigh, slipping under the flowered skirt. I don’t page Vanessa because I don’t actually want this scene to escalate to the next level.

I march over to the lip-locked couple, clearing my throat.

But the ahem-ing doesn’t work.

They are two octopuses curled around each other, limbs circling every which way. His other hand—the one that’s not en route to the NSFW part of her—is threaded through her wavy hair. Her hands are . . . It’s like watching a game of Whac-A-Mole. One second, her hand is on his chest. The next second, his abs. Then it’s destination crotch.

I clear my throat infinitely louder. So loud I bet Trudy can hear it even over her usual four p.m. demonstration of picholines versus castelvetranos.

For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to want to kiss someone for this long, and in public. I furiously sift through my memory banks, trying to recall a kiss like this.

But I find zilch in the file of kisses past.

What would a man who could kiss me for hours even look like?

Out of nowhere, I picture dark scruff, chocolate-brown irises, hair that’s nearly black with a wild wave to it. Big hands, toned arms, and ink as far as the eye can see, caressing biceps and triceps and forearms, oh my.

Derek McBride.

The man I stopped the other day looked like he could kiss a woman senseless on a park bench.

Like he could kiss me senseless.

I blink away the thought since I have no time for relationships, nor any inclination to look him up. Plus, I have a job to do. Using my most serious voice, I say, “I’d say ‘Get a room,’ but what you really should do is tone down the level of tonsil hockey in the middle of the town square. Like, maybe go from the pros back to Triple A.”

She startles. He freezes. Miraculously, they detach their mouths from each other.

I expect twin spots of red on her cheeks, embarrassment in his eyes. Instead, all I see are two people tousled, frazzled, and turned the hell on.

Lucky fuckers.

“Oh, hey. Sorry.” She smooths her skirt, blinking back the haze in her eyes perhaps. “I guess we got carried away.”

“I’d say.”

“Sorry about that,” he breathes out heavily, shoveling a hand through his hair. “Uh. Wow.”

It’s like witnessing after-porn. “Just dial it down a notch. Or twelve.”

“Yeah, of course,” she says, her voice clearing as if she’s coming out of her fog. “We were just so into it.”

“Trouble is the whole town was about to see how into it you were.” I turn my glare on the guy. “Your hand was up her skirt in public. That’s on a fast track to lewd behavior.”

He cringes, but not as if he’s embarrassed. More like he’s surprised. He sits up straighter, rubs his palms on his jeans. “Are we going to be arrested?”

Nerves thread through the woman’s voice as she jumps in. “Because we were only practicing.”