The Feel Good Factor(36)

I catch myself tensing, as I often do when I switch, braced for bad news. That’s, well, the reality of my job. But it’s relatively quiet, so I relax my shoulders with a sigh of relief. I finish my breakfast, then brush my teeth, dress in my uniform, and head to my car. As I hit the unlock button on the key fob, I hear the heavy thump of shoes.

I spin around. Derek’s mere feet away from me, in his blue work pants and a T-shirt with the number of his EMS unit on it, looking like he’s ready to perform CPR or bandage a wound. Because he is.

He mimes tipping his hat to me. “Morning, officer.”

“Morning, troublemaker.”

“You think I’m a troublemaker?” He scrubs a hand across the scruff on his face. That scruff. That lucky scruff.

I’m scruff-resistant though. I lift my chin and cross my arms. “I know you’re a troublemaker.”

His dark eyes twinkle with mischief, and his grin hints at exactly the kind of trouble he likes to make. “Is that so?” He comes closer, then closer still, until he’s inches away. His chest is dangerously near my arms. His lips are in my zone. My breath catches, and my senses do the salsa because he smells clean and freshly showered, and I sure do love that scent. I don’t think he wears cologne—it wouldn’t make sense for his job. But his unadorned scent works for my libido, because I love the natural soapy smell. I love it so much, I think I’m humming.

“Mmm.”

He gives a devilish grin. The most devilish grin. Then he quirks an eyebrow and leans in, dusting a kiss a centimeter, no, a millimeter, wait—a fraction of a millimeter from my cheek.

My hum turns into a traitorous moan.

He pulls back, his dark eyes full of naughty deeds.

I lean against the metal of the car and swallow, catching my breath.

He brushes the backs of his fingers along my jaw, and against my will, against my better judgment, I lean into the stroke of his hand, like a cat.

“You’re right,” he whispers. “You are excellent at resisting air kissing. Need to up my game.”

He winks and turns around.

One, two, three.

I recover speech. “You were toying with me?”

He glances back. “Of course, kitten. You threw down the gauntlet last night. And you should have expected nothing less.”

He strides out of the garage, heads to his bike in the driveway, and mounts it. Tugging the helmet on, he gives me one last knowing look, then peels away.

I’m still standing at my car, stupidly turned on from an air kiss on a Friday morning.





*



At work, Elias shows me his smoldering gaze.

Then he displays his bump and grind.

After that, he says he wants to demo what he calls the hippity-hop.

I raise my hand like I’m in school. “What on earth is a hippity-hop?”

“Picture me riding a pogo stick.”

“Do I have to?”

“Oh, c’mon. My viral video is going to be big.”

I’m at my desk tackling paperwork before I hit the streets. I wasn’t planning to be a dance judge.

But I sigh. “Fine. Do it.”

He jumps up and down as Jansen strolls by. “Nicholson, I hope you never defile my eyes again with that move.”

Elias’s face sinks. “Seriously, Chief? You don’t think I have game?”

“I’ll think you’ll have game when you do this.” Chief stops, shimmies his hips, then adds in a snap of his finger.

Holy smokes. My boss can dance. “Chief, you need to be in the video with Nicholson.”

Jansen smiles and winks. “If you’re doing a viral video, you need to have the right moves.”

I laugh, look at Elias, and point to the boss. “Evidently, he knows what they are.”

Jansen claps Elias on the shoulder and shows him a few dance moves, and I smile at first, but then a new emotion digs into me. Worry. Is Elias a better contender for the job? Is this dance video going to seal the deal for him? More importantly, am I a fool for thinking a kissing contest has any bearing on a promotion?

I answer the question for myself. The contest is simply a fun thing to do, a bet with friends, and a chance to raise money for rescue workers.

I’m not going to win the promotion with a kiss. Puh-lease.

I’m a cop, not a performer.

I’m going to win it with work. Good old-fashioned, nose-to-the-grindstone work. I reroute my focus to the daily grind, making sure all my reports are spit-shined and polished, then spend a few extra minutes reviewing the jewelry store case.

Something nags at my brain, a potential suspect we didn’t consider seriously, and I mention it to the chief later in the day.

He scrubs a hand across his jaw. “That’s a possibility, Keating. That’s a damn fine thought. Keep looking into it.”

“I will, sir.”

I ignore the fact that he’s humming Elias’s hip-hop tune as I leave his office.





*



“And that’s how you have happy abs!” The declaration comes from the Pilates instructor, who’s vicious and cruel the next afternoon. In a nutshell, she’s everything I want a Pilates instructor to be.

“Thanks, Millie,” Vanessa says, and I add my thanks too.