Cop a Feel (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters) by Robyn Peterman Page B

coffee. It was time to talk.
    “What’s happening here?” I asked. “Who are you and what have you done with me?”
    “I’m Luke and you’re me before I found you.”
    “Come again?” I took a big swig of Coke and tried to decipher his riddle.
    “I wanted to, but you wouldn’t let me.” He grinned and I blushed. “Damn, you’re beautiful.”
    “Compliments will not get you back into my pants, but the truth might,” I said quietly.
    “Can you handle the truth?” His green eyes bored into mine and made me wonder if the truth was overrated.
    “I suppose we won’t know until you spill it.”
    His demeanor changed. I recognized the change. I lived by the same rules. He closed the human side and opened the cold agent side.
    “The reason I’m telling you this is complicated. Normally, well hell, there is no normally.” He laughed without humor and ran his hands through his hair. “I can tell you this because I’m getting out and you need to know.”
    That sounded ominous. Fuck.
    “How did you find out my name?”
    He raised an eyebrow. “That was the easiest part. You should never keep your ID in a false casing on your gun. I’ve known your name since the first time we were together.”
    Son of a bitch, I thought I was good . . . “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “That goes back to you being me before I met you.”
    “Cryptic much?” I snapped.
    “You’ll get it eventually,” he shot back lazily. “There were other reasons too. I needed to know who you were so I could find you again. There was no way in hell you were going to get away from me.”
    “Am I a job?” Please say no. Please say no.
    “No, you’re not a job, but one of my jobs had something to do with you.”
    What the hell did that mean? Wait. Fuck. He wanted me to make him real . . . He didn’t exist. He was tan and had lost weight. I hadn’t heard from him in three months . . . Mexico.
    “Did you see the actual body or just photos?”
    “Saw the body in the morgue, but saw photos of the crime scene,” he said, and got up from the table. The tension in his body was palpable and he tried to mask it by making toast. The utter incongruity of his action made me laugh. He turned on me and his green eyes narrowed to slits. “You think it’s funny that you almost died?”
    “No.” I swallowed the rest of my inappropriate laughter. “I think it’s funny that you’re making toast when you’d clearly like to spank me.”
    He said nothing and continued his toast making. He grabbed butter and peanut butter and jelly and honey from my fridge and cabinets. His movements were concise and angry.
    “So you’ve been in Mexico.”
    He nodded once and buttered the toast.
    “I’m sorry and thank you.”
    “I don’t want you to be sorry and I don’t want you to thank me. I want you out of this shit,” he snapped.
    “What in the hell are you talking about?” I stood up and attempted to keep my temper in check. Who did he think he was? My father?
    “You’re always going to be in danger,” he shouted. “You have a fine chance of dying every single fucking day.”
    “So does everyone,” I yelled back.
    “Your percentages are slightly higher.”
    I couldn’t really counter that one because he was correct. Up until now I’d never really thought about that very much, but Ass-hat Son of a Bitch Douchehole had me wanting things I’d never wanted before.
    “You ended it in Mexico, didn’t you?”
    “Does anything ever end?” he asked tiredly. I stared at him and waited for more. “We nailed the kingpins, but there are always more behind them.”
    “If someone comes after me, I’ll take them out.”
    “Goddammit, Candy, false bravado is going to land you six feet under.” He slammed his fist down on the counter and his toast became toast.
    I stared at the floor. He was right. I was losing my edge. When did that happen? How did it happen?
    “In their headquarters there were pictures of you with explicit instructions to carve