Soft Serve Sweetie (Plus Size Romance 2) by Lynn Cooper Page A

while taking one more swooping lick from the base of the cone to the tip of the creamy swirl.
    The sun was still at an awkward angle, and she couldn’t see a thing.  But she was certain the stop sign was just up ahead.  She gave the brakes a good solid tap but not soon enough or hard enough to keep her from plowing into the car in front of her.  On impact, her torso lurched forward, and she slammed face-first into her ice cream cone. 
    Ignoring the sticky sweetness covering her nose, lips and chin, she tossed the cone into an empty coffee cup on the console and struggled to free herself from the lap belt.  The shoulder harness was broken—vis-à-vis the reason she now had a face full of chocolate and vanilla swirl.  She had just gotten the belt loose, squirmed around to unstick her ample bottom from the seat and pushed open the door when a tall, dark and handsome police officer materialized in front of her.  He was hotter than the day was long, but somehow she managed to keep her thoughts trained on the accident.  She was worried the other driver might be injured.  Due to the intense brightness and positioning of the sun, she couldn’t see the other car without getting out and walking around to the front of her vehicle.
    The officer blocked her from passing, cocked his head to the side and gave her a quizzical look.
    Pulling herself up to her full five feet nine inches, Cherry blurted out, “Boy, you sure got here fast!  I mean I literally just rear-ended this poor person,” she said, pointing in the direction of the other car, “and already you’re on the scene.”
    “Are you serious, lady? I can see you’re a little out there, but this isn’t Star-Trek.  I didn’t just beam over from another planet.  I was already here.  I’m the poor person you rear-ended.”
    She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.  “Oh, my, God! Are you okay?” she asked, patting his shoulder.  In the process, she smeared his dark, navy shirt with the ice cream from her sticky fingers.
    “I’m fine.”  Holding his arm out, he examined the sleeve.  “But I can’t say the same for my uniform.”
    “Aw, crap! I’m so sorry, Officer—?”
    “Zane Barrett.  And for whom do I have the pleasure of writing this ticket?”
    “Cherry Mercer.”  Her voice broke, and tears filled her eyes.  Now that she was no longer fretting over anyone being injured, the seriousness of her situation hit her full force.  She had just rammed into the back of a police officer’s car. It was her fault.  Her insurance was likely to sky-rocket, and she still needed to make that darn bank deposit lest her boss really blow his top.  
    The hunky cop didn’t seem to notice her distress as he cleared his throat and held out his hand.  “I need your license, registration and proof of insurance, please.”
    Nodding, she turned back to her car.  As she leaned in toward the dash, she cursed.  Shit! Pete had yelled at her to hurry up with the deposit and had been insulting her all morning.  Feeling jumpy and nervous, she had left in a hurry.  She could see it in her mind’s eye now: her leather Michael Kors purse lying under the counter at the ice cream parlor.  It was her prized possession.  She had discovered the three-hundred dollar bag at a yard sale for only twenty bucks. Finding it had felt like winning the lottery. 
    Slowly turning back around to face the smoking-hot cop, Cherry said, “I seem to have left my purse at work.”
    He furrowed his brow.  “I see.  You’ll need to come with me then, Miss Mercer.”
    “But, wait! What about my car?”
    “I’ll radio for a wrecker to tow it out of the street.  In the meantime, you can make yourself at home in one of my holding cells.”
    “Wh—what?” she stammered.  “You’re putting me in jail? Why?”
    Her questions were abruptly brought to an end when he quickly settled her into the back seat of the patrol car and closed the door.
     
    LETTING OUT THE BREATH