Author: Jill Shalvis

It was Sawyer’s turn to snort.

“Deep down,” Chloe said, sounding sure.

Maybe deep, deep, deep down, but Sawyer kind of doubted it.

“At least he’s around,” Chloe said softly. “And he visits with you.” She shrugged. “So he’s a grumpy old fart. Life’s short, Sawyer. Sometimes you have to take what you can get and make it okay.”

With this deeply profound statement, Chloe bent over to load more paint onto her roller, pulled back her mask, and flashed him those black panties again, distracting him.

At some point, she put down her roller and went for that second bottle of wine. He doubted the alcohol was good for her asthma, but he’d be damned if he’d point that out. He’d drink the whole bottle himself first before pointing it out. “Before you open that, there’s beer in the fridge. I’m going to have one of those instead.”

She eyed him, a small mischievous smile tugging at her mouth. Had she seen through him? No telling with her. But she put down the bottle, leaving it unopened. “I’m a little bit of a lightweight anyway. Maybe I’ll share a beer with you.”

“Sure.” He got one out of the fridge and offered her the first sip. She passed it back, and he took a big gulp, watching her as she checked out his empty kitchen.

She hadn’t been kidding about being a light drinker. She suddenly wasn’t seeming all that steady on her feet after two and a half glasses of wine. But then again, he wasn’t all that steady himself after the two beers he’d had before she got here, then the lion’s share of the wine.

They moved back to the dining room to eye their handiwork.

“Huh,” she said, and rubbed at the streak of paint on her jaw.

“What?” He watched her shake her head as if having a private conversation with herself. She laughed.

So did he. Because two walls looked neat, smooth, and orderly.

His.

The other two walls, Chloe’s, had been painted in haphazard, uneven strokes utterly without pattern. “Your wall looks…off,” he said diplomatically.

“It’s your house. Your house’s crooked,” she said, gesturing to it as she blew a strand of hair from her face. She was paint-spattered and sweaty, and sexy as hell.

He smiled at her. “You’re crooked,” he said, and she burst out laughing, sliding to the floor in a puddle of mirth.

“Probably we shouldn’t be painting in your condition,” she finally managed, swiping her eyes.

“Your condition is worse than mine.”

“Says who?”

“I’m a cop. I know these things. And I know something else, too. We’re stopping painting now.”

“Yeah?” He heard her breath catch, and when she ran her gaze down his body, she wasn’t the only one.

“You have something else in mind, Sheriff?”

“Yeah.”

She stared up at him for a long moment, then reached for his beer. He pulled it out of reach, brought it to his lips, and tilted his head back to finish it off in two long swallows.

“Are you drunk?” she whispered.

“More tipsy than I’d like,” he whispered back. “You?”

“I don’t know.” Very carefully, she spread her arms. “Give me a sobriety test, Officer Hottie.”

He grinned. “Hottie?”

“Yes, but shh, don’t tell yourself that I think so. It’ll go to your head. What do I have to do to pass?”

“Walk a straight line.”

Affecting a model-on-the-catwalk strut, Chloe headed straight toward him and tripped over her own feet. “Whoops,” she said when he caught her up against him. Her eyes were glassy, and her lips were parted. Damp with exertion and warm to the touch, she was both heaven and hell.

Her hands went immediately to his ass, and damn if she didn’t cop a feel. “Sorry,” she murmured and gave him a squeeze. “I think I failed the test. You should handcuff me now.”

Sawyer would like that. He’d like to handcuff her to his bed and bury himself deep. “Chloe—”

“Uh-oh. Did I scare you off, Sheriff Hottie? Because I can stop talking now. Actually, I—”

He set a finger on her lips, and she smiled. “I talk a lot when I’m wasted,” she admitted, her lips brushing against the pad of his finger as she spoke.

“Only when you’re wasted?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to figure you out, is all.”

“What’s to figure?” he asked.

“Well, sometimes you’re like…the big bad wolf.”

“The big bad wolf.”

“Yeah. But then you go to Home Depot to save an old lady from her smoke alarm, and rescue a silly fair maiden from the mud springs, and catch a convenience store robber single-handedly.”

“I also paint houses.”

“See? You’re multitalented.” It took her three times to say the word.

He laughed and set her back on her own feet. “Okay, it’s time to get you some coffee. I have a coffeemaker somewhere…”

It’d been a housewarming present from Tara, actually. He’d never used it, preferring to stop by the inn for his coffee instead. He’d never really examined the reasoning for that too closely and didn’t stop to do so now either.

“No, not yet,” Chloe said, resisting. “I like being just a little buzzed. I don’t have bad dreams that way.” Turning away, she gathered the empty wine and beer bottles.

“What do you have bad dreams about?”

“Hmm?”

Sawyer stopped her, taking the bottles from her arms, carrying them to the recycling bin. Then he took her hands in his. “The dreams.”

“Oh,” Chloe said, peering at the walls they’d painted. “They’re silly, really. Not nightmares or terrifying or anything like that. They’re mostly annoying.” She pulled free and squatted before a bucket of paint and stared into the remains.

He crouched at her side. “Tell me.”

“Well, they start out differently.” She shrugged, and her sweater slipped off her shoulder again. “Sometimes I’m running and getting really tired. Or I’m in a car and almost out of gas. Or I’m on a plane that can’t take off…stuff like that. And I know I need to be somewhere, but something always gets in the way. The stupid thing is, in the dreams, I never really know where exactly I need to be, just that I’m late or I’m missing something or…” She shook her head. “I can’t explain it, but I wake up frustrated and angry. And feeling helpless.” She fell quiet and ran a finger through the paint. “Silly,” she whispered again.

“Doesn’t seem silly to me.” He pulled her back up to her feet, surprised when they both wobbled. She leaned against him with a dreamy little sigh, and he wasn’t sure if that was because he’d managed to catch them both or if she liked the grip she once again had on his ass. “Coffee,” he repeated, and they let go of each other.

Then he realized that he didn’t actually have any coffee to go in his coffeemaker. “I’ll call for another delivery.”

She bit her lower lip. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Why?”

“You can’t be seen by anyone.” She winced. “I sort of maybe just put paint on your ass. On purpose.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, you’re going to pay for it.”

“Uh-oh.” She looked both worried and intrigued. “What’s the punishment?”

Pretending to consider that, he stepped toward her and she stepped back, reaching the kitchen wall. Her hands slid behind her, covering her own ass. “I’m not into kinky stuff,” she said, then hesitated. “At least I don’t think I am. What did you have in mind?”

He smiled at her, and she let out a shaky breath.

“Get your inhaler, Chloe.”

She took a hit. Then she settled back against the wall again, looking up at him hopefully. “Ready.”

God, she was sweet. So sweet and so hot.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked breathlessly.

“Keep breathing. That’s your only job, got it?”

She nodded solemnly. “Got it.”

“Good.” He cupped her breasts in his hands, and she gasped. When his thumbs rubbed over her nipples, she let out a shaky moan, and her head thunked back against the wall. Slowly her legs gave out, and she slithered down to the floor. Somehow, they both ended up on their knees facing each other.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She smiled sheepishly. “I guess I just really liked that.”

He smiled. “You won’t in the morning.”

She broke the eye contact and looked down at herself, finding the two large painted handprints, one on each boob. “Hey, I borrowed this shirt from Tara! And when I say borrowed, I mean stole.” Reaching past him, she once again dipped her hand in the paint.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned.

“Take your medicine like a man, Sheriff.”

“Depends on where you’re going to put that hand.”

She palmed his erection and squeezed, and he let out a soft groan as her fingers did the walking. “Defacing personal property,” he managed.

They both looked down at the handprint she’d left on him.

“What’s the punishment for that?” she whispered.

“What’s with you and getting punished?”

She grinned. “I don’t know. I think it’s your handcuffs. I can’t stop thinking about them. Can I deface you some more?”

“Only if I get to return the favor.”

Again she grinned. “We are so drunk.”

“This is a true statement,” Sawyer said carefully, and she snorted, falling to her back right there on his floor. Staring up at the ceiling fan slowly swirling above them, she said, “We should keep painting.”