Page 22 of Fool Moon First Aid

Suddenly, Eloise’s expression changes. She slaps the table, a dramatic gesture that’s all Eloise. Her eyes dart toward the car, wide with alarm. That’s my cue—danger or drama, here I come. I lurch forward too eagerly, pain shooting through my ribs as my binoculars clatter onto my foot, and I fumble for the taser in the glove box, its metal body cold and unyielding.

A tap on the window startles me.

I’m too slow. Busted.

I glance back at Eloise, who’s now in a full-blown argument with Mutton Chops. Her hands slice through the air, punctuating each heated word, her cheeks flushed with emotion.

“Ma’am.” Another knock, firmer this time.

Gulping down my panic, I press the button to roll down the window. “Officer, what a surprise on this lovely Saturday evening,” I say, my voice dripping with feigned cheerfulness.

He leans against the door, his shadow falling over me. His eyes, a deep shade of brown, scrutinize the taser in my hand, and he lets out a sigh that speaks volumes about his long night. “Is that a taser, miss?”

“Oh, this little thing?” I wave it, trying to seem nonchalant while internally cursing my luck. “Nope,” I say with an exaggerated pop, aiming for casual defiance.

He gives me a look that says he’s seen it all. I’m caught in the act, but I’m not about to fold. I’m far too stubborn for that.

“One more time, miss. Is that a taser?” His voice is calm and steady—the voice of someone who’s dealt with far too many wild nights.

“Look, officer, I’m practically a sitting duck here,” I blurt out, frustration lacing my words. “Broken ankle, broken ribs. I had a run-in with a rogue snow globe. I need some form of defense.” Accidently, I press the taser button, sending a brief, crackling arc into the air for emphasis. Oops.

“You’re going to end up zapping yourself,” he warns, just as the taser slips and lands in my lap. I freeze, thankful it doesn’t discharge. He continues, “We got a call about someone spying on a couple in a restaurant.”

Caught red-handed, I drop the façade. “See that woman?” I nod at Eloise. “She’s on a wild mate chase, and I’m here to make sure she doesn’t cross any lines and land in hot water.”

“He’s Lance,” the officer reveals, a hint of weariness in his voice. “He works in the station down the road. I don’t think he’s the type to cause trouble for your friend.”

“But can you really be sure of that?” I ask, clinging to a sliver of doubt, my gaze locked on his, searching for certainty.

He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes me. “I assure you that Lance won’t hurt your friend,” he says, his voice low and steady. He clears his throat, a hint of discomfort in his posture. “Also, he intercepted her date. He’s not who she came here to see.”

Disappointment curls in my stomach. “Sir, can I call you sir? That’s pretty clever, and a bit underhanded.”

“When you’re dealing with vampires on the prowl for mortal women, you have to be a step ahead,” he murmurs, the weight of his duty etched in the lines of his face. “Are you Ava Martinez?”

“Nope,” I lie, batting my eyelashes with feigned innocence.

He gives me that look—the one where I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. “License plates belong to an Eloise Harper. She’s the assistant vet tech to Ava Martinez, right?”

“Some might call that stalking,” I retort, trying to keep the mood light.

“I’m an officer, not a stalker.”

“Tomato, tomato.” I slip up, saying it the same way twice, and feel my cheeks flush with a hot wave of embarrassment.

“Right.” He stands just as Eloise storms through the front door, her presence like a whirlwind of fury and exasperation. Her hair, usually so neat, is a wild cascade around her face.

My eyes zero in on the lone bag of takeout perched on a table—a tantalizing promise of relief. “Psst, Mutton Chops,” I whisper, throwing a hopeful glance his way. Oh, he can’t hear me either. This is all wishful psychic thinking. “Snag that food for me, will ya?” I ignore the tempest that is Eloise and keep my gaze fixed on Mutton Chops. When he finally scoops up the bag, I squeal. “Yes, bring it here. Mama is starving.”

Especially with the pain meds I swallowed earlier starting to do a number on my empty stomach.

“Ava,” Eloise snaps, her voice sharp as she flings open the driver’s door. She slides into the car with a force that echoes in the cramped space. “Do not talk to that man.” She slams the door shut, sealing us in a bubble of tension.

“Ms. Harper, I’d think twice about leaving,” the officer warns, his silhouette framed by the glow of the streetlights. “I’ll pull you over and book you.”

“I had no clue Mr. Undercover was crashing our party,” Eloise mutters, slapping the steering wheel in a burst of annoyance. She peels off her falsies, a move that’s both horrifying and hilarious. “Wasted my best lashes on him.”

“That’s just… No, El,” I groan, trying not to think about the eyelash graveyard now forming on her dashboard.

---