Page 2 of After Party

He just had to be crazy about the town’s biggest troublemaker, didn’t he?

It didn’t surprise him, exactly. Peyton was everything he was drawn to—sassy and smart and confident and full of life and energy. And very able to fill out a tiny leprechaun costume. He wasn’t sure he’d ever met a woman more comfortable in her skin. Peyton wasn’t without her faults and issues, of course, but she didn’t know the definition of self-conscious as far as he could tell.

She did, however, know the definition of commitment. And she was adamantly opposed to it.

Which meant that they were at an impasse. He wanted a relationship. She wanted booty calls. Hell, he wanted the sex too—more every damned time he saw her— but he wanted more. He’d told her that and he meant it. And Peyton needed at least one person in her life to tell her something important, mean it, and then stand by it. Even if it wasn’t what she thought she wanted to hear. Even if his entire being screamed that he was a dumbass whenever he was near her.

But he could be patient. Hell, he’dbeenpatient. Going on a year and a half now. She teased him, flirted with him, gave him tempting gifts, but he’d held out. No sex until she was willing to give afullrelationship a try.

And it was probably okay, considering he hadn’t quite figured out how to handle kissing her goodbye with a “have a good day, babe” in the morning and then locking her in the holding cell and writing her tickets at night. That could make things awkward at home.

A lot of her mischief was just that—fun and mostly harmless. And even when it wasn’t harmless, it was well-motivated. Like when she’d gotten into a fight and split a guy’s lip right after taking a baseball bat to his headlights and windshield because he’d bought the car with money he’d stolen from his girlfriend—a friend of Peyton’s.

Everyone knew that you didn’t mess with people Peyton Wells cared about. And the split lip had been the guy’s own fault. You don’t grab a woman who’s so pissed off that she’s willing to smash up your windshield in a very public parking lot with the town cop sitting only a hundred feet away.

Peyton Wells was a force of nature…and Scott didn’t want to change that. She was fierce and loyal and proud and fun and he wouldn’t have her any other way. So until she decided it was time to have a relationship that went beyond flavored massage oil—like the stuff she’d given him for Christmas—and chocolate body paint—like the stuff she’d given him for Valentine’s Day—he’d be content being there for her when she was in trouble and just absorbing the energy that seemed to pour off of her.

Or he’d try to be content with that anyway.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” Scott asked the group.

And where were Peyton’s girlfriends? It seemed like she was always looking out for them, but rarely did anyone have her back.

“We definitely have,” Peyton told him. She leaned in and put a hand on his forearm. “Wanna smell my breath?”

Hell yeah he did. He wanted to smell a lot more of her than her breath. He also wanted to take her mouth in a deep, wet kiss with lots of tongue andtastethe liquor on her.

Those kinds of thoughts had been alarming when they’d first started. But over the last several months he’d gotten used to them. He’d be an idiot if he didn’t want Peyton. And he was one of the smartest guys he knew.

“Are you all walking to your next destination in that case?” he asked, rather than leaning in for a sniff of her breath…and her neck…or the valley between her breasts.

“I’m the Designated Driver,” one of the guys piped up.

Scott finally turned his attention to the men. Matt Evans, the supposed DD, Nate Travers, and Chase Martin. All of whom were painted green. Clearly they’d been a part of the Shamrock Streak. Their shirts were all also green and saidI’m magically delicious,Drinks Well With OthersandThe leprechaun made me do it.Scott didn’t want to know if Peyton was the leprechaun.

“I’m going to have to test you,” Scott said to Matt.

Matt shrugged. “Okay by me.”

“But he’s not driving me,” Peyton said. “You want me to blow too, right?”

Dammit. Blowing into the Breathalyzer to test a person’s blood-alcohol level was casually referred to “blowing”. But, of course, from Peyton it didn’t sound casual. And he knew she knew it.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s go.”

He led all four of them all across the street to his car, his hand on Peyton’s elbow so that she wouldn’t stumble again. High heels and booze didn’t go well together, and frankly, he didn’t want the other guys helping keep her upright. It was stupid, but he was also pretty used to the possessiveness he felt toward her. It didn’t make sense, but it was real. The first time he’d ever grabbed her around the waist at a party and pulled her away from the girl she’d just slapped, he’d felt it. Protective—even though she’d started the fight—and possessive—even though he’d barely known her and she had been, in no way, his. Since then, he’d stopped wondering about it…and trying to fight it. There was nothing he could do to diminish the feeling and so he just lived with it. And tried not to let it show. Too much.

At the car, he gave Matt the test. He passed and Scott looked at Peyton. “You want to blow or not?”

“I’m always willing to blow for you, Officer Hansen.”

Scott’s whole body tightened, but he kept his expression firmly stoic. He held up the Breathalyzer.

“But I’m already pretty sure I shouldn’t drive,” she told him.

He nodded, grateful she was being smart about it. “So, are you going with them?”

“Well, I called my dad, but he and mom are in Langley at a party and are spending the night there. And it’s too late to call Hope.”

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