Page 12 of Avery's Hero

Uh oh. I know that voice.

My skin prickles as I glance up and find Chief Mitchell strolling across the tiled floor toward me.

Butterflies lift off in my belly making me inwardly curse. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Thank god, he’s dressed today. I can’t take looking at that perfect Adonis chest of his.

Only problem is he looks just as hot.

Holy smokes, does he look good! The cotton of his navy blue LCFD T-shirt hugs his big shoulders. Down below, he perfectly fills out the navy blue cotton canvas shorts he has on–from the thick bulge behind his zipper to the way the fabric clings to his muscular thighs.

Oh god. This is so not good.

In an instant, I catalog everything about him. I’m adetails girl. And Brock has all kinds of details. The kind a woman could look at for years.

His hair is just a little damp, making it darker. The smell of clean laundry and fresh soap surrounds him. The man smells good enough to lick. But I actually miss the natural heated smell of his skin from yesterday.

I try to pull my eyes away, but the edge of his Marine Corps tattoo is like a magnet peeking from beneath his sleeve.

Brock clears his throat.

So busted.

But I’ve done my work. Cataloged a thousand little data points about the man. He shoves a to-go cup at me.

“Hope you like cream and sugar.”

I take the tall, brown, paper cup. Whatever is inside smells divine. “Sure, that works. A girl can’t be picky when someone brings her coffee. Thanks.”

Then he surprises me.

“Truce,” he says as he eases a thigh onto the desk and deposits himself right in my line of view.

As I slip off the to-go lid, I say, “Coffee is a good place to start.”

The worry crease on his brow eases a little. “You know, I’ve been thinking about what happened.”

Trying to sound indifferent, I ask, “What part?”

I sure know what I’ve been thinking about and both halves of it are torture. It’s pretty much a downer to think about the way Brock touches me. But it’s even more of a downer thinking about losing my career over it. And then of course, there’s this whole messed up thing about a sudden case of panic attacks. Let’s just say my mood is as gloomy as a London morning.

Brock’s eyes are far too honed in on me when he says, “Ididn’t want you to think that just because I’m going to make you get an eval means you can’t work on the case. I’m sure you’re eager to do something besides cleaning and maintenance.”

I take a slow sip, processing the emotions I’m having over the whole situation. “I was hoping you’d say that. I gave this a lot of thought last night too.” A lot of other things too. “I understand your concern for safety.”

He visibly relaxes, the tension easing in his clean-shaven jaw. “Good. I’m glad you’re able to see my side.”

He nods toward the laptop on the corner of the desk. “Did Reeves get you all set up with passwords and such?”

“Yes, I got in and looked around at some files.”

“Good. Later, I’ll go over some things with you?—”

An ear splitting siren rattles the window. Brock instantly bolts off the desk. Two firefighters storm past the office door, heading toward the truck bays.

Brock shoots out the door like an arrow that’s been let go from a bow.

Clenching the arms of the chair, I fight the deeply rooted habit of sprinting to the truck bay. God help me. I can’t believe I have to sit here!

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