Anne Malcom

It set my whole body to stone.

“Hence my surprise at the brake lights with no real reason as to why you’re slowing down going into town at six in the morning,” he continued, obviously not noting my shock.

I found myself curious as to who gave him that scar and if I could get their address so I could send them a fruit basket or something.

Not that I could afford to send anyone anything, even a fruit basket.

“You?” I spluttered, finally finding my voice. “Of course.” I hit my palm on the steering wheel. “Of course, the universe isn’t done fucking with me. You’re the welcome brigade, here with the flashing lights, the faux small-town cop charm and the ability to give me a ticket I most definitely cannot afford.”

Giving attitude was not smart. I didn’t know how much Brody Adams had changed in a decade and a half, but I was guessing he wasn’t the kind of man who liked women with attitude. His empty ring finger told me that he hadn’t found a woman he liked enough—or was meek and subservient enough—to pull the trigger.

But in my mind, he was still the captain of the football team and one of the leaders of my torture brigade.

“I would definitely remember you if I was at my best when we met, which I obviously was not,” he continued, sounding friendly and apologetic.

“We didn’t have some drunken one-night stand,” I snapped, guessing at what he was alluding to.

“I know,” he replied. “I don’t do drunken one-night stands.” He had the gall to sound like he was some kind of decent guy who respected women. Too bad I had hard evidence to refute that fact.

“Oh, please,” I muttered.