Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck

Chapter Seventeen

Hit by a truck. Hit by a truck. Hit by a truck. Buchanan’s words echoed in Swain’s mind as he brought the Bronco to a screeching halt in front of the brownstone bearing the address the police chief had given him. He took the steps two at a time, plowed through the outer door, slammed through the office door, and stalled in the waiting room long enough for the Grace Kelly ringer behind the window to point to the opposite door and say, “Exam room one, first door on your right.” Seconds later, he skidded into the room.

She sat on the table, upright, conscious—just as Buchanan had promised—surrounded by a dark-haired woman in a white coat and Mayor Buchanan. Eden’s hair tumbled around her face in wayward curls, the remnants of some fancy twist at the back of her head hanging by a couple stubborn hairpins. The white halter top she wore bore dirty black streaks along one side, and a nasty scrape covered her shoulder. As he watched, the pretty little doc placed a bandage over it—starkly white against her skin. A similar bandage already covered another point of impact high on her outer thigh, visible because she’d stripped down to black panties to allow the doc to treat the injury.

“Hey, Swain,” Eden said, sounding tired but reassuringly normal.

His revving pulse slowed enough for him to reply “Hey, choux,” with similar calm. Needing to touch her—to ease the bone-deep fear gripping him since Buchanan had called to tell him she’d been in an accident—he stepped closer. The doc stepped away, and he saw Eden held her right arm to her middle. A black Velcro splint encased her wrist from palm to mid-forearm with a cutout for her thumb. He reached over and, very gently, ran his fingertips along her knuckles. She looked up at him, eyes big and brimming with apology.

“You should see the other guy.”

“I heard the other guy was a truck. What’s the damage?”

“Grade-two wrist sprain. It looks worse than it is.”

He carefully threaded their fingers together. “Looks like it hurts.”

“Ibuprofen or acetaminophen will help with the pain,” the doe-eyed doctor said. “Whichever is your go-to. Keep your wrist immobile while it heals, and you should be good as new. That means wear the brace for five days, then pop in and let me take a look. Call or come in sooner if you experience significant swelling or bruising or your pain level spikes, okay?”

“Okay,” Eden agreed.

“Thank you,” he said, equal parts to the doc and to Ginny, since Buchanan had told him his wife had seen the accident, rushed over, and walked Eden to the doctor’s office with the help of Ed Pinkerton from the hardware store.

Ginny offered him a sympathetic smile and rubbed a hand down Eden’s back. “Why don’t Ellie and I step out—let you get dressed and on your way?”

“Thanks,” he said again as they left the room. Ellie shut the door behind her, and, at last, they were alone. He framed her face, lowered his, and placed a long, soft kiss on her lips. She sighed and sagged against him, and something in his chest stumbled. Resting his forehead against hers, he stared into her cloudy eyes. “I swear, Eden, Buchanan’s call took ten years off my life. At the risk of losing ten more, wanna tell me what happened?”

“Could I get dressed first?”

Christ, Swain. Get a grip. “Of course.” A quick scan of the exam room located black shorts folded on a molded plastic chair and a pair of black-and-white sandals tucked beneath. He grabbed the shorts, shook the fold out, and knelt at her feet.

“I can dress myself, Swain. I’ve been handling it on my own for about twenty years.”

He drew the shorts over her ankles, noticing for the first time that the soles of her feet were also worse for wear. “You can let me handle it, just this once.” Working the shorts above her knees, he stood, wrapped an arm around her waist, and eased her onto her feet without jostling her arm. Carefully, he tugged them over her hips, doing his best to avoid touching the injury, already visibly swollen beneath the bandage and bruised beyond the borders of the tape.

Hit by a truck. The what-ifs he’d been holding at bay for the last half hour ripped through him, making his hands shake when he wrestled her zipper up. It took a stabilizing breath to steady his hands and secure the button.

Embarrassed, but unable to help himself, he planted his palms on the table to either side of her hips, buried his face in her wild curls, and breathed deeply. Breathed in different shampoo and conditioner and whatever else they used at the salon, but beneath those disorienting fragrances was the unmistakable, alluring, and, right now, incredibly comforting scent of Eden.

Slim fingers slid up the back of his neck and into his hair. “I’m okay,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I know. Even so, choux, you’re gonna have to give me a minute. Just a minute.” Easing back, he touched a wayward curl by her cheek, and, because her eyes looked so patient, placed a kiss on that smooth, unharmed cheek, another on her often-stubborn chin, and a last, longer kiss on her soft, full lips. Feeling slightly more in control of himself, he stepped back. “I’m glad you’re okay. You ready to get out of here?”

Now she looked a little rattled, which satisfied him for reasons he couldn’t put his finger on, except to know he’d kept her guessing. She hadn’t expected tenderness from him. Maybe he hadn’t expected it from himself, either, but there it was. Her visible swallow pleased him, too, as did the speculative look in her wide eyes. “I’m ready.”

“Great.” He snagged her sandals from under the chair, knelt again, and slid one, then the other, onto her feet.

On their way out, he stopped at the waiting-room window to settle the bill, but the blond woman shook her head. “The bill’s covered.” To Eden, she explained, “There’s a very grateful mama who can’t thank you enough, and, since the little one you rescued is my niece, I’m very grateful, too. Taking care of the cost of treatment is the least we can do. If you wouldn’t mind keeping that confidential, though, my sister would appreciate it. She didn’t run it past her husband. They’ve got number four on the way and, consequently, he’s a bit tight with the funds just now.”

Now even more curious about the events leading up to his partner nearly being mowed over by a truck, he glanced at Eden and found her blushing.

“That’s really nice of you both,” she said, “but I have ins—”

“Much appreciated,” he interrupted, because Eden Brixton, rookie cop, had insurance, but Eden Braxton, soon-to-be Swain, wouldn’t. “We can definitely keep it confidential.”

The blonde smiled. “Wonderful. Eden, we’ll see you next week.”

When they were out on the sidewalk, he guided her to the Bronco.

“Oh, my car is parked across the street at the salon.”

“We’ll get it tomorrow.” Taking her arm, he helped her into the truck.

“I can drive.”

He walked around the front of the car and slid into the driver’s seat. Giving in to a need so bone-deep it couldn’t be denied, he leaned over, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. Slow. Deep. Grateful in a way he didn’t know existed until this moment. And because it threatened to overwhelm him, he eased back, twisted his mouth into what felt like a painfully brittle smile, and shifted gears to the job. “You can drive tomorrow. I’ll take the morning off from work to ferry you back into town to get your car. Just one more little thing to add to our financial squeeze.”

Her exasperation turned to suspicion. “You just want to sleep in.”

Either he was a damn good actor or she was letting him off easy. “Hell yes, I do. Getting up at the ass crack of dawn is not my idea of a fun cover.” He shot her a grin that felt slightly more authentic. “Especially when there’s a fairly spectacular ass crack right there in my bed.”

She laughed. “I don’t know how they do things down in N’awlins, but in the rest of the world, you don’t flatter a woman by complimenting her ass crack.”

He started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “Maybe I was referring to my ass crack? Yours is okay, I guess.”

More laughter flowed over him. “Too late, Swain. You’ve already claimed it’s one of your favorite parts. And, frankly, my ass crack is nothing short of spectacular. Just saying…”

Enjoying her, relieved to be bantering about ass cracks and not wondering how he was going to inhabit a world without her, he headed down Main Street, past the pristine, tree-lined town square, the historic fire station, and the even older courthouse that now served as the home of the Bluelick PD. He felt his smile fade at the visual reminder of the temporary nature of their partnership. Once this assignment ended, she’d go to her agency. He’d go to his. Maybe she’d use him for sex now and again, but eventually she’d move on.

Maybe not.

Whoa, Swain. Don’t get way over your skis. Just because she’s sleeping with you doesn’t mean she’s in for the long haul. Do you really see well-raised, Vanderbilt, number-one-in-class Eden Brixton settling for a swamp rat with a sketchy past, a dirtbag daddy, and a long history of manipulating others for gain?

No, he didn’t. Even if the manipulation happened on the right side of the law nowadays, it just didn’t mesh with the kind of person she was. In the long list of things about him she didn’t respect, she definitely didn’t respect that particular expertise. She didn’t trust it. Or him. Eden wouldn’t be with a man, long haul, unless he won her trust.

Winning people’s trust is your strong suit, right? So fucking win her trust.

A smile stretched his lips again. Could be this thing—whatever it was—was solidly in his wheelhouse. He looked at her. She caught him looking and returned his smile.

“Hungry, choux?”

She nodded. “I am, but I’m a wreck. I don’t feel like going anywhere.”

“That’s why God invented the drive-through. Pick your poison. We’ve got the Golden Arches, Frisch’s…uh, Sonic?”

They settled on burgers from Frisch’s and ate them in the car on the way home while she filled him in on the details of her near-death-by-beer-truck experience. Feeling lucky he still had her, he burned in a memory of Eden savoring a French fry, her face tilted toward the wind and corkscrew ringlets blowing back from her forehead. Right then, driving into the breeze with her happy beside him, it felt like a life. A good life. A real life.

Until he pulled into the driveway and hit the brake to avoid slamming into a black Honda.

“Are you okay?” He turned to Eden, concerned about the effects of the sudden stop on her wrist.

“I’m fine,” she replied quickly, touching her hand to his arm. “I’m good. This is good.”

Not by his estimate, he silently complained as he walked to the passenger side and helped her down from the Bronco. His plans for tonight involved getting a couple painkillers in her, helping her change into nightclothes, and coaxing her to sleep by any means necessary—no jostling allowed. His plans did not involve a visit from Numb and Numb-er.

But there they were, relaxing in the porch chairs, smoking—cigarettes, based on the smell—and sucking down sixteen-ounce cans of Monster. Briefly, he considered chasing them off, but Eden was right. An opportunity was an opportunity, and their job was to make the most of whatever came their way, not squander one because he wasn’t in the mood for work. With an arm draped around her, he took the steps. “Hey, guys. make yourselves at home.”

“Dude”—Dobie looked at them, round-eyed—“we heard what happened. It, like, freaked us out. We hauled ass over here to make sure our girl was still in one piece.”

Before he could growl “She’s not your girl,” Eden said, “I’m okay. You guys are the best friends a person could ask for, to come all this way just to check on me. You want to trade up to Blue Moon? I think we’ve got some in the fridge.”

“I’ll get it.” God knows he needed a beer. He held the screen door open with a shoulder and unlocked the front door, then waited, expecting Eden to come through, as she no doubt wanted to change out of her road-stained clothes, but instead she carefully lowered herself into one of the chairs around the firepit. He caught her small wince when her hip connected with the seat and nearly reconsidered his decision not to chase them off. But she smoothed her expression into a smile and aimed it his way. “Thanks, sweetie.”

“Yeah,” Kenny interjected. “Thanks, sweetie.”

He rolled his eyes and let the screen door slam behind him but left the solid door open so he could listen in while he got Advil and water for Eden, plus three beers. She regaled them with an abridged version of the incident, and the boys responded with suitable shock and awe.

By the time he banged back out onto the porch like some kind of cross between a barmaid and a nurse, Dobie was staring at Eden with his lovestruck expression, saying, “Wow. You’re, like, a real hero.”

He passed Kenny and Dobie beers, put one on the armrest of his own chair, and then put the water bottle on Eden’s armrest and knelt beside her. He opened his palm to reveal two painkillers. “Yeah.” He brushed a hand over her forehead. “A hero with a broken wing.”

She smiled her thanks and downed the tablets. Satisfied for the moment, he slid into his chair, stretched out his legs, and downed a serious swallow of beer. Then he reached across the space between their chairs and took Eden’s uninjured hand. “Unfortunately, choux, heroism comes at a cost.