“We’d rather not have any more tourists,” the policewoman said cheerfully, sounding less than apologetic. “They tend to make a mess of things around here.”

River didn’t have a good answer for that, and Officer Jonah had already turned his full attention to the bag of chips accompanying his sandwich.

“Carbs kill,” she told him with a snarl, turning on her heel. Easton moved to the side of the doorway, out of her way, which was smart because River was ready to walk right through him.

“Your town sucks,” she told Easton as she stomped past him. Since he’d been nice enough to hold a sign for her, she didn’t stick her tongue out at the giant of a man when he stretched out an arm to hold the door open for her.

“Only sometimes,” he replied with a wink.

• • •

Easton always had questionable taste in women. Which was why he found himself ignoring his original task and following her outside.

He had to give River credit. She was ballsy. Most people wouldn’t have been so willing to attack Easton’s truck in front of a police station, with him standing there, watching her in bemusement. Technically, River was only kicking at the tire with her foot, but still. Property destruction was property destruction. At least she was smart enough not to kick the squad car.

“Stupid…piece of…son of a…sandwich eater…”

Each kick was punctuated by an insult until she finally stood back and riffled through her purse.

“If you’re thinking of keying it, you might want to reconsider.” Easton leaned against the passenger side door, arms folded loosely over his chest. “I draw the line at actual damage.”

“I’m looking for my phone so I can report him. There has to be a jackass cop hotline for this county.”

With a chuckle, he shook his head. “I hate to break it to you, but they don’t tend to staff that too.”

“I hate your sandwich.”

Never had anyone said anything that random to him, and Easton had been on the top of Denali with people suffering from high altitude cerebral edemas.

“This one?”

“Yes.”

In that moment, Easton could have done a lot of things. Run screaming was one. Pump up his tire was another. Instead, he unwrapped the paper from his sandwich and offered half to her.

“Don’t hate the sandwich, hate the poor schmuck who had to be on the receiving end of your bad day.”

River sighed and gave up, slouching against the truck next to him. She accepted the sandwich.

“Bologna on wheat?” She peered down at the offering critically before taking a bite. “Dry? What kind of a monster are you?”

“Never really cared much for mustard.”