I knew that black truck.

I’d driven it once.

Oh Man.

My feet refused to move so I came to a complete standstill.

The very bane of my existence was here, who oddly was the same person who had a reoccurring starring role in all my fantasies, even the really dirty ones—­especially them.

Reece Anders was here, and I didn’t know if I was going to punch him in the nuts or kiss him.

Chapter 2

The driver’s door opened smoothly, and my heart—­my damn, traitorous bitch of a heart—­skipped a beat as a long denim-­clad leg appeared, along with flip-­flops with a tan leather thong. Why did I have to have a thing for guys who were ballsy enough to wear flip-­flops, because, oh dear, I really did think that was entirely sexy paired with faded jeans. Another leg appeared, and the door blocked the torso for a moment—­only a second. The door closed, and I got an eyeful of a worn Metallica shirt that did very little to hide a well-­defined, totally yummy-­in-­my-­tummy six-­pack. The shirt was practically mating with his stomach, clinging to each ripple. It was doing the same to his biceps, essentially taunting me.

That was it. The shirt was being a spiteful man-­bitch.

I dragged my gaze up over broad shoulders—­the kind of shoulders that could bear the brunt of the weight of the world, and had—­to his face. He was rocking some sexy black sunglasses, looking damn good doing so.

God, Reece looked great in casual clothes, panties-­on-­fire hot when he was wearing his police uniform, and when he was naked, he could seriously induce a visual orgasm.

And I’d seen him naked. Well, sort of. Okay, totally saw his goods, and they were goodie-­gumdrops kind of good.

Reece was classically handsome, the kind of guy with the bone structure that had my fingers itching to sketch—­angular cheekbones, full lips, and an honest-­to-­God jawline that could cut cheesecakes all day long. And he was a cop, serving and protecting, and there was just something entirely badass hot about that.

Unfortunately, I also hated him, absolutely loathed him. Ah, well, most of the time. Sometimes. Pretty much whenever I gazed upon his perfection and started lusting after him. Yeah, that’s when I hated him.

My girlie parts were feeling that vibe right now, meaning in this moment, I disliked him. So as I tightened my hand on the tote bag I carried, I popped out a hip like I’d seen Katie, a . . . well, odd friend of mine, do when she was about to deliver a verbal smackdown.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, and then promptly shivered—­shivered in the hundred-­degree temperature, because I hadn’t spoken to Reece in over eleven months. Well, not counting the words Fuck off, because I’d probably said that to him, oh, about four hundred times in the last eleven months, but whatever.

Dark brows shot up over the frame of the sunglasses. A moment passed and then he chuckled, as if what I said was the most amusing thing ever. “How about you actually say hi to me first?”