“Might be a slow leak. If you give me your keys, I can change it for you and take it to the auto shop to be fixed.”

If Suzanne’s muse hadn’t already fixated on a surly rancher, she might very well have swooned at this small-town hospitality. She couldn’t imagine a cop in New York offering to change her tire.

“Slow day, Officer?” Winona dug some more. “No bad guys to catch?”

He shot her a tight, aloof smile. “Bad guys fear me,” he said with a confidence that bordered on arrogance but, Suzanne had to admit, was kinda hot. He held out his hand to her. “Keys, ma’am?”

“And what makes you think she can’t change her own damn tire?” Winona inquired, arching her brow.

Suzanne had never changed a tire in her life. She definitely did not want to change this one, and she didn’t care how un-feminist that made her. But Winona was on a roll, and Suzanne knew better than to interrupt.

“I don’t know whether you got the memo or not, but women are perfectly capable of”—Winona lowered her voice and leaned closer to him—“looking after themselves.”

“Yes. Thank you.” The angle of his jaw went white as it tightened. “I’ve been on your website.”

Winona’s face lit up. “Really?” she purred.

“There was a pornography complaint.” He smiled, obviously enjoying himself. “Just doing my job…ma’am.”

Suzanne had never seen Winona speechless until now. For a second, her mouth just hung open before she laughed. “A pornography complaint? I hope you dismissed it.”

“The Credence Police Department investigates all complaints thoroughly.”

He sounded like a public service announcement, but Winona clearly had his measure. “I hope it was educational.”

Suzanne swore she saw the faint twitch of Arlo’s lips before he turned back to her and the original reason for his stopping. “Keys, ma’am?”

Fishing around in her bag, Suzanne handed them over. “Thank you, Officer.”

Arlo’s hand closed around them. “Ma’am,” he said and took his leave.

Suzanne watched him go. Officer Hottie’s back view was as delectable as the front. So why was it Joshua Grady’s ass and how soon she might be able to see it again, the only thing she was thinking about right now?

Chapter Three

Suzanne woke the next morning from a night of disturbingly vivid dreams about her new neighbor and the compulsion to paint riding her hard. Normally her day didn’t start until nine or ten and involved a lot of lazing with coffee and her favorite blueberry bagels, then a leisurely Uber to the loft studio her parents had bought for her in Greenwich. She painted until the light faded, then went home.

Next day the same. Rinse and repeat.

A commissioned piece of art could take her anywhere from a week to three months to complete, depending on the size and the purpose of the project, because Suzanne was damn good at what she did. She was careful and methodical, taking pride in every brushstroke, every color match, every subtle nuance of the original work.