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I recognize this man-child smile. The one capable of turning the hardest, scariest enforcer into a big kid.

“Joey? Josiah Holmes?”

Fuck my life. He was a slumpy, nothing, short stack the last time we were together. Not much bigger than me, which I enjoyed because when I wore heels I was actually taller than someone. Now he’s all towering, beefy, and take it all off hot.

“I’m gonna run these. Sit tight and don’t make any sudden jerky movements.” He yanks the items from my hand.

“Joey? Come on, it’s me. I’m cold and headed to Sammy Lee’s. Can’t we let this one slide?” I blink my eyes, remembering how he never could tell me no when I turned on the charm.

His cheeky vigor falls to a thin pinched line. “Officer Holmes,” his voice lowers, turning jaded. “And I let nothing slide. Roads are too nasty for the speed you were driving.” The icy bite of his tone is worse than the blustering winter tundra surrounding me. He twists on his thick boot heel, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t watch those tight ass-cupping pants walk back to his car.

The frost continues when he returns, handing me a ticket and my documents. “Slow it down,” he warns. He pauses on his path away, turning those irritating glass-hidden eyes, which I want to slap off his face. “Welcome home, Preslee Carmichael,” he jeers. Cocking a one-sided smirk, he head bobs in that Southern gentlemanly way and walks to his car.

I spend the rest of the drive to Double V ranch pissed off. Angry at the insane circumstances that sent me running home, raging because my brother can’t be here for a few weeks, and irritated at Joey F*ing Holmes for not only ticketing me, but also pretending we meant nothing to each other and being delicious while he did it.

F*k my life and f*k Seven Mile Forge.

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