Elizabeth Hart enjoys her high-powered job and her lakeside home but is tired of Officer Andrew Baird's hands-off policy. A mere ten year age gap is no reason for refusing romance, is it?
As Andrew searches for the motive behind a young woman's death, Elizabeth carefully plots her revenge against the handsome man who treats her as a younger sister. By using Andrew's penchant for practical jokes against him, she learns how to pursue truth, justice, and the handsome cop next door.
A romantic mystery short from our Fingerprints line.
I stared at the police officer hanging upside down from my flagpole. He was suspended thirty feet over my head, adding a decorative touch to the massive shaft sprouting from my lawn. My flagpole would do a car dealership proud, standing forty feet tall and flying an American flag the size of my comforter. The pole had come with the house, along with shag carpeting, a moldy odor, and a gorgeous view of Beadle Lake. I‘d rented the house for the view.
The house also came with a handsome neighbor, Officer Andrew Baird. On the positive side, I liked living next to a cop. If anyone broke into my home, my screams would be heard by a state-certified sniper.
On the negative side, I was more likely to be the victim of a practical joke than a home invasion. I had, in fact, often been the victim of Andrew’s unique sense of humor.
My name is Elizabeth Hart, and I’m an assistant prosecuting attorney in Battle Creek, Michigan. Whenever my boss decides not to prosecute a case, I’m the one who suffers Andrew’s wrath. Last winter, pepper spray in the heating vents of my car forced me to bike to work for a week. My lawn still sported a frowny face from last summer, when, after I had allowed a rapist to plea down to battery, Andrew had illustrated his feelings by burning my grass with fertilizer.
I gazed up at him now, rubbing the kink in my neck with one hand. His helmet fell off, barely missing my shoulder before landing with a thump in the soft dirt around the pole. I jumped aside to avoid anything else that might drop, like 220 pounds of man and equipment.
“Watch it up there, copper,” I called, shielding my eyes from the harsh noon sun. Summer had finally arrived in Michigan, just in time for the Fourth of July. My flagpole’s big day was almost upon us, and I couldn’t raise a flag.
Andrew grinned, and my stomach lurched. Man, he was hot. He swung lazily from his rappelling harness, a pendulum of muscle and sinew.
“Come on down,” I coaxed. “I’ll make you lunch—egg salad, maybe?” He’d been up there for a half-hour, and my neck was getting stiff. I never tired of the view, however. Beadle Lake had nothing on the sight of Andrew dressed up in his battle-rattle.
He swung upright and released his belay. In an instant, he stood next to me at an awkward distance—too close for comfort, not close enough for snuggling. Not that we snuggled, because Andrew and I were just friends. His idea, not mine. The ten-year difference in our ages had him freaked out.
“It’s fixed. The rope was tangled.” His broad chest filled out his black t-shirt quite nicely. I resisted the urge to trace his pectorals.