Chapter 3: Cuffed by Love

That voice sent a chill down my spine, like hearing your mom use your full name in public—you just know you’re doomed.

I looked up and saw Ryan Jackson standing in the doorway like an avenging angel, police uniform crisp and his belt cinched tight around that unfairly narrow waist. Even in my panic, I couldn’t help but notice how ridiculously good he looked. Damn him.

He gave my tank top and mini skirt a long, hard stare, Adam’s apple bobbing. I saw a flash in his eyes—jealousy? Anger? Something else entirely?

Our eyes met, and I snatched my hand back behind me like a kid caught sneaking cookies.

“Honey, I... let me explain...” My voice cracked like a teenager’s. So much for trying to be cute.

“They all ordered, I didn’t...” Which was technically true, if you ignored my eager participation.

“I didn’t dare touch, didn’t even dare look...” Okay, that was a total lie.

Officer Rodriguez, badge gleaming, snickered:

“Sergeant Jackson, we have surveillance footage...” He was trying (and failing) to keep a straight face.

He handed over a police-issue iPad. I watched, mortified, as the screen replayed me ogling abs like a cartoon wolf. The heart eyes were especially flattering. When did they install 4K cameras in this place?

I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

Worse yet, Ryan hit pause. Of course he did.

He zoomed in on my hand reaching for the model’s abs. The photo was crystal clear. Thanks, technology.

“Miss Harper.” He rapped his knuckles on the screen, wedding ring clicking loudly in the suddenly silent room.

“Explain this.”

My knees nearly gave out. This was worse than being called to the principal’s office.

“Honey, listen! This was artistic appreciation. Like a museum! The Louvre has naked statues!”

Ryan’s jaw flexed, looking like he could bite through steel.

“Take her in.”

He stormed toward me, each step sounding like doom.

On our blind date, I’d fantasized about handcuffs. Be careful what you wish for.

Well, karma’s a bitch. I got my own pair of silver bracelets—just not the jewelry I’d hoped for.

---

The interrogation room at the precinct smelled like burnt coffee and broken dreams.

Ryan stared at my tank top like it had personally offended him. With a scowl, he took off his police jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It smelled like cedar and him—a scent I’d never forget.

I shrank in the metal chair, playing dead. Maybe he’d forget I existed.

“Name?”

“Your wife...” I batted my lashes, but my voice cracked again.

The pen hit the table with a thunk that made me jump.

Ryan loosened his collar—God help me, even when I’m in trouble, that’s hot—and barked:

“Be serious.”

I stared at his Adam’s apple, then mumbled:

“Emma Harper. Emma Grace Harper if you want the full thing.”

His face was stone:

“Motive?”

“Being neglected for thirty-two days. Thirty-two long, lonely, Netflix-filled days.”

I counted on my fingers, listing grievances like a seasoned prosecutor:

“Falling for a man who never comes home. Eating dinner alone. Talking to my houseplants because they’re the only ones listening...”

Officer Rodriguez in the corner started laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair. One officer tried to hide his laughter behind a coffee cup, but failed miserably.

Ryan shot a death glare that could freeze lava.

“Describe exactly what you did during the entire incident.”

“I didn’t do anything. Just had some juice...” The kind that comes in a fancy glass with a paper umbrella.

He tapped his wedding ring on the table—a warning.

“Lying to police is a crime.”

“Fine, I danced a little...” Okay, a lot. There may have been twerking.

“How did you dance? What happened?”

“Maybe I accidentally touched his abs...” Accidentally on purpose.

“How many times?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” I protested.

His face stayed serious, like we were talking about a homicide.

“Every detail must be documented. For the record.”

I caved:

“Two times? Three?” I honestly lost count after the mojitos.

Ryan’s face went a little green, his voice dangerously low:

“Exactly how many times?”

I dropped my gaze, cheeks flushing:

“I’m sorry, honey. I honestly don’t remember. The mojitos were strong.”

Several officers pressed their faces against the glass, eating popcorn from the vending machine.

“Ahem, Sergeant Jackson, according to protocol, we need to ask about specific contact areas—were they upper abs, middle abs, or lower abs?”

Ryan’s glare could kill.

“Don’t you have real work to do?”

“But you taught us this during training last week!”

A few fled, laughing. Others lingered, shouting about evidence collection and V-lines.

Rodriguez, still grinning, pulled out his phone:

“Sergeant, the squad chat’s blowing up. There’s a betting pool on whether you broke the response time record tonight.”

Ryan bodily lifted him out into the hall.

Rodriguez stuck his head back in:

“Emma, if you need ab appreciation, our squad’s got a calendar. Officer Martinez is Mr. July.”

“You want to sleep at the station tonight?” Ryan snapped.

Rodriguez grinned and vanished.

“Oh, Sergeant, don’t forget the pink family release form before you take Emma home.”

Ryan scrawled his signature like he was carving angry slashes, then pulled his jacket tighter around me, his hand lingering on the zipper.