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weapon. He assumed she had one. As far as he knew, all Portland police officers did. Where did she carry it? He’d never seen her with a purse, only that leather case. Those form-fitting trousers she seemed to favor would show the outline if she wore it there. And he’d never seen her wear a shoulder holster. Although thinking about a shoulder holster nestled against those breasts he’d had pressed against him made him almost wish he were an inanimate leather strap.
    She had a fine, fine body and looked like she worked out to keep it that way. Then he remembered what he’d discovered when he’d Googled her. She played basketball. He’d have to find out when she played so he could watch.
Please, God, let the team uniform be short shorts and a tight tank top, not that baggy shit everyone seems to wear on a basketball court these days. And while you’re at it, God, turn up the heat in the gym so she sweats. I want to see the sheen of sweat on her neck and chest, like it would be if she were under me in bed, her body arched against mine …
    Holy hell, he didn’t need to add yet another lascivious image of her to the ones he already carried around in his head. He forced himself to go back to wondering why she didn’t carry a weapon all the time. It seemed a safer topic to think about. Plus, if he thought much more about her sweaty body he’d have to work on getting rid of one hell of a hard-on before he could walk in the house.
    But it didn’t help to change the PowerPoint he was playing in his head. Instead of thinking about what kind of weapon she carried, he started thinking about how she smelled. He didn’t know how he got there from thinking about a Glock. He just did.
    She smelled citrusy. Maybe lemon. Or lime. Clean and crisp. He wondered if it was some kind of shampoo. If he could smell her hair again, he’d know for sure. He wanted to feel it between his fingers, and brush those cute little bangs back from her forehead again, the way he had when he’d kissed her there. Or tangle his fingers in the back where her hair overlapped her collar. She didn’t seem like one of those women who would hate having her hair mussed up. She wouldn’t mind if a man — though it would take the right man, he was sure — messed with it.
    It didn’t look like she fussed with her hair or with makeup either. That first morning she’d had lipstick on. Today, nothing. But then, she’d been working for seventy-two hours straight. Not that she needed makeup. Even without sleep the woman was fucking beautiful. In addition to the body, the eyes, and a mouth he’d like to kiss forever, there was a glow to her, a confidence, which gave her a beauty mere looks couldn’t begin to match. It was the way she held herself, the self-assured way she walked, talked, asserted herself. She knew who she was and what she was about and that was sexy as hell.
    He’d wanted to ask her to dinner or drinks or something since that first morning but he’d hesitated to make a move, not sure if she’d be receptive. But that catch in her breath when he was buckling her seat belt was a tell. Even after working for three days straight, her body had responded when he’d accidently brushed the back of his hand across her breast. Her nipples had come to hard points he could see poking through her blouse. Not that he’d been immune. He hoped like hell she hadn’t seen the erection that had appeared with the suddenness and intensity of the sixteen-year-old horny kid he used to be not the thirty-six year old he was now.
    And then there was the kiss.
    Oh, yeah. She was as interested as he was. He hadn’t imagined the spark that first morning when she’d mouthed off to him under the bridge.
    Then reality set in. Suppose she was like some of the others. Suppose she couldn’t deal with what had happened to him. Was he willing to put himself out there again? It had been almost a year. Suppose she turned away, disgusted?
    He sat in front of his townhouse