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there, even if he had no idea where they’d come from. Jesus. She’d ticketed him, about bankrupted him with her fines, and now she’d actually arrested him. Lusting after her was beyond stupid. Not to mention, the things he wanted to do to her and with her broke more than a few laws.
    He wanted the deputy sheriff.
    “My sisters call me Mercy,” she offered, undoubtedly to make him stop staring at her.
    “Mercy.” He tried the name on for size, and it fit. He liked it. Liked her .
    “You need a new hobby,” she said. “I’m asking you to get one. Please stop riding like a madman on my highway.”
    While granting all of Mercy’s requests topped his to-do list, the problem was that he couldn’t sleep at night, not until he was exhausted. Restlessness and insomnia weren’t crimes in and of themselves, but they sure were a pain in the butt. So he stayed on the move, spent his time fixing things and, when that didn’t work, he rode. He honestly wasn’t sure what the future held for him, although he loved jumping for Donovan Brothers, and it seemed like a good fit. He had other options though. He could head back to the Middle East as a contractor where he could make good money as a firefighter. But he also had his enlistment bonuses tucked away, which meant he could do more than own a couple of motorcycles he restored in his spare time in borrowed garage space. Strong needed a good mechanic, and he could be that man.
    In fact, it was wise to consider alternative career options, given Rio Donovan’s no getting arrested ultimatum. He’d blown that one. Talk fast and maybe he could avoid getting fired, because he’d miss the jumping if he lost the job. Swinging a Pulaski on the hotshot team didn’t give him the same adrenaline rush, and that was the truth.
    She pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office, parking neatly in her designated parking spot. Playtime was over.
    She sighed, got out of the car, and yanked open his door. “Get out.”
    Not his first choice, but undoubtedly his wisest. She had a gun, after all, and not budging wasn’t in his best interest. So he let her guide him out of the car and to his feet. If he was lucky, half of Strong wasn’t watching his moment of nonglory.
    “Turn around.” She hesitated. “Please.”
    That was unexpected. But hey, she’d asked nicely, and he was a nice guy. Sometimes. He turned and faced the car. Her fingers brushed against his wrists, and the cuffs disappeared.
    “I thought you were arresting me. Not that I’m complaining.”
    “Go away,” she said. “You just need to go away. Go home. Get your head screwed on straight. Stop messing with my life.”
    “No date?”
    “Go home,” she repeated with a sigh, and then she got back in car, shut the door and drove off.

2
    T he newly minted Smoking Hot Knitters, Strong’s brand-new knitting club, met every Wednesday night. Joining had not been one of Mercy’s best ideas. No matter how nice the other women were—and they were disgustingly nice and pleasant—she was the new gal who didn’t belong. Yet , she told herself. She’d wanted a way to fit in and to make girlfriends who could see beyond the uniform and the club would provide that. When people thought you were going to pull them over and ticket them for everything they did behind the wheel, it made things awkward in the social department. Since almost everyone drove to the Wednesday-night gathering, there were plenty of jokes about letting Mercy leave the parking lot first. She’d tried explaining that she was off duty, but it hadn’t seemed to help.
    The knitting club met at the local art gallery. She must have been ignorant, because she didn’t understand what the pictures on the wall were supposed to be. She squinted at the closest one. No luck. The canvas still looked like random swirls of red and orange to her, and she definitely didn’t have two thousand dollars to take it home and figure it out there. She’d have to stick with her