Seconds - Freya Barker Page 0,2
she scans my information and hands it back. Then she tilts her head to the side as she takes me in.
“You need a haircut.”
I’m not sure whether to laugh or be offended at the random observation of a woman I don’t even know. A woman I, admittedly, observed through the window with some interest as she shut down the office earlier. Jackson Cole’s baby sister is well put-together, to put it mildly, and watching her isn’t exactly a hardship. I’m not quite sure what to make of her directness, but I opt to let go of the chuckle I’ve been trying to hold. A good call, as it turns out, because her mouth quirks up on one end in a sardonic smirk.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, sticking out her hand, which I easily swallow in mine. “That was rude. Blame it on nerves. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Reagan Cole.”
“Likewise, and I should be the one to apologize; I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”
I don’t notice I’ve been hanging onto her hand—which fits quite comfortably, folded in mine—until she pulls it back.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” she counters. “It’s been a long day and I was distracted trying to decide what to feed myself.”
As illustration, her stomach emits a loud rumble. Her eyes widen as she slaps both hands against her midsection.
I stifle the urge to invite her to Joe’s, where I’d intended to go for Mexican after dropping off my files. It’s all I could think of these past few days on the road, and sharing a meal with a beautiful woman would be a bonus, but Reagan isn’t just any woman. She’s Jackson’s kid sister, and I seem to recall there being a rule about not lusting after a buddy’s sister. I’m definitely lusting.
Instead of giving in to my urge, I take a step back and shove down my interest as I look into her hazel eyes.
“Don’t let me keep you. I should get in and finish up my paperwork. Nice meeting you.”
“You too.”
Determined not to let those pretty eyes or that silky voice tempt me, I turn away and let myself into the office.
Despite being bone-tired, I flick on the lights and make my way to my desk. Might as well get my notes typed up for Pooja to process on Monday and get this entire frustrating file over with. At least for now.
It’s my own damn fault; I should never have taken her case when she called me from jail six months ago. Krista Hardee, spoiled daughter of real estate mogul Oliver Hardee, and the woman I made the mistake of dating briefly three years ago. It hadn’t taken me long to find out she was more trouble than she was worth, which was evidenced by the length of time it took me to scrape her off.
Six months ago, she’d been charged on drug trafficking charges—wrongly, she claims—and she wanted me to bond her out. It seemed like a pretty safe bet, given her father’s substantial roots in the region. I frankly never considered she might jump bail.
Boy, was I wrong.
Took me a month to track her damn ass down to South Padre Island near Port Isabel, Texas. Took me another two and a half days hauling her back up here in my truck, with two decidedly unpleasant motel stays.
Fuck, was she a pain in the ass. Fought like a cat too, every chance she got. Even when I delivered her to the jail tonight, she managed to leave a mark on me.
I slip the paperwork in the folder, staple my notes to the cover for Pooja, and drop the file on her desk for Monday. For a moment, I consider going through the messages she left on my desk, but decide they’ll have to wait as well.
Instead of Joe’s—I might be asleep before my food is served—I end up hitting a drive-thru for a greasy burger I wolf down on my way home. After a quick shower, I throw my duffel and dirty clothes in the laundry room to deal with later, and roll into bed.
Yet instead of falling asleep right away, I lie awake for a while mulling over the case, but the last thing on my mind before I finally drift off is a pair of gorgeous hazel eyes.
Fuck.
Chapter Two
Reagan
I’m wearing a big smile when I walk into the office.
“I knew you had it in the bag,” Sally says, reading my expression correctly as she gets up from behind her desk. She throws her