Now, I’ve got a pissed-off recruit plotting my death from behind the most . . . I was only ironing out a few misgivings about him when Danika walked into my office uninvited last week. Next, Irish Annie Oakley shows up and makes me care a little too much about how I’ve classified Jack Garrett. Perhaps I’ve never been so anxious for a class of recruits to graduate, but can anyone blame me? They’ve challenged my patience and my sanity at every damn turn.įirst, Charlie loses his shit over the blonde chef who’s currently fussing over a bowl of pink frosting, turns into a wounded beast and almost blemishes his fledgling police record. No more passing her in the hallway or watching a bunch of twenty-something assholes eagerly volunteer to be her training partner. After that, my association with her will be over.
My job is to train this scrappy, little brat into a decent police officer. Refusing to acknowledge the stab of disappointment, I mentally repeat what I told myself on the drive over. One answer is clear: They didn’t soften her toward me. And I’ve spent way too much time over the last few hours wondering what they meant. My mind sure as hell didn’t fabricate those things.
The way she’s looking at me now, one might think I imagined that husky moan and the flutter of her eyelashes this afternoon. I certainly wasn’t hoping for anything different. It’s obvious I didn’t knock loose any of Silva’s hatred when I flipped her over on the mat today.
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