Chapter 6: The Memory Remains

Stacy Foxx didn’t do the car line. She was a walk-up mom.

Every weekday at 2:45 PM, she parked two blocks away on Laurel and made the walk with Mikal in the stroller. It was part exercise (as a former athlete, she was obsessive about exercise in any form), mostly preference though. The pickup lane was always a clotted stream of oversized SUVs and aggressively scheduled moms swiping at their phones with one hand while inching forward. Stacy avoided it unless it was raining. It just wasn’t her scene.

Today was breezy—cool in the shade, warm in the sun. She wore leggings, a loose cotton top, and a clip in her hair that she only halfway regretted. Mikal was ten months old and running hot in the seat—chunky thighs kicking, sunhat askew, pacifier clutched like a tiny hostage.

As she neared the school, her eyes scanned the usual mom clusters under the overhang, each group locked into its familiar configuration. She normally peeled off toward the edge of the pagoda and claimed her little slice of solitude under the young sycamore. It gave her a clean sightline to the school doors and a reasonable excuse not to get dragged into a Judith-led conversation about HOA paint compliance.

But today, she saw Maggie.

The woman stood about ten feet off the main cluster, hands tucked into the pockets of her zip-up hoodie, head angled slightly toward the doors. Civilian clothes—jeans, sneakers, nothing tactical. But Maggie always stood like a cop. Not obviously. Not aggressively. She probably was not even aware she was doing it. Just ... like someone who could handle herself and was often forced to prove it.

Stacy knew her name now. Maggie. She remembered it clearly from their early morning gym exchange a few days back. Maggie was always in the walk up group of moms on Mondays and Fridays. Sometimes Thursdays too. Always picking up the two kids: Katie and Christopher. Everyone knew those names. Everyone also knew the whole setup was weird.

Scott Dover was Katie’s dad. Maggie Winslow was Christopher’s mom. But they weren’t a couple. They lived together. Raised the kids together. But no ring, no relationship, no anything that made sense. And yet ... it worked. Somehow.

Stacy hesitated a beat, then angled the stroller in Maggie’s direction. She wasn’t part of the gossip circle, but she wasn’t above a polite hello. Maggie looked up as she approached, her expression unreadable but not unfriendly.

Stacy gave her a small smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Maggie replied, shifting her weight slightly but not moving her hands from her hoodie pockets.

It was nothing, really. Just a beat of eye contact. A subtle acknowledgment that they weren’t strangers anymore.

Nobody ever talked to Maggie out here. Stacy had noticed. The other moms didn’t ignore her, exactly—but they gave her space. Wide berth space. Not just because of the badge, but because Maggie didn’t invite small talk. She didn’t hover near the curb or compliment anyone’s diaper bag. She just showed up, picked up the kids, and left.

It made Stacy feel a little ... special. That she could walk up and say hi. That Maggie answered.

“Night off last night?” she asked. “You look too awake to have been on duty.”

Maggie gave a low chuckle. “The last of my RDOs,” she said. “My regular days off. Back to the grind tonight.” She looked down at the baby and smiled. She had a pretty smile, made prettier by its rarity. “What a cutie we have here.”

Stacy returned the smile. “His name is Mikal,” she said. “He’s ten months old tomorrow.”

“Well, hello, Michael,” Maggie said, leaning down to put her face closer. “How are you this fine morning? Out on the kid run with mommy?”

“His name is Mikal,” Stacy said automatically. It was something she had said at least once a day since he was born.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Maggie asked, the familiar look of confusion that came along with every explanation. People could be soooo dense.

“You said ‘Michael’,” she said. “It’s actually Mikal.” She spelled it out. “Emphasis on the first syllable.”

Maggie licked her lips briefly. “I see,” she said. “Thank you for correcting me.”

“It happens all the time,” Stacy said dismissively. “He looks like he likes you.”

“Kids love me,” she said. “Adults, maybe not so much.” She shrugged. “What can you do?”

“Are you going to the gym after work?” Stacy asked. Tuesday morning was her cardio day and maybe they could chat a little more if she was going to be there. There was something about this fit, attractive female cop that drew her. Of course it wasn’t that, her mind interjected. She wasn’t like that. But she was always on the lookout for a cute female friend.

“Not on Tuesday morning,” Maggie said. “I’m too drained after the first shift back. That’s my Chambers morning.”

“Chambers morning?”

“Yeah,” Maggie said, deadpan. “It’s kind of an official debrief session for those who work the morning watch.” She shrugged. “It’s therapeutic.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Stacy said. And she was sincere. Cops probably did need some kind of official peer therapy review. She had been a psychology major back in college. She never finished her degree—dropped out in her third year after her relationship with Preston Foxx III veered irreversibly toward marriage. That was what college had been for, after all, not for some stupid degree she had no intention of ever using.

They both smiled. A brief pause. Not awkward. Just enough.

“Well,” Stacy said, easing back a step, “I’ll let you hang. Nice to see you.”

“You too,” Maggie said.

Stacy walked back toward the tree line with a tiny skip of something she refused to name. She didn’t look back.

But she felt Maggie’s presence behind her. Solid. Quiet. Steady.

Stacy turned back toward the school doors and gave Mikal’s stroller a gentle bounce.

She settled into her usual corner under the sycamore and angled Mikal’s stroller to face the shade. Her heart was still tapping, not in panic, just in motion. Like it had something to say.

Across the pickup zone, she saw Judith and Samantha huddled in the far corner. Judith was speaking—low, animated, gesturing with one hand while the other clutched her oversized sunhat like she expected gale-force winds.

Samantha stood beside her, nodding here and there but not contributing much. She had a faint frown on her face, the kind you wore when someone was telling you a story you didn’t ask to hear.

Then Judith leaned in and said something short, sharp, and apparently juicy.

Samantha’s eyebrows jumped.

Gossip was always louder just before the bell.

She sensed them coming before she saw them. Judith’s clicky sandals on the pavement, Samantha’s quiet steps a beat behind.

Stacy stayed facing forward. There was no point pretending she hadn’t seen them—Judith never made a subtle approach.

“Stacy, darling,” Judith said, bright as a bell. “Look at you, all tucked away in your little treehouse corner.”

Stacy glanced up with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Hey.”

Samantha smiled too, looking vaguely apologetic. She was wearing a pale blue dress that flattered her in exactly the right ways—light makeup, good posture, hair soft and shiny. She looked really good. Like, noticeably good. Stacy didn’t mean that in a weird way. Just ... healthy. Glowing.

She looked like someone who was getting laid on the regular. And not lazy, marital-duty sex either. The good stuff. Fulfilling, smug-making, I-know-what-I’m-working-with sex.

Maybe things with her husband had improved. Stacy had heard the stories, of course—Judith gossip, originally traced back to Michelle Remington (who Samantha no longer spoke to—coincidence? Likely not). Something about chronic inattention. Samantha locked out emotionally and physically. Allegedly. But maybe that had changed.

Not her business.

They stood in an awkward triangle under the tree, Stacy still bouncing the stroller lightly, Judith looming like a well-dressed crow.

A few beats of small talk followed. Something about the weather. Something about Mikal’s sunhat. Judith offered a vaguely performative coo at the baby and then waved one hand dismissively, as if brushing away a fruit fly.

Then her tone shifted.

“We saw you talking to that female cop earlier,” Judith said, a little too casually.

She hit the word cop like it owed her money. Harsh emphasis, acidic undertone. As if the term itself left a bitter taste.

Stacy turned her head slightly. Not much. Just enough to signal she’d heard it.

Judith tilted her head and gave a too-sweet smile.

“She’s such a ... presence, isn’t she?”

Samantha said nothing. Just adjusted her purse strap and looked vaguely at the sidewalk.

Stacy kept her expression neutral.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’ve chatted before. I ran into her at the gym the other morning.”

Judith’s eyes lit up like Christmas had come early.

“Oh, how interesting,” she said, drawing the word out like she’d been handed a winning lottery ticket. “I had no idea she was the chatty type.”

Stacy kept her face neutral. “She’s really not,” she said. “It was just a quick hello.”

Judith tilted her head. “But you’ve talked before?”

Stacy gave a small, careful nod. “Like I said, I saw her at the gym. She was on the leg press, I was there for cardio—Tuesdays and Thursdays are my cardio days. We just talked for a minute.”

Judith’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what did you talk about?”

Stacy gave a small shrug. “The usual. Kids. Work schedules. She told me what hours she works. We joked a little about her schedule. She’s dry, but funny.”

Samantha still hadn’t said anything. She stood beside Judith, gazing vaguely toward the school doors like she hadn’t even registered the conversation. And, in fact, she hadn’t. Her mind was on Scott Dover. She would be getting together with him tomorrow. The last time he had eaten her pussy out, he had put a finger up her butthole. And it had felt really good. She was wondering if she had the guts (so to speak) to let him put something a little bigger up there.

Judith, meanwhile, looked like she was suppressing the urge to take out a notebook.

“Well,” she said finally, “that’s all very interesting.”

Stacy blinked. “It is?”

Because, as far as she was concerned, it absolutely wasn’t.

But Judith just smiled again—tight-lipped and pleased with herself. The wheels were already turning. You could see it.

“You know,” she said, voice low and conspiratorial, “some people are saying that Maggie Winslow might be a ... you know...”

“Uh ... no,” Stacy said. “I don’t know.” And she didn’t. There was no telling where Judith’s mind was coming from. One thing she did know however, was that when Judith said ‘some people are saying’, she was about to lay a Judith original on you. Passed on gossip originating with others, she started with ‘Michelle was telling me... ‘ or ‘Lynda was just talking about... ‘

Judith lowered her voice, as if she were about to speak the name of Voldemort in mixed company, and said, “A lesbian. Sammie and I were just talking about that very thing.”

The word hit the air with weight.

Stacy felt a strange little jolt deep in her belly. Not revulsion. Not fear. Just ... heat. A weird flicker of interest, like someone had flipped on a light in a room she was not supposed to be in. She shoved it down fast, mentally kicked it into the crawlspace.

I’m not that kind of woman.

It was reflex, well-practiced. Like bracing for a sneeze that never came.

Out loud, she said, “She doesn’t seem like a lesbian.”

Judith raised her eyebrows with delighted skepticism. “No?”

“She’s ... cute,” Stacy said, fumbling slightly. “She’s not the least bit masculine. And she doesn’t act like one.”

“What does a lesbian act like?” Judith asked, sweet as poison.

Stacy paused. She wasn’t sure. She’d never actually known anyone who was openly gay. At least not a woman. Not that she knew of. Still, Maggie didn’t fit the part—not that Stacy even knew what the part was.

“She just doesn’t strike me like that,” she finished lamely. “What makes ‘some people’ think she is?”

Judith gave a little nod, as if she’d expected this and was now thrilled to unveil her exhibit.

“Well,” she said, ticking off on her fingers, “she’s a cop, which is a known lesbian profession.”

“It is?”

“It is,” Judith confirmed. As if she was the supreme court and her word was literal law.

Samantha still hadn’t said a word. She stared off at the school doors, a faint crease in her brow. Her thoughts were still very far from the conversation. She was thinking that she would have Scott lube that beautiful cock of his up with baby oil and then just try to put it in her rear passage. Just the tip. Just to see if she might like the rest of it in there.

Judith continued. “She doesn’t date men. That’s the biggest thing. No one’s ever seen her with a man. And she doesn’t have that kind of relationship with that other so-called cop she lives with. We all know that.”

Stacy said nothing. Because yes, everyone did know that. And it was still strange. But not evidence of anything.

“And now,” Judith went on, “we hear from you that she goes to the gym in the mornings. When it’s mostly women there. Big groups of sweaty women all in yoga pants and tank tops. I mean, Stacy ... who else but a woman who likes other women that way would intentionally place herself in that environment?”

Stacy blinked. “I go to the gym in the mornings. And I’m not a lesbian.”

Judith gave her the warmest, most condescending smile imaginable.

“Of course not, dear,” she said, her voice full of mock reassurance. “You’re one of the women she goes there to ogle.”

Stacy opened her mouth. Closed it. She had nothing.

And Judith, smug and victorious, looked like she’d just solved a murder with a crossword puzzle. She gave a little sigh, like she’d just explained something very basic to someone very slow.

“I just think it’s worth keeping an eye on,” she said lightly. “That’s all.”

“You always do,” Stacy muttered.

Judith didn’t take offense. She never did. She just smiled, like someone who knew she’d already won the round.

Samantha still hadn’t said a word. Her hand was now absently toying with the edge of her purse strap, her gaze still fixed on the school doors. Her cheeks were faintly flushed.

“Everything okay, Sammie?” Stacy asked.

“Huh?” Samantha said, startled out of her little daydream. “Oh ... yes. Everything is just fine. Couldn’t be better.”

“I bet,” Judith said shrewdly, like she knew a secret about her neighbor. Samantha didn’t even seem to notice. And Stacy didn’t care.

They stood there in brittle silence for another moment, the triangle between them sharp and uneven.

Then came the sound.

Not the bell itself—but the lead wave. The rising rumble of footsteps, shrieks, laughter, and general chaos. The unmistakable sound of more than three hundred children just let free from their state-mandated prison.

The thunder of release.

Judith adjusted her sunhat. “Well,” she said, “let’s see how many of them remember where they left their backpacks.”

Stacy didn’t answer. She just kept her eyes on the doors, waiting for the first kid to break through.

The digital clock on Maggie’s dash read 7:05 when she pulled into the All-Times Fitness parking lot on Wednesday morning.

Late.

Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things—no one was waiting for her—but still. She had a routine, and today it was shot thanks to a bullshit Use of Force report that should’ve taken fifteen minutes and instead took forty-five.

Fucking tweakers.

Mendez and Dobbins had finally caught the pair that had been crawling under lifted pickups and sawing off catalytic converters all through Northwood for the past two weeks. They’d been working a proactive burglary patrol, just rolling quiet through the dark residentials, when they spotted the guy halfway under a Tacoma with a Sawzall. The lookout had been in a rusted Honda Civic idling a block away. He’d bolted the second he saw lights—made it about a mile before bailing on foot into one of those giant dirtbag complexes off Amador.

Maggie had gotten stuck on the southwest corner of the perimeter. Quiet sector. Boring assignment.

Until it wasn’t.

She spotted him trying to cruise past on someone’s stolen ten-speed, pedaling like he was out for a casual morning ride. Only problem—he didn’t know to shift out of high gear. When he tried to accelerate, the resistance slowed him just enough for Maggie to step off the curb, sprint straight at the dirtbag, and absolutely level his ass.

She hit him shoulder-first, took them both down hard, and ended up sprawled on top of him in the dirt, holding his arms pinned until backup arrived. Which, thankfully, took about thirty seconds. She ripped her uniform shirt in the process—right down the back seam—but otherwise came away unscathed.

The tweakster had even given her a compliment. Once he saw who had taken him down, he’d nodded respectfully to her. “That was some fuckin’ tackle, mama. You should play fuckin’ football. And If I’d a known you looked like that, I’d a gotten a fuckin’ chubby.”

“Try to think about it next time,” Maggie had told him.

He promised that he would.

Fuckin’ Northwood.

Still, the report was required. Use of force. Physical takedown. Suspect with known priors. No injuries, no complaint, but forms were forms.

And now she was late.

She pulled into her usual spot, popped the trunk, and locked her off-duty Glock in the mounted case. Cops didn’t advertise. She wasn’t one of those badge-on-a-lanyard assholes who wore department T-shirts to the grocery store. She looked like a regular woman when she was off-duty, and that was how she liked it.

Gym bag over her shoulder, ponytail already up, she walked in, nodded to the bored-looking early shift staffer at the desk, and made her way to the locker room.

Ten minutes later, she was dressed out—black leggings, gray racerback tank, running shoes, Bluetooth earbuds dangling around her neck.

Cardio day. She fucking hated cardio day.

But she still did it—two mornings a week, rain or shine, after shift. Keep the blood pumping, keep the lungs strong, stay in shape so you could tackle and pin fleeing tweakers on bicycles when it was required.

She stepped out onto the main floor and scanned for an open stair climber.

And that’s when she saw Stacy. Amazon MILF, dead ahead.

She was working shoulders on the seated overhead press, right next to Maggie’s usual leg station. Not unusual in and of itself—Stacy was apparently a gym regular. But the placement gave Maggie a pause. Right next to where I usually go?

Coincidence? Could be. But Maggie’s instincts usually weren’t wrong.

Didn’t matter. She was doing cardio anyway. But hell, she could say hi first. That wasn’t weird. They’d talked. They knew each other now. Kind of.

And Maggie liked looking at her.

She wasn’t into her. Not seriously. Her gaydar hadn’t twitched once. Stacy Foxx screamed “upper-middle-class hetero wife” in every way, shape, and form. Still—Maggie had a little bit of a girl crush on her. Just a mild one. Completely physical. The tall, toned frame. The clean ponytail. The adorable little titties hiding under that tasteful tank top.

Nothing would ever happen. But it was fun to think about.

She started walking that way.

Stacy looked up as she approached, and the smile that spread across her face wasn’t polite or performative—it was real. Warm. Pleased.

“Hey,” Stacy said, still holding the grips of the shoulder press.

“Hey,” Maggie said back, stopping just short of stepping into her space. “Working shoulders today?”

“Trying to keep the mom posture at bay,” Stacy said with a laugh. “I slouch when I’m holding Mikal too much.”

Maggie nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

There was a beat of shared gym noise—someone grunting two machines down, the faint thud of a dropped dumbbell, the whoosh of treadmill belts.

Maggie jerked her thumb back toward the row of cardio machines. “I’m on stair climber duty today.”

“Cardio day?” Stacy asked.

“Unfortunately.”

Stacy gave a little mock frown. “That’s too bad.”

And there it was—just the faintest flicker of disappointment. Not in the words. Not in the tone. But in the eyes. In the shift of her mouth, the way it pulled and then recovered just a second too late.

Maggie felt it. A tickle on the radar.

Gaydar ping: moderate strength. Not conclusive. But definitely not nothing.

She filed it away.

“I think my son has your name written down on something,” Maggie said. “Christopher said one of the class moms was a Mrs. Foxx. That you?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Stacy said with a grin. “No other moms have a name like a freaking porn star. And yes, it’s spelled with a double-x. That’s what I get for marrying a man named Preston Foxx the Third.”

Maggie blinked. “The Third?”

“You have to say it with a little bit of an English accent,” Stacy said. “And you have to draw out the r sound for a second or so. Preston Foxx ... the Thirrrrd.”

Maggie actually found herself giggling. I don’t fucking giggle! her cop persona shouted. What the fuck, Winslow? But sometimes her woman side got a word in edgewise. That was totally cute, it spoke up. And when was the last time we fucking giggled?

“You try,” Stacy said.

And, to her utter surprise, Maggie did. She did a pretty good job of it too. “Preston Foxx ... the Thirrrrd,” she said.

Both of them cracked up for a moment. Maggie felt a strong tug of attraction. And not on the physical level. This MILF was fucking cute. She made me giggle!

“Anyway,” Stacy said. “I hooked into him my junior year of college and never let go. He’s a junior investment banker now.”

Maggie gave a slow, almost sympathetic nod. “I don’t think I could marry a man named Preston Foxx. No matter how much I loved him.”

Stacy laughed. “It’s not for everyone.”

No, it’s not, Maggie thought. But I’m not into men, so maybe I just can’t relate.

There was another pause—short, but not awkward.

Stacy set her weights down. “Hey ... when you’re done with cardio, you want to grab a coffee or something?”

Maggie hesitated.

Her first instinct was to pass. She wanted to go home, take a shower, crash into bed for six hours, and then deal with the night shift. And she was not one to chit-chat with the local MILFs. But...

That flicker of something was still pinging faintly in her brain. Those smiles. That giggle. The laughter. That maybe-this-isn’t-nothing feeling.

Scott would be getting the kids to school. No need to rush.

“Yeah,” Maggie said. “That sounds cool.”

If nothing else, she thought, I get to look at her little titties and dream.

Maggie stepped into the house just shy of 9:30, her gym bag slung over one shoulder and a faint smile still ghosting her face.

She was later than usual—normally she’d be home, showered, and halfway unconscious by now. But today she’d stopped for coffee.

With Stacy.

It hadn’t been anything heavy. No more pings on the gaydar. Just ... pleasant. Easy. They’d talked about girl shit. Paint schemes. Furniture. Light fixtures. Even crown molding, of all things. Stacy had strong opinions about crown profiles, which Maggie had found oddly charming. She hadn’t asked much about Maggie’s job beyond the basic how-late-do-you-work stuff. No cop worship. No weird questions. No nervous jokes about handcuffs.

It had just been two women having coffee.

And Maggie had liked it.

She wasn’t trying to analyze it too deeply. She wasn’t one for new friends, especially not from the neighborhood MILF brigade. But Stacy Foxx was something different. A little tightly wound, yeah. But sharp. Funny. Honest. The kind of person you didn’t have to fake it with.

She might even do it again.

She shut the door behind her and dropped her keys into the bowl by the counter.

Scott was in the living room, sitting on the couch in jeans and a long-sleeved 49ers pullover. It was football season, and he wore team gear like some people wore church clothes. Quiet devotion, with just a hint of smugness.

His duty belt was laid out across the coffee table before him. His AR-15 rested along the armrest of the couch, magazine removed, action locked open. His red training mags—both pistol and rifle—were lined up on the coffee table, neatly separated from the live gear.

No ammo. All safe. All regulation. All Scott. And it all meant one thing. One thing she had forgotten about.

“Fuck me,” Maggie said aloud.

Scott glanced over, one eyebrow raised. “If I must,” he said, “but I’ll be late for the range.”

“Qualification,” she said, pointing at the rifle. “Pistol and long gun. Eleven o’clock.”

He nodded. “Yep. Twice a year for the forty cal. Once a year for the long gun. Just like you.”

She sighed. Loudly. “And I’m getting the kids today.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Everything okay? I can call out for my range day and reschedule if you need. I’m not up until late November.”

She dropped her bag and flopped into the recliner like she’d been shot.

She’d known about this for weeks. Had seen it on the schedule. Had even reminded Scott once, out loud. And then she’d turned around and gone to the gym and agreed to have coffee with the Amazon MILF. Stacy, she corrected herself. Her name’s Stacy. You’ve had coffee with her. She’s a person now.

She rubbed her face and muttered, “No. My stupid brainfart. You don’t need to suffer for it.”

“You’ll be able to do it?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll set my alarm. Show up to pick up the kids in my jeans with my hair in a ponytail. I got it. I can still catch some more sleep after I get them home.”

“All right,” he said, nodding. “Where were you, anyway? You’re not usually home this late.”

Maggie dropped her head back against the recliner with a little groan. “Stopped for coffee after the gym.”

Scott glanced over, surprised. “With who? Boulder?”

“No,” she said. “The MILF from three doors down.”

He blinked. “What?” he asked. “Are we talking about the band?”

“Not the band,” she clarified. “Three literal doors down. House with the lemon tree in the pot.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You had coffee with Lemon Tree MILF?”

“Her name’s Stacy.”

He gave a slow shake of the head. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

Maggie shrugged, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation. “She goes to my gym. We started talking. After I worked out, she asked if I wanted to grab a coffee. I said yes.”

Scott made a face. “The fancy gym?”

“Yes, the fancy gym. You know, the one that doesn’t smell like Axe body spray and dreams of high school football pasts.”

Scott snorted. “I like World Fitness. It builds character.”

“It builds staph infections,” Maggie said.

He grinned, eyes flicking toward her for a second. “So who is this MILF, anyway? I’ve seen her. Tall. Kinda hot. Dark hair, small tits, kid in a stroller. I could describe her to a sketch artist, but I’ve never heard a name.”

“Stacy,” Maggie said. “Stacy Foxx.”

Scott raised both eyebrows. “Foxx?”

“Two x’s,” Maggie confirmed. “She married a man named Preston Foxx the Thirrrrd.”

She hit the accent and the long r with theatrical flair. Scott blinked at her.

“What the fuck was that?”

“That’s how she says it,” Maggie said, smiling now. “That’s what she calls her old man. She made me giggle. Me. Margaret fucking Winslow who tackled a tweaker on a bike last night single handed and put him on the fuckin’ ground. Giggling.”

Scott chuckled, shaking his head. “Jesus. Preston Foxx the Thirrrrd.”

“She’s actually kind of cool,” Maggie added, stretching her legs out. “Sharp. Not as idiotic as most civilians. She’s an athlete too—used to play college ball. Basketball. Gave it up when she snagged her meal ticket.”

Scott nodded slowly, absorbing that. “Huh. So, you think she’s looking to get her Heavenly Valley swept clean by your tongue?”

Maggie didn’t answer right away.

She felt it then—one of those rare, quiet moments where her brain pulled the emergency brake and made her take stock.

Scott Dover was her best friend. Hands down. Not even close. He’d been her anchor since the academy. The person who understood her without explanation. The one human being on Earth who’d seen her at her worst, her most exhausted, her most pissed off, and never blinked. He watched her kid for her and she watched his. If it wasn’t for the whole sex thing, they would’ve made a great couple.