Tacie Graves

Screw Single

Growing up in Blue River, NY, there was one word that was a curse: single. I married at 20 to get away from it, but my husband, Liam, decided that “Love, Honor, and Obey” was really man-code for “Screw Over and Betray.” I decided I deserved better than that and, going against every word of advice I ever received, left him. Then I was, to my Irish Catholic mother’s eternal dismay: divorced.

Saints preserve us.

Time passed and people finally stopped thinking of me as divorced and started thinking of me as single again, so I began to date. Then I was single, but dating. Now single, but dating, is better than just single, but not by much. Single, but dating is just a step on the road to married as far as Blue River is concerned.

When my sex-drive stepped in and informed me that my sporadic ventures into dating weren’t cutting it, I finally gave in to temptation and slept with Donovan Collins. That moved me from dating, to easy, because even though Donovan and I had worked together for years, he wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship. Hell, he wasn’t interested in a relationship at all. No one would ever accuse him of dating.

I have to admit, the sex was incredible. It was an earth-shattering, toe-curling night, but I was too brainwashed by my Irish Catholic upbringing to be comfortable with the idea of easy. So, I went back to dating — with a little push from Donovan that felt caring even if it was more than a little insulting.

All this back and forth and up and down was making me crazy. I wasn’t cut out to be married. I wasn’t even good at the dating, if I was honest. So, I finally put my foot down and went back to just being single. Mom could spit it at me as much as she wanted, but I was pretty damn sure it was better than easy in her book.

Easy, though… Easy was a constant temptation. I have enough hormones to medicate an entire nursing home through menopause, and although I had my trusty shower massager, it just wasn’t the same. I hadn’t had a social orgasm in months, and I was beginning to think in terms of if instead of when when it came to sex. Donovan said he’d be back in my bed if it was empty for too long, and I was almost angry that after six months he hadn’t made good on his threat… I mean promise. The truth was, though, that I hadn’t even seen Donovan since I stopped dating. He’d been out of Blue River for months working on something he couldn’t explain to me. I figured that meant some Government something-like taking over a South American country, or rescuing an African diplomat.

Even so, I wasn’t ready to give up the Donovan fantasy completely. As a matter of fact, fantasy Donovan was really good to have around on those lonely late nights when my hormones were grumbling about my having ditched my latest “boyfriend.”

I could have found someone to date. Two officers down at the station had faced my father’s wrath and invited me out to dinner and a movie. A guy I went to high school came back to town to take over his family’s numbers running racket, and he asked if I wanted to lay a bet on a “sure thing. ” None of them appealed more than fantasy Donovan, though, so I politely turned them down saying I was taking a breather from the dating scene. After everything I’d been through, no one questioned that.

I distracted myself with work. Being a private investigator in a family full of cops isn’t easy. Sometimes I found myself on the wrong end of a discussion with someone who’ d been locked up by my dad or one of my brothers, and, unsurprisingly, they often think it’s the perfect opportunity to get even with a McAnally since I don’t wear a badge. This is where Donovan usually comes in. Being my own boss I’ve had to take a lot of contract work to fill in during the lean times, and over the past few years I’ve helped him out on more than one occasion-even uncovering an embezzler within his company. He knows he can count on me, and I have his word that he’ll provide muscle whenever I need it. So, whenever something came up where I needed backup, I called Collins Security and someone was always mysteriously “available.”

Most of the men who work ed for Donovan wer e local with a few exotic faces thrown in for good measure. They’re all ex-military-skilled, dangerous, and cautious to a fault. I would pu t my life in any of their hands in a heartbeat, but my favorite? My favorite was Jack.

Now some people might say, “How can you pick a favo rite out of all those hunky men? ” I say, “Easy. Just look at him. ” Jack Diaz was 6 feet and 4 inches of hot sticky cinnamon bun-spicy and sweet and sinful just to have around. His eyes were as green as my mother’s shamrocks, and his hair was short and curly and as dark as coal. He had beautiful hands, perfectly muscled arms, and long, strong legs that would be heaven to be tangled in sheets with. He wa s hot, he wa s funny, and to top it all off he actually talked on stakeouts.

All of this contributed to my hormone problem considerably. I mean, how was I supposed to convince a storm of raging Irish hormones that the hot guy playing with my hair isn’t fair game? I was so frustrated I think they considered “fair game” to actually be “anything within reach” and Jack knew it. He reveled in it. He liked to walk up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. Then he’d rub his thumbs in gentle circles, larger and larger, and finally drag those beautiful hands down my arms. Sometimes he’d trace a finger along my jaw, and then bend over and whisper unnecessarily in my ear, pressing that long, lovely body against me the whole time.