Romance Book Reviews For You: Brazen by Avery Samson

She was a phoenix rising from the ashes.

I was drawn to her in a way I had never felt before.

And then she shot me.

Brazen, an all-new small town, stand-alone romance from bestselling author Avery Samson is now available!

What type of woman chooses to reenact every right of passage in this small town? This woman, that’s who. I might as well. It’s not like I’m getting any younger. Besides, I never got around to any of this in high school. I’m past due. I just didn’t plan on becoming the gorgeous, new sheriff deputy’s main focus. Turns out being chased by the sheriff is exhilarating.

Eliot Caraway is going to be the death of me. She’s mischievous and reckless. She’s also the most beautiful and brilliant woman I’ve ever crossed paths with. I don’t know why she’s on this destructive path, but she’s dragging me along for the ride. If I can’t get to the bottom of this soon, we may both wind up paying the price.

I’d just really like to give her something else to focus on before it goes that far.

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Spinning around, I find a patrol car parked behind me with a sheriff’s deputy standing next to the door. A good-looking deputy. One I haven’t seen before. I would remember him.

He has a scowl on his face, and his arms are crossed over his chest. He looks a little like one of the models on the covers of the western books I like to read. Yes, I like a good western. Sue me.

At least he does for about two seconds. Right up until I shoot him. Then it turns into an action movie. Or maybe Walker, Texas Ranger. The old ones; not the remake.

As if in slow motion, I watch in horror as one of the Roman candles fire right at him. I must have dropped my arm when I turned around. He leaps for the car but not fast enough for the rocket to miss completely.

I can’t seem to do anything more than stand in the middle of the street with my mouth open. I’m almost positive I’ve just killed a man, a law enforcement officer at that. I literally shot the sheriff.

“Point that damn rocket up,” he yells before easing back out of his car.

Instead, I manage to drop it on the ground. Now they’re shooting under the patrol car. It’s not enough to shoot the sheriff, I’m going to blow his car up.

He throws the SUV into gear and backs away from the sparks. He climbs back out and snatches the Roman candle off the ground. It puffs out one more blast and dies.

“I’m so sorry,” I try. I’m also trying not to laugh which doesn’t help. I mean, come on. That was funny now that I know he’s still alive.

“Get in the truck,” he growls, cutting me off.

Holy shit, he’s going to arrest me for attempted murder. I’m sure a good attorney can get it knocked down to assault with a deadly weapon, but still, I’m going to rot in jail for a very long time. All because he can’t take a joke. Not because I’m a little too old to be shooting rockets in the middle of the street.

Opening the back door of his SUV, he glares at me until I climb inside. The bar patrons boo him, which makes his scowl deepen. I sit inside like a common criminal while he picks up the spent fireworks.

His mouth moves. I assume he’s grumbling to himself as he hauls the old fireworks to the curb so no one runs over them. I was going to do that. My mid-life rebellion doesn’t include endangering any of the local motorists.

When he has all the fireworks out of the street, he pulls my purse and keys out of my car before locking it. At least he’s thoughtful. I’ll remember that when I’m wasting away in a cell tonight. I wonder if I’ll be the first person arrested in Dansboro Crossing for shooting a sheriff with a Roman candle.

He jerks open the driver’s door, slides inside, and slams it shut again. Turning around, he glares at me sitting in the back seat.

“I really am⁠—”

He holds up his hand and turns back around. So, a thoughtful dick. Okay. A sexy, thoughtful dick. I’m so dead.

We drive to the sheriff’s office in silence. A myriad of thoughts flies through my brain on the way. Will I make friends in the big house? Which one of the characters in Orange is the New Black will I be? Does there need to be rope on my bath soap? Where do you still find that?

I hope my family finds me a good attorney. Someone under the age of eighty. Not that I have a problem with Mr. Truman, but I’m not sure he’ll see the humor in this. He’s never forgiven Austen for barfing in his mailbox. He dislikes all of us Caraways now because of association. Long story for another time.

I don’t notice we’re at the sheriff’s office until the back door opens. He helps me out and, taking my upper arm, leads me inside. He sets me in a chair next to a desk. I won’t point out that there’s a big burn hole on the side of his uniform shirt. It’s not lost on him. He inspects it before turning his glare back on me.

He has the most beautiful eyes. They’re a deep brown like the color of dark chocolate as it melts or garden soil after a rain or even the café extreme at the Coffinated coffee shop near the courthouse. I might need to switch back over to straight westerns instead of the steamy cowboy romances I’ve been reading lately.

“Hey!” he says, making me jump. “I asked for your identification.” He pushes my wallet to me.

Okay, so my assessment was right. He’s a gorgeous dick. I pull my driver’s license out from where it’s tucked neatly in its designated slot. Maybe I should change that up too. Just throw it in my purse all willy-nilly. No, there’s no reason to go completely around the bend. I hand it over and lean back in my chair waiting for the comments to begin.

“Your name’s George?”

“Eliot! What are you doing here? I see you’ve met our new deputy, Owen.” Sheriff Rogers walks out of his office to stand next to the desk. “Good Lord, Owen, what happened to your shirt?”

“Just an accident, sir,” the new deputy says.

So his name is Owen. Not at all what I would have guessed. I was leaning more toward… Alejandro. Now that’s a sexy name.

“I see. Well, get that shirt changed, officer. We don’t want our local citizens to think we don’t take pride in our office. Right, Eliot?” He winks at me and starts down the hallway. “Oh, and tell your folks I said hello. I look forward to seeing y’all on Sunday. Hey, Owen, why don’t you plan on coming to church with us too.”

Officer Owen looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “You’re just the gift that keeps on giving, aren’t you?”

He’s right. Sheriff Rogers left no room in his statement for him to get out of the invitation to church. Standing with a derisive snort, he rips the uniform shirt off, slamming it down on the desk. The Kevlar follows, and then the T-shirt. Good Lord, I’m going to need church based on the thoughts racing through my head.

“Sweet Jesus!” I exclaim. The corners of his lips twitch. Is it possible he can smile? “I was talking about the giant burn mark on your side. Why wear Kevlar if it doesn’t stop anything?”

I lower to my knees to inspect the burn etched into the skin at his waist. He lets out a small hiss when I tentatively run my fingertips over the skin surrounding the burn.

“Do you have any aloe vera?” I ask, looking up at him. It will at least take the burn out of it until he can have it looked at. He blinks once, looking down at me, then blinks again.

“It’ll be fine.” His voice seems deeper than it was.

“No, it won’t. Oh, hang on, Cherylynn has one of the plants on her desk. I’ll be right back.” Hopping back up, I rush off down the hall to the dispatcher’s office.

Cherylynn and I graduated together. We’ve been friends long enough to know exactly where she keeps the plant.

“Wait, Miss… Caraway,” he calls after me.

“I’ll be right back. Hold your horses.”

I find the plant and return with a piece of it. Kneeling back down, I gently rub the sticky salve over the burn. I realize I’ve got my one hand spread over his abs for balance as I work. They are rock hard, and they tighten every time the aloe brushes his skin.

“Miss Caraway?” he growls.

Lord, give me strength.

“I grabbed a bandage while I was in there, so it won’t get all over your shirt.” Pulling it out of my back pocket, I smooth the large bandage over the burn. “There. You should probably have that looked at by someone.” Looking back up, I’m met by eyes so dark brown I can’t discern where the pupil ends and the iris begins.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to shoot you,” I say, rising to my feet. My heart is like a hammer in my chest.

“What were your intentions?” he asks.

His voice is husky. It does nothing to stop the hammering. I shrug. I have no intention of explaining to anyone that I’m working through a list of regrets before I turn the ancient age of thirty.

“Is your name really George Eliot Caraway?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” Any of it, either the name or my intentions. No one this good-looking would ever have regrets about things they were too scared to do when they were young.

“That you were named after the pen name of one of the most famous British authors of the Victorian era? Mary Ann Evans wrote such notable works as The Mill on the Floss, Silas Marner, and Middlemarch which is considered her greatest work.” He gives me a smirk before moving to pull a clean T-shirt out of his bottom desk drawer.

I’m standing here like a fish with my mouth open staring at him. I’m not sure if it’s because of his knowledge of the British novelist or, well, his abs.

“You’ll get along great with my sister,” I mumble.

“The librarian,” he says like they’re best friends.

“Of course.” I don’t have a problem with Austen. She’s just everyone’s best friend. The cool younger sister. Bleh.

“If you’re going to throw me in jail, then do it so I can lay down. I’m getting tired.” I cross my arms over my chest and refuse to meet his gaze. Because that’s the mature thing to do. “I’ll need to call my dad to bail me out.” I can feel him studying me as he holds his shirt in his hand.

“Come on, I’ll take you back to your car. But if I catch you doing anything like that again, I’ll toss you in the back cells until morning.”

Pulling his T-shirt on, he hands me my license. He motions for me to proceed with him down the hallway. We say goodbye to the other lone officer, and I feel a warm hand land on my lower back as he ushers me out the door.

“I can walk back, but thank you,” I say. If he continues to touch me, I’ll melt into a puddle. Please save me from becoming a swooning accountant. I’m not even sure that’s possible.

“It’s dark. I’ll drive you back.”

“What do you think happens here after dark?” I motion to the empty street in front of the sheriff’s office. “Let me fill you in, Officer…” I didn’t catch his last name. He’s no longer wearing his nametag.

“Steele,” he says, taking a step closer.

“What?” What were we talking about? Damn him for sending my senses into overload with his woodland scent.

“Owen Steele,” he answers, patting his chest. “My name.”

“Dick,” I mumble.

“Owen,” he reiterates, having clearly heard me.

At least he has somewhat of a sense of humor. “Let me tell you what happens around here after dark, Officer Steele.” “Owen.” “At least you know your name.”

Now the corners of his mouth are starting to twitch. He must have me under his spell or something; I’m usually not quite this snarky.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing happens here after dark. People just go to bed.”

“So you’re saying sex is all there is to do once it turns dark here?”

“I—well, no—I—I don’t know. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Oi. I feel heat spreading up my neck to my face. Why?! What’s happened to the fierce, snarky Eliot from a second ago? I need her back.

Owen laughs. “Get in the car.” He opens the passenger side door and waits for me to get inside.

As I see it, I have two options. I can act like a petulant brat and walk anyway. Or I can swallow my annoyance and get in the SUV. I let out an impressive sigh. Then I climb into the passenger seat. He closes my door. I think I glimpse a smile as he walks around the front of the SUV. I wonder if it hurt.