Those damn lights hit my mirrors again. Red and blue slicing through the dark. I groan, ease off the gas, and coast onto the shoulder.

Heart’s already thumping—not from fear, just annoyance. I was doing maybe 78 in a 65. Stupid. I know better.

I kill the engine, flick on the interior light, and drop my hands to the wheel where they’re easy to see. Routine. Then the cruiser door opens and those boots hit gravel.

I glance in the side mirror.

Wait.

No way.

That walk. That exact hip sway when she’s trying to look all official. My mouth twitches before I can stop it.

It’s my goddamn wife.

She steps to the rolled-down window and I can’t help it—I let out a short, disbelieving laugh and ease back into my seat.

“Oh my God. Babe?” I say, voice cracking with amusement. “You’re kidding me. You’re actually pulling me over?”