Hating to Love You (Houston's Finest #1) Read online

  Hating to Love You

  Copyright © 2019 by Erin Rylie

  www.erinryliewrites.com

  Editor: Erica Russikoff of Erica Edits

  Interior Formatting: Brooke Cumberland

  Cover Design: Jay Aheer, Simply Defined Art

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book. This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For my Nerds – without you ladies, none of this would be even remotely possible.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Houston’s Finest Couple

  Epilogue

  Coming Next

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Needing to Love You Prologue

  Chapter One

  Well, tonight is a complete shitshow, Rafe thought blandly as he watched his third public intoxication call of the night relieve himself on the brick wall outside the bar. Hearing a snort of laughter, he turned to look at his partner, Ramirez, who was clearly enjoying his evening.

  “Should we let ‘ol boy finish?” Ramirez stage-whispered, jerking his head at the drunk idiot.

  Rafe shook his head at his partner, a rueful smile tipping up the corners of his lips. Pulling his flashlight from his belt, he shined the bright light into the drunk’s face. “HPD, we’re going to need you to wrap it up, sir.”

  The pisser, as he would henceforth be known, jerked and looked up at Rafe. Instead of immediately straightening and tucking his dick back into his pants, the moron turned, raising his hands. At the telltale sound of liquid hitting leather, Rafe looked down at his shoes. The fucking idiot was still peeing. On. Rafe’s. Boots.

  Ramirez couldn’t hold it in any longer; he doubled over, boisterous laugh booming. As the pisser’s stream of urine finally tapered off, he shot Rafe a lopsided grin. “S’alright, Officer. Bathroom inside’s taken. I don’ mind peein’ out here.”

  “Well kid, unfortunately for you, the owner of this fine establishment happens to mind very much. Zip up your pants, put your hands against the wall, and spread ‘em.”

  As Ramirez cuffed the pisser and read him his rights, Rafe stepped into the bar and headed toward the bathroom, intent on at least rinsing his boots off. They were starting to smell.

  Fantastic.

  Focused on walking through the narrow tables in the bar’s seating area, he failed to notice the intoxicated group of women getting up from their table. Before he could change course, one of them looked up and spotted him.

  “Oh em gee. Are you the stripper?” she asked in an excited voice. She was wearing a tiny white dress, a “bride” tiara topping her long, blonde curls.

  “Excuse me?” he grated. He was not in the mood for this. He just wanted to wash his boots, drop the pisser off at the station, and get his paperwork done so he could go home.

  The blonde, clearly not sensing his tone, was squealing and thanking her friends. “I can’t believe you got me a hot cop stripper! Best bachelorette party ever!” Turning back to face Rafe, she put her hands on his chest, looked up at him, and practically purred, “How about we get these clothes off of you?”

  “Ma’am,” he started, plucking her perfectly manicured hands from his chest, “I’m an actual Houston Police Department officer. Please step back.”

  Her eyes widened, and she backed up, gracelessly plopping her ass back into her chair. “How is that possible? Look at you! You just look like a stripper,” she exclaimed.

  “As…flattering as that is, I’m an HPD officer. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Wait!” she yelled, jumping up once more. “Please at least take a picture with me. I won’t take no for an answer.

  Knowing it would be quicker if he just agreed to take the damn picture, he nodded. She wrapped her hands around his bicep and cocked her hip, smiling at the camera. Rafe forced his lips into some semblance of a smile and tried not to wince when the bright flash went off in the dark bar.

  “Have a good night, ma’am,” he said, already walking away. After rinsing his boots off, he hauled ass back outside, making sure to take a different path through the tables in an effort to avoid the bachelorette party.

  Thankfully, Ramirez and the pisser were comfortably settled in the police cruiser. He dropped into the driver’s seat, turned off the light bar on top of the car, and pulled out onto Richmond Avenue. About a mile into the drive, Ramirez started making sniffing noises, rotating his head in a semicircle as though looking for the source of a smell.

  “Hey pretty boy,” Ramirez said, referring to him by the nickname most of the force had taken to calling him after he’d gotten asked out by a suspect on his first patrol out of the academy. “Do you smell something?”

  Rafe shot him a puzzled look. “Umm, no?”

  “Huh, I could’ve sworn I smelled piss. Where could that possibly be coming from?”

  “Oh fuck off, dude. You better not tell anyone about this.”

  “Oh…so I shouldn’t have sent out a mass text about it?”

  Shitshow indeed. Rafe would never live tonight down.

  The next morning, Rafe was up at seven o’clock sharp. He’d finally gotten home around three in the morning and had barely stripped off his clothes before hitting the bed and passing out. Rubbing a hand down his face, he stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He and Ramirez had been on the late shift for over a month now, but his sleep schedule hadn’t evened out. No matter how late he got home, he was up by seven every single morning.

  After a quick shower, he downed a bottle of water, grabbed his keys, and started his mile jog to the gym. When he checked in at the counter six minutes later, the woman manning the desk gave him a strange look before turning beet red. He brushed it off as nothing until it happened again when he was doing lunges. And again during his cool down session on the treadmill.

  What the hell is going on?

  His workout completed, he headed back home, stopping at the coffee shop by his apartment for his usual cup of black coffee. As he stepped out of the humid Houston air and int
o the coffee shop, Tiffany, the barista, giggled and blushed before turning around to prepare his drink.

  “Good morning, Tiffany,” he said, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. “Is everything alright?”

  “Hey Rafe!” she replied, far too brightly. “Everything’s great, why?”

  “I’ve been coming here for a year, and you’ve never giggled or blushed when I walked in the door.”

  “Oh. That. Um, well…” she started hesitantly. “I guess I just can’t believe I serve coffee every morning to ‘Houston’s Hot Cop.’”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, dread settling low in his stomach.

  “You’re an Instagram sensation!” She pulled out her phone, opening the Instagram app before handing him the device. There on Instagram, with over a million likes, was his picture. The one from last night. The caption read, “Ladies, I’ve found him—the hottest cop in Texas! The best part? No wedding ring!”

  “This is a joke, right? I mean this has to be a joke. Shit like this doesn’t happen in real life,” he asked rhetorically.

  “Well, I mean you are pretty hot, Rafe. You know, blonde hair, blue eyes. You’ve got surfer boy written all over you.”

  “Great, that’s just great.” Rafe left the coffee shop, feeling the sudden urge to keep his head down as he walked home. Climbing the steps to his apartment building, he hoped his co-workers hadn’t seen the picture. Not a lot of the guys on the force were into Instagram, thankfully, but plenty of the girls were.

  Maybe it isn’t that big a deal.

  He let himself into his apartment, bending down to rub his orange tabby, Socks, behind the ears before setting his keys down on the small end table next to the door. He hesitated for a moment before picking up his phone, dreading the possibilities. Before he could even press the home button to unlock it, he got a text notification. As the text lit up his screen, he took in the other messages waiting for him. All fifty of them. And not just texts. Facebook notifications and emails cluttered his screen—all from friends, family, and news stations. Seriously. News stations. How was a stupid picture news?

  After a few minutes of going through texts, mostly from his fellow officers, his stomach dropped at the curt message from his captain.

  Captain Stevens: Get to my office by 10 a.m. Plain clothes.

  Shit. Glancing at the time on his phone, Rafe realized he had an hour to get down to the station. He hopped in the shower, washing away the sweat and grime from his workout, and changed into a Henley and some jeans.

  No more than thirty minutes after receiving the text, he was walking through the front doors of the station. He rushed through the desks in roll call, keeping his head down. Maybe if he didn’t meet his co-workers’ eyes, they wouldn’t say anything to him. He had almost made it to his captain’s office—was only two steps away—when he heard the voice of his most obnoxious fellow officer.

  Of course, Davis is here. Of fucking course.

  “Look out, ladies! Houston’s hottest cop just walked in, and word on the street is, he’s single!” he said loudly, spreading his arms and walking toward Rafe with a shit-eating grin.

  “Cut it out, man,” Rafe growled through clenched teeth. “Today isn’t the day to mess with me.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry, Officer Pierce. Do you have bachelorette parties you need to get to? Lap dances to give?”

  Brent Davis had graduated from the police academy in the same class as him and could never accept that Rafe had graduated at the top of his class, while Davis graduated…well, not at the top. Davis was constantly making fun of Rafe. Never his job performance—that was untouchable; he was one of the best on the force. No, Davis went after his looks. As if Rafe could help the way he was born. As if teasing Rafe could change the fact that Davis was born with a wiry frame, which never could quite seem to bulk up, and a permanent sneer on his lips.

  Just as he stepped up to Davis, intent on giving him an unforgettable tongue-lashing, Captain Stevens stepped out of his office.

  “Davis, Pierce, knock it off. Rafe, in my office. Now.”

  Brent smirked at Rafe before sauntering back to his desk. Resisting the urge to punch the bastard in the back of his retreating head, he took a deep breath and turned around. His stomach began to plummet as he walked into the captain’s office. Captain Stevens wasn’t one to mince words, and Rafe had a feeling he was in for a thorough ass chewing.

  Stevens didn’t even wait until Rafe was seated before speaking. “Are you out of your damn mind? Do you want to tell me why the hell you were inside of a bar taking pictures with some woman while Ramirez was outside cuffing your suspect alone? Do you even understand the concept of partnership?”

  Rafe knew better than to answer those questions. Now was not the time to bring up the pee on his boots; it was a flimsy excuse and he knew it. Instead he stayed silent, hoping the questions were rhetorical and the captain didn’t actually expect an answer.

  After a few tense moments of silence, Stevens continued, “Look, I know you’re one of the best we’ve got, but I’d love nothing more than to suspend your ass for this. Lucky for you, the media is obsessed with this stupid ‘Hot Cop’ story. It’s good publicity for the station, and we’re going to capitalize on it.”

  Rafe didn’t like the direction this was heading. Ramirez was the attention seeker in their duo. He’d flirted and winked at just about every female in Houston and would be eating this up. Rafe, however, had never liked the attention his looks got him. He was constantly made fun of by his friends, fellow classmates, and now co-workers. Women hit on him for all of the wrong reasons. They just wanted a trophy boyfriend; none of them actually searched for substance with him. He just wanted this whole mess to go away, and if the captain was hinting at what Rafe thought he was, things were about to get really damn rough.

  “The Houston Reporter wants to do a piece on you. And you’re going to let them. I want you to be the picture of cooperation. I don’t want to hear a single complaint about you. If that reporter says jump, you better jump. Got it?”

  Though he wanted to protest, he knew he was in a tough spot. If he didn’t cooperate, the captain would suspend him. His work meant too much to him for that to happen. Maybe he could just channel Ramirez for a few weeks, pretend he was loving all of this attention. Knowing his life was about to become a living hell, Rafe said the only thing he could, “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Two

  Sophie hated pretty boys. A girl could only suffer so many heartbreaks before turning cynical. Her high school boyfriend, Shane, was devastatingly handsome—black hair, green eyes, and a gorgeous smile. A smile that had entranced her as a poor, innocent freshman. She dated him for two years before realizing that his smile had also “entranced” half of the girls in their class.

  Her college sweetheart, Michael, was quarterback for the University of Texas football team, and a legend in his own right. With beautiful, tanned skin, killer dimples, and soft brown eyes, he had convinced her that her high school boyfriend was a fluke, that there were good and honest men in the world. He’d cheated on her with the kicker of his football team. He and his partner were now happily married with an adorable adopted baby girl.

  Goodie for them, she thought bitterly.

  Her fiancé, Charlie, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Though not classically handsome, he had a ruggedness to him that had definitely appealed to her. He’d been well over six feet tall and muscular, sporting a beard and luscious long hair that he tied into a man-bun on most days. They had been together for three years before she’d walked in on him screwing one of the waitresses from the restaurant where he worked as a head chef.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, the smug prick hadn’t even panicked at being caught. No, he kept thrusting and suggested a threesome. Sophie didn’t know how she would erase the image of his perfectly sculpted ass clenching as he’d continued to pump into that damn waitress.

  So, when her editor had asked her to do a series of feat
ures on “Houston’s Hot Cop,” Sophie had spent a good two hours vehemently protesting. To no avail. Here she sat, in a quaint little Montrose coffee shop, waiting for a man more handsome than any she’d ever seen. He honestly looked like a scruffy Hemsworth brother. She’d seen the picture on Instagram, and though he’d looked supremely uncomfortable, Officer Raphael Pierce was undeniably gorgeous.

  This was going to be miserable. He’d probably saunter in here, acting like he hung the damn moon. No doubt he’d flirt with every woman in the coffee shop. The only thing keeping Sophie in her seat was the promise her editor-in-chief had made her: “Write this feature—and I mean really write it, Soph; don’t half ass it—and I’ll personally write your recommendation letter.”

  Since graduating college and moving back to Houston, Sophie had dreamed of working for Nottingham Publishing, one of the biggest publishing firms in the country. Unfortunately, publishing jobs were almost impossible to land unless you were looking to be a poorly paid intern or had connections. Saddled with too many student loans to count and no connections, she couldn’t afford to follow her dream. She’d applied for every job in the city that even remotely involved writing or editing. Only the Houston Reporter had responded.

  So, she wrote fluffy editorial pieces and acted as a copyeditor. For years she’d been working to prove herself to her boss—Karen Stanley. Well known in the industry, Karen’s recommendation could get just about any person any job they wanted. Her recommendation letters were an aspiring writer or publisher’s dream come true. The catch was, they came about as often as leap year.