Free Hands-On Training by Paige Tyler Page A

swallow
of Coke. “Guilty as charged. I teach it every few weeks or so.”
    She lifted a brow. “I didn’t realize that many people got
concealed carry licenses.”
    “A couple hundred people take the course every month. What
made you decide to get your permit? Someone hasn’t made you feel threatened,
have they?” He grimaced. Why not just add “little lady,” while he was at it?
“Sorry. Occupational hazard of being a cop. You have every right to tell me to
pound sand.”
    She laughed. “There's no particular reason, but Houston is a
lot bigger than it was when I lived here before. I just want to be able to
carry if I feel the need.”
    Smart move. “It can be a scary place out there sometimes.”
    “Yes, it can.” Trista casually looked him up and down, her
gaze lingering on his crotch for a moment before their eyes met. “And there's
nothing like getting your hands on a big weapon to make a girl feel all safe
and secure.”
    Blake almost choked on his soda. Damn. Guess that answered
his earlier question about whether she was coming onto him or not. And with a
blatant invitation, he’d be an idiot not to flirt right back.
    Unfortunately, one of the men in the class wandered over to the
vending machine before Blake could say anything.
    “Don’t mind if I slip in here and get something, do you,
Officer?”
    Blake inclined his head, giving the man an apologetic smile.
“Sorry about that. Go ahead.”
    Trista moved away from the vending machine as well,
automatically falling into step beside Blake as they walked back to the classroom.
    “You said you lived in Houston before.” He sent her a
sidelong glance. “Where’d you move from?”
    “Birmingham. I moved there when I went to the University of
Alabama and stayed when I was offered a job in the area. I’ve wanted to come
back to Houston for a while, so when a position opened up, I jumped at the
chance.”
    He gestured for her to walk into the classroom ahead of him—because
he was a gentleman, but also because he wanted to check out her ass. Damn, she
looked fine in a pair of jeans.
    “What do you do for a living?” he asked.
    “I’m a graphic designer.” She turned, her long hair swinging
over her shoulder. “Right now, I’m doing websites.”
    “Sounds interesting.”
    Blake wanted to ask what kind of websites she designed, but
a heavyset man in a plaid shirt interrupted him.
    “Got a minute, Officer?”
    Blake glanced at Trista and saw disappointment flash in her
eyes. He’d rather spend the whole day talking to her, too, but he couldn’t ignore
the rest of the class.
    “If you’ll pardon me?”
    “Of course.” She smiled. “Thanks for the soda.”
    Blake tried to give the man his full attention—he really
did—but Trista was so damn captivating, it was practically impossible to keep
his eyes off her. And while that made the boring part of the class a whole hell
of a lot less boring—at least for him—it was also a kind of sweet torture.
Especially when she did little things that drove him crazy. Like nibble on the
top of her pen. Or cross her long legs. And when she leaned forward giving him
a glimpse of her perfect cleavage? It was enough to make him groan.
    As much as he wanted to monopolize her every time they took
a break, he resisted the urge. If he did that and someone failed the course,
that same someone could claim misconduct on his part, saying he was showing
favoritism, and he’d be screwed. So, he limited their conversation to a few
minutes before making the rounds. Fortunately, everyone passed the written
test. And Trista maxed it, so no one could say she'd passed because he was
sweet on her.
    Nearly everyone in the class went to the restaurant across
the street for lunch, including Trista. Blake quickly slipped into the empty
chair beside hers before any of the other men could grab it. He got a smile for
his efforts that just about did him in. He’d never met a women who had that
effect on him before.
    “So, do