Free Hands-On Training by Paige Tyler Page B

you and the other State Troopers alternate teaching
the class?” she asked in between bites of her turkey sandwich.
    He set down his iced tea. “No. I just do this on the side on
my days off.”
    “Oh.” She chewed on her lower lip as if considering
something. “Your wife must hate that.”
    That was blatant enough that even he picked up on it. “I’m
not married.”
    That seemed to give her pause. “Then your girlfriend must
hate it.”
    “Don’t have one at the moment.”
    Her lips curved, and he waited for her to say more, but once
again, someone interrupted them—this time it was the waitress asking if she
could refill their iced teas. By the time the woman left, the guy on the other
side of Blake already engaged him in a conversation about handguns—or more
precisely, why he preferred a revolver over a semi-automatic. Usually it was a
debate Blake was always up for, but discussing the pros and cons of each weapon
while Trista’s arm kept “accidentally” brushing against his was damn near impossible.
God, he couldn’t wait until class was over so he could grab a minute alone with
her. Maybe then he could finally ask if she wanted to go to dinner with him.
But first he had to get everyone certified and out of there.
    He started the afternoon session talking about how to both
store and clean a handgun, as well as how it should be carried concealed. After
that, it was the part of the class everyone had been looking forward
to—hands-on training. This was where Blake got to find out whether he should
certify a person or not. Anyone could sit through a class and take a test. What
he needed to know was what a person did when he or she had a gun in their
hands.
    Blake glanced at Trista as they made their way to the indoor
shooting range. She didn't appear uncomfortable, but she didn't look completely
at ease, either. That was normal. She probably didn't have a huge amount of
experience with a handgun. Most people who took the class didn't.
    She did okay loading and unloading an empty magazine—not
perfect, but acceptable. It was when they loaded live rounds and did some
shooting that Blake got concerned. Trista couldn't shoot worth shit. She didn’t
have to hit the man-shaped silhouette dead center, but she had to at least get
close. Best he could tell, she wasn’t hitting the target at all.
    He waited patiently while she reloaded her 9mm. Maybe she
was just nervous with him standing there. That happened sometimes.
    But she didn’t do any better with the second magazine. He
wasn’t sure where her rounds went, but it sure as hell wasn’t in the target.
    There was no way he could certify her. Which meant taking
her out to dinner was probably out. Damn.
    * * * * *
    Trista couldn't believe how hard she was having to work for
this one. She'd been drooling over the hunky Blake Jordan from the second he'd
walked in the classroom. Tall with dark hair, broad shoulders and biceps she
couldn’t get both of her hands around, he was definitely put together. And when
he talked? She'd never heard such a smooth, sexy voice in her life. It just about
made her panties melt off right there in the seat. He was a fantasy come to
life. Especially if you had a thing for cops—which she did. Combine that with
her complete lack of a social life over the past few months, and it was no
surprise she was as hot as a horny rabbit in a frying pan.
    Between leaving her old job and trying to get into the swing
of things at her new one, all while moving everything she owned back to Houston
and finding a place to live, she’d been a little stressed. Seeing Blake made
her realize exactly what she needed—a roll in the hay. And not just any roll in
the hay, either. She was talking about the kind that knocked the pictures off the
wall and made your neighbors call the cops. Something told her Blake was just
the man for the job.
    Unfortunately, he’d been completely professional the whole
time. Which would be a good thing if she wasn’t