Chapter 1

She came out here to think. To think, to muse, to seethe. From the outside looking in, a sheriff who is supposed to be patrolling on the night shift pulled over to the side of the road at the town line, scowling at everything and nothing while she mutters to herself may look irresponsible. But Emma Swan knows her town. It's sleepy.

(And Grumpy and Dopey, and if those two idiots whose real names escape her at the moment get drunk at The Rabbit Hole for the umpteenth time and start some shit, she knows it will take her exactly four minutes to get to the scene by breaking every speed limit with calculated risk.)

Speaking of speed limits…

The motorcycle raced past her so fast she barely had time to curse the interruption of her already curse-laden train of thought before a braking taillight illuminated the entire tree-lined road behind her.

"Too late, asshole." With a grin, Emma switched on her headlights, flipped on her flashers and swung a U-turn, ready for whatever manner of entertainment the speeding rider was going to provide.

To her disappointment, the bike was already pulled over a short way down the darkened road. Annoyed to be denied the pleasure of a chase, she pulled up behind him, putting the cruiser in park and a take no shit swagger in her step as she took stock.

Head-to-toe black. Black boots. Black leather pants that hugged well-toned calves and a stellar ass if the beam from her Maglite was painting an accurate portrait. Black leather jacket. And a black custom helmet intricately painted in a pirate motif, complete with "Captain" scrolled across the back, entwined in the sails of a spectacular ship. A mirrored visor hid his face.

"License, registration and proof of insurance."

Tongue impatiently in cheek, she waited slightly on guard for the rider to comply. Putting his hands up in surrender first, a gloved hand unzipped the jacket far enough to allow him to pull a small bundle from an inner pocket. Before he handed the items over, a muffled voice spoke over the sound of her idling cruiser.

"I trust it's agreeable that I remove my helmet, Sheriff?"

Emma grabbed the proffered documents with a slight huff because who the hell talks like that?

"Oh, we are definitely in agreement, Mr…" she moved her flashlight beam over the insurance card to catch the name. "Jones. And you may as well get off, too."

The chuckle that came from him went from muted to booming as his chin cleared the helmet.

"I assure you, love, I am always willing to get off at the command of a lass as beautiful as yourself." A long leg swung over the back end of the motorcycle as he dismounted, tapping the name on the back of the helmet before putting it on the vacated seat. "And there should be a Captain in there somewhere."

It sounded infinitely more dirty than it should.

What the fuck? Dealing with a jackass with flowery language, a penchant for innuendo and no respect for her town or its speed laws was NOT the fight she thought she'd be facing tonight, but she was game. Squaring her shoulders, she faced Jones head on to tell him a little something about himself (and her.)

I'm not your love.

How about you go get yourself off?

There will be precisely ZERO Captain in anything.

But the words momentarily died on her tongue. As he turned to face her, Emma could see he was seriously attractive. Eyes were a glittering blue, even in the sharp shadows created by her Maglight and the headlights of her car. High cheekbones made him look both refined and dangerous. His tongue somehow promised as much sin clamped between his teeth as it did when it was moving to form words that twisted her belly into a mass of oh my god WANT. And then there was that cockiness alluding to his knowledge that she'd noticed he's sex on legs.

She'd come out to the town line to get away from another arrogant asshole. The one who'd used his charms on her and, as far as she could tell, at least three other women in town over the course of their relationship. But that asshole wasn't here and Mr… (another quick look at the card) Killian Jones was. So her scapegoat-y punching bag he'd be.

"One. I'm not your love. Or lass. Or whatever other pet name you want to pull out of your ass. I'm Sheriff Swan to you and nothing else. Two. Save the innuendos for your harem of pirate wenches, Captain. Three. Your lack of judgment in word, action and speed has earned you the distinct honor of being the recipient of a field sobriety test. Shut up and stand over there."

Surprisingly, he complied. And proceeded to almost have a preternatural knowledge of the three levels designed to determine whether or not a driver was impaired. He completed them with precision and minimal direction from Emma, leading her to believe reckless driving with a subsequent sobriety test was somewhat of a hobby for him.

Almost disappointed she couldn't haul him handcuffed to the station just to give herself something to do (that didn't include sitting on the side of the road shit-talking her soon-to-be-ex boyfriend to the darkness), Emma quickly ran Jones' name to check for warrants and had a chuckle over how dorkily wide-eyed his driver license photo was before heading back to write him a ticket.

"Tonight's your lucky night, Jones." She paused for a come-on but he wisely kept his mouth shut. "Because I hadn't expected someone to come screaming across my town line at two o'clock in the morning, even though I know you were going well over the posted limit I have no radar measurement to slap you with exhibitionist speed. I'll ticket you for going 19 over the posted."

The rest of her speech was mindless and rote as she explained the process of contesting the ticket should he so desire and paying the fine, and reminding him that speed limits are posted to keep everyone safe.

Bidding him a good night, Emma handed him back his I.D. and documents with the ticket on top, jolting as their fingers touched. She didn't recall him taking off his gloves at any point, but then again, she had done the absolute most to avoid looking at Jones and his irritatingly attractive self once her eyes had their initial fill of his various charms. The warmth startled her and she looked up to see the face of a completely changed man. If pressed, she'd say he had gone into their encounter as the Captain (whoever the hell that was) and came out the other side a humbled Killian Jones.

"I apologize for my brashness, Sheriff. Contrary to my behavior this morning, I believe in good form." He stuffed his documents back into his jacket and one of the fingers she'd touched went to scratch behind his ear in an unsettlingly bashful way. Appearing to realize he was fidgeting, Jones pulled his zipper up to his chin. "I am well-versed in the dangers of perilous driving and will ensure my ventures into your town are within the realm of the law in the future."

Emma could only dumbly take several steps backward as he swung that leather-clad leg over the back of the bike, caught off guard by the two very different sides of Killian Jones. Helmet in place, visor up, the motorcycle roared to life. Jones made a show of carefully checking for other vehicles on the deserted road, flashed her a cheeky wink because of course he did, and drove off in the direction from which he came.

Huffing out a breath she didn't know she was holding, Emma shook her head at the fading taillight. The encounter with Jones was intriguing to say the least. Not what she expected going in, but a begrudgingly welcome distraction from the reality waiting for her in town. The reality of another letdown, another Beyoncé-approved box to the left, this time filled with Walsh's crap, and another mark in the Emma Swan Will Forever Be Alone column.

Resting her forehead on the steering wheel, she allowed herself a minute to imagine a simpler life where getting hit on by a ridiculously attractive man in the middle of the night didn't raise seventeen red flags and add an infinite number of bricks to her already high walls. Maybe she'd flirt back, challenging those blue eyes with her own pair of green. Maybe she'd give him a taste of his own teasing medicine until he asked for her number. Maybe she'd take it a step beyond someday and give now a shot, agreeing to follow him to an inn outside Storybrooke to climb him like a tree for a few hours, leaving just enough time at dawn to report back to the station for a shift change.

But Emma Swan doesn't do simple. She doesn't do easy or flirty or carefree. Dereliction of duty wasn't an option either and, despite her limited interaction with him, she had the distinct impression it wouldn't sit well with Captain Killian Jones either.

"Way to kill your own boner, girl," she muttered to herself as she put the cruiser in drive and made her way down the deserted tree-lined road and into town. Rolling past the clock tower, she allowed herself one more musing on the enigma that was Killian Jones: How long it would take him to go back on his word to keep his brand of law-breaking bullshit out of her town. Because they all break their promises, sooner or later.

As cautious as Emma was by nature, she was also rarely wrong.

It took thirty days, twenty-two hours and fifteen minutes.