Boots off, belt tossed aside, hair tie out and keys on the table by the door.
It was a ritual performed every night. Sometimes as early as seven pm, but usually around nine. Twelve-plus hour shifts left little energy for niceties when arriving home for Emma Swan.
When she'd taken the job as detective at Storybrooke Police Department she had been expecting an easier life. Leaving behind the hustle and bustle of Boston city life and heading for a small town, way up in northern Maine, seemed just the ticket after almost burning out in her last year working homicide. But for a small town Storybrooke had a surprisingly high rate of crime. Herself and Sheriff Humbert were barely able to keep up with the caseload and often she brought paperwork home to finish as she threw down a meal and drank her usual glass of wine.
Sighing, she checked her watch: nine-thirty already. Slowly she walked over to the refrigerator to check the contents.
"Hmm," she frowned. A half empty pack of salami slices, a shrivelled looking apple, a suspicious looking hunk of cheese and a carton of - she picked it up and pulled it to her nose, yuck - sour milk.
Pulling a glass from the drainer, she turned the lever of the faucet and filled it with cold water. Nothing to eat, as usual. She was awful at grocery shopping; she usually had breakfast at the local diner while going over open cases with Graham and lunch was a take out sandwich, or soup in the winter. She couldn't actually remember the last time she had cooked a real meal in her suspiciously clean kitchen.
Just then, her stomach let out a pleading grumble.
She bit her lip and tugged open the small drawer under the countertop beside the fridge. It was filled to the brim with takeout menus: for such a small place Storybrooke had its fair share of eateries. Sifting through the pile she discarded all the Asian food - she'd had Chinese every day last week and that had not been her greatest idea. Briefly she considered calling The Tasty Taco - they did the best fajitas this side of New York, but then she coloured at the memory of her last order: they had her choices memorised now and she was even on first name basis with Carlos, the delivery guy. And for a woman who didn't do close personal situations, that was a bit much.
Finally she settled on Liam's Slicery. It was new; the menu had arrived on her doorstep a couple of days earlier, so no chance of the knowing 'you've ordered here a hundred times already' look when the pizza came. And it had been at least two weeks since she had had pizza and she was craving a slice of good old pepperoni.
She dialled quickly. "Liam's Slicery, can I take your order?"
Initially she was taken aback. Instead of the expected, soft Maine tones, the speaker's accent was clearly British; clear, crisp and just a little sexy.
Fumbling her way through through her choices, she twisted her fingers around the spiral cable of the kitchen phone (the apartment was a little outdated), barely registering the cheerful reply of, "Thank you for your order, it will be with you in thirty minutes or less!"
Not enough time for a soak in the tub but plenty to get changed and to start work on a glass of wine (there may be no food, but there was always wine in the apartment).
In between yawns, she slipped on her favourite flannel pajamas - the blue ones with little pink moons and stars that she didn't have the heart to throw out, even though the pants were at least two inches two short now and the patch pocket was gradually falling away from the rest of the shirt.
While she waited she poured her wine, sifted though the mail (all junk) and flicked on the TV. Local cable was pretty awful even by her standards - mostly documentaries about shipping and badly acted TV movies. Eventually she settled on a channel showing reruns of Seinfeld.
Somewhere in between the wine and finally being able to sit down after a day on her feet, she fell asleep. When the doorbell rang, she shot up, cursing under her breath when the glass tipped over lap and wine soaked instantly into the flannel.
"Just a second!" she called as she ran to the kitchen and balled up some paper towels, blotting the stain but then stubbing her toe on a discarded boot so that she ended up hobbling the last few feet to the door. "Sorry, I-"
The words died in her throat as she flung the door open. Mr tall, dark and handsome was stood an arms reach away, pizza box in hand a cocky, yet definitely appealing, smile on his face.
She swallowed and licked her lips.
Crap, crap, CRAP!
"Not to worry lass, take your time."
And he had a sexy-ass voice to go with the hot looks - the same accent but even silkier than the one at the end of the phone. Typical.
Her cheeks burned as she thought of her stained pajamas, mussed up hair and no doubt, make up that had half slid off her face.
"I, er…" she stammered, giving a quick smile as she went to find her purse.
Shit, shit, shit… Of course, the first attractive guy she had met in months would turn up at her door when she looked like this.
"Ten dollars," he called after her. She pulled out her only note and turned back to him.
She saw his eyes flit to the stain on her pyjamas. "It's wine," she blurted out, almost tossing the note at him in her desire to extricate herself from the situation.
"Hard day?" he asked, handing over the cardboard box as he sifted through his pockets for change.
Great. He probably now though she was some kind of lush…
"Yeah. Kinda…" she lamely replied.
As the seconds ticked by she felt more and more self conscious. She'd been expecting a teenager with an acne problem, not a gorgeous British man with come fuck me eyes and a cheeky smile. "You can keep the change," she blurted out.
"No, that's far too much love, I couldn't-"
"Seriously," she insisted, "It's fine."
He cocked his eyebrow and gave her a small curious smile. "Well, if you insist - Miss Swan," he replied, looking at the receipt where her name and address was scrawled in black Sharpie across the top.
"Emma," she nodded, starting to close the door.
"Killian," he replied, "Killian Jones," he replied through the narrowing gap.
Killian Jones, she sighed as she turned the latch and trudged to the kitchen to find a plate, nice to meet you…
Seven-thirty am sharp and she was in her usual booth at Granny's, a stack of pancakes and a cinnamon topped hot chocolate in front of her. Spooning the syrup-coated confection into her mouth, she flicked through the large stack of brown, manilla folders she had just picked up from the office. Theft. Missing persons. Drunken brawls outside The Rabbit Hole. The usual.
She picked up her hot chocolate just in time to see Sheriff Humbert step though the door. Handsome as ever, he sported an eternally dishevelled look which she had yet to master - his worn-in leather jacket and ruffled hair adding to the smouldering smile he gave to the waitress, Ruby, as he crossed the threshold.
"Hey," she called as he sauntered towards her.
"Morning Emma," he quipped as he sat, giving Ruby a nod to bring over his usual as Emma pushed a file at him.
He stuck his tongue into his cheek as he flicked through the sheets of legal paper inside. The file was about the theft of two horses from a farm on the outskirts of town, normal enough stuff. She took a second to study his good looks and reminded herself about the little crush she had had on him when she had first moved here, six month earlier. The crush that lasted all of about a week until she had realised they were more like teasing siblings than potential anything more. It had been a little disappointing - a romance certainly would have eased the transition to a new life, but at the same time hooking up with a workmate could only real ever end badly.
"Fine," he smiled as his plate of bacon and eggs arrived alongside a steaming cup of coffee, "Let's head out there first."
"Good," Emma agreed, sipping her spiced hot chocolate as he worked on his breakfast.
One thing she had learned about Sheriff Graham Humbert was that he knew everything about the comings and goings of the residents of Storybrooke. He was like the unofficial grapevine of the town: nothing escaped his notice. And she was dying to ask him about the mysterious Killian Jones.
"So," she sighed as she pushed the remains of a pancake across her plate with her fork, "Did you have a good evening?"
"Same old, same old Emma, you know what it's like. You?" he asked.
Keeping her eyes on the white speckled formica table top, she shrugged, "You know… Actually, I tried that new pizza place, Liam's Slicery-"
"Good?" he asked, his mouth full of bacon.
Emma nodded, "Uh-huh… It was a little strange though, the guy who took my order was British, so was the delivery guy-"
"Yeah, the Jones brothers. Been in the states for years - you wouldn't think it, right?"
Ah, she thought. She was right about the accent.
"No, they seem fresh off the boat."
Graham let out a small laugh.
Feeling emboldened, she prodded further, "So, what do you know about these guys?" She tried to sound as offhand as possible.
"Called Liam and Killian - Liam's the older one. He's leasing premises from Mr. Gold, of course. The younger brother is staying around until everything is set up. He's some kind of sailor, apparently."
"Oh," Emma sighed in disappointment. So he wasn't sticking around, of course not. "Nothing we need to worry about then."
"I don't think so, but of course you know I keep an eye on all new arrivals." He then gave her a quick wink before downing the rest of his coffee, "You ready?"
Somehow, tracking down two lost horses had taken most of the day. They'd found the frightened mares hiding in the woods - it looked like some kids had set them free as badly executed prank.
Her feet ached from the hours of searching. She checked her watch as she turned the key in the lock of her apartment. Eight o'clock - not bad for her.
She hummed a little tune as she stripped off her clothes, laying a trail to the bedroom. She'd pick them up later - it wasn't like she had to worry about anyone seeing the mess.
Rather than her usual pajamas, Emma chose a pair of black leggings and a lilac t-shirt with a deep v-neck and a hem that reached just below her ass. She gathered her hair into a high pony tail and then checked her make-up; pretty good after 13 hours, she told herself.
Tonight she chose white wine - memories of her stained pyjamas that sat soaking in the tub colouring her choice. She hadn't gone grocery shopping yet, but tomorrow was Saturday - her first day off in six days - so she would make sure she woke early and filled her fridge then. Yes, that was the plan.
But tonight she flicked on the TV, sorted the mail (junk - again) and found her eyes flittering to the Liam's Slicery menu that she'd left on the kitchen countertop.
She shouldn't really. Pizza two nights in a row? All those carbs?
Still, the phone was in her hand and the number was dialled before she could further talk herself out of it. She ordered quickly - the man who answered tactfully seeming to ignore the fact that she had called the night before (they couldn't be that busy yet, right?).
Tonight's reruns were Married With Children. She tapped her foot as the canned laughter filled the small apartment, one eye on the clock, one on the door.
Twenty-nine minutes later there was a knock. Straightening her shirt, she bit her bottom lip, sinking the rest of her wine before dashing to the door.
"Hi," she answered with a large smile, her heart beating fast and only increasing when she saw him again.
Christ he was hot. Low slung dark-wash jeans and a black t-shirt. A mop of deep brown hair and matching stubble. A hint of muscle underneath his clothes and biceps she wanted to sink her fingers into. Yes please, she thought.
"Ten dollars," he said. She looked up into his eyes - had it been obvious she was staring?
"Oh, um-" She pulled a ten from her purse by the door. "I have the right change tonight," she continued, taking the offered box and standing awkwardly as he stuffed the note in his pocket. "So - you're new in town?"
"That obvious?" he quipped, with a crooked smile.
"Yeah, not too many British accents in these parts."
"And here I thought it was my attire that gave me away?"
She laughed. Damn, he was funny too.
"Almost. Well, welcome to Storybrooke."
"Thanks," he replied, scratching behind his ear as the security light outside the apartment dimmed from the lack of movement, "I like what I see so far. Not that I can stay too long, just helping get the business on its legs. My brother is Liam."
"Oh," she answered, trying to sound like this was news to her, also trying to keep the disappointment from her voice. "Well I'm Detective Emma Swan, Storybrooke P.D. Should you need any assistance in, um, the crime related area-"
"I know who to call," he finished, "Must be going - thirty minutes of less you know!". He gave a nod and then turned to leave. The security light flickered to life as she stood and watched five feet eleven inches of gorgeous man walk down the pathway.
She closed the door, the pizza almost forgotten as her mind began to fill with fuzzy thoughts and not so fuzzy thoughts: kissing him, pressing him up against the wall, fucking him on the dresser in her room.
Dashing to the fridge, she refilled her wine and took a big gulp. It had been so long since she had had a crush, it felt weird, but good. Harmless…
An idea formed, one she couldn't shake. Her head was full of images of the sexy stranger as she stumbled to her bedroom, slipped off her leggings and slid onto her bed, pressing her fingers into her underwear and letting her imagination run wild…
What do you think? Should I continue?