A/N: This is a repost of an old fic. (It was originally titled "Locked Up" but as another OQ fic has the same name, I decided to change it.) The first three chapters are complete, but updates might be slow in coming from here on out. This story started out as a prompt challenge, which is why this first chapter is short.

CHAPTER ONE
Locked Up

"This is ridiculous!" Regina spits as she's ushered into a cell. "I want my phone call."

The man on the other side of the bars smiles (smarmy bastard probably thinks he's handsome). "I'll take care of that for you just after I finish my paperwork." He nods toward the bench behind her. "You may as well make yourself comfortable while you're waiting."

She rolls her eyes. Stupid small town sheriff. (And seriously, how does a one-stoplight, in-the-middle-of-nowhere-America village even have a British law enforcement officer in the first place?) He takes a seat in a tattered office chair and props his feet up on his desk. From one of the drawers, he retrieves a book.

"Are you seriously going to read a novel right now?" she asks, disbelief heavy in her voice.

He doesn't look up. "It would seem so, yes."

She huffs in exasperation. "What, now? I thought you were going to do paperwork."

He holds up a hand, examines his bare wrist, and says, "It's time for my break, and I only do paperwork at the end of the day."

Regina grips the steel bars until her knuckles turn white. "As soon as I get out of here," she threatens through gritted teeth, "I'm going to sue you for wrongful imprisonment."

That gets his attention. He sets the book down and swings his legs off the desk. "Wrongful imprisonment, you say?"

She glares at him. "And harassment."

"I see." He bites his bottom lip, nodding slowly. "I think I might fill out the paperwork now, after all."

"It's about time," she retorts.

"Regina Mills—that's a lovely name for a beautiful woman," he says as he writes, and she is absolutely not blushing. "Alleged infractions: reckless driving—"

"I was only going ten miles over the limit!" she exclaims.

He glances up at her and winks. "Try thirty."

"I was not—"

"Next," he continues over her. "Driving with an expired license."

"It was my birthday yesterday! And there aren't any DMVs nearby in this backwater county."

"Happy belated birthday," he replies, utterly unfazed.

"Thank you," she snaps back at him.

"Not at all." His brows pinch together as if he's perplexed. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't your birthday on the exact same date every year?"

She scowls, but doesn't answer.

"I believe you had ample warning that your license was to expire. I'm afraid I can't let that go," he says, turning back to the paperwork. "And finally, assaulting a peace officer."

Her mouth falls open. He's going to charge her for that? "I swatted your hand away!"

He gives her a flat look, pointing to the discolored patch of skin on the outside of his eye. "You hit me with your purse."

"Not on purpose! I was trying to…scare you off," she finishes lamely.

In her defense, he had looked as though he was about to search her—bodily. And aside from a tin star, she wasn't even sure he was a real sheriff instead of one of those creeps who pretend to be officers so they can accost helpless women. The man dresses like he's one of the finalists in the Hunger Games with those shabby corduroy pants, worn-out long sleeve shirt covered with an equally worn vest, accessorized with a fringed neckerchief. Top off the look with a stubbly beard, and no, "clean-cut trustworthy policeman" does not come to mind. (Though, she grudgingly admits he wears the beard well.)

This is not looking good for her. Time to try another tactic. "I'm sorry," she says. "It really was an accident."

He raises a brow. "Apology accepted."

She blows out a sigh of relief. "Does that mean you're dropping the assault charge?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "It means I forgive you," he says. "As for the assault charge, however, you'll have to plead your case at your arraignment."

He. Is. Impossible. She rattles the bars in frustration before letting them go. "And when will that be?"

"Tomorrow afternoon." His mouth stretches in a wide grin. "That is, if the judge is back from his camping trip in time."

She very nearly screams. Instead, she closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. At least she still has a phone call.

"I don't know about you," he says, drawing her attention back to him, "but I'm famished. What shall we order for lunch? Oh, and I'm Robin, by the way."

This is going to be a very long twenty-four hours.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! If you're willing, I'd love to hear your thoughts!