THE WORST POSSIBLE PLAN

MAPLEWOOD FALLS, BOOK FOUR

LILY BENNET

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Worst Possible Plan, Maplewood Falls, Book Four

Copyright © 2026 by Lily Bennet

Cover design by Kim Richardson

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

in whole or in any form.

1

SOPHIE

You’re too much. Life’s too short.

I stared at my phone’s screen. Those were Henry’s last words to me. More like his last text to me. He broke up with me via text message, not a face-to-face conversation or a last dinner at a fancy restaurant to do the deed. At least then I would have had a nice meal and some wine. But no.

What kind of a man breaks up with his girlfriend of six months by text? A coward, that’s what.

Also someone who still somehow expected me to send him twelve dollars for “my share” of takeout two days earlier through PayPal.

The guy was scum. A scummer. I just made that up.

And what did it say about me that I still had the text message?

That maybe I enjoyed torturing myself. Or maybe I kept rereading it because a small part of me still expected another message underneath it saying “Just kidding. I’m outside. Let’s get tacos.”

I was a mess.

In the space of two weeks, I’d lost a boyfriend because I was “too much,” lost my job because of a minor printer incident, and lost my apartment because of a tiny illegal yoga studio I’d set up.

To be fair, the printer incident only became an incident after the printer started smoking.

And the yoga studio had technically been successful. Very successful. People loved Wine & Wind Down Wednesdays. Apparently the city of Maplewood Falls just had very strict opinions about commercial businesses being run out of basement apartments. Especially when one of the clients accidentally blocked the fire exit with a meditation fountain.

At this rate, by the end of the week, I’d gain fifty pounds, drown in Turtle Pond, or end up in jail for accidentally setting fire to the Hartwell Inn. Which would be very inconvenient since I lived there now.

Jail might actually be cheaper than rent at this point. Not ideal, but at least meals would be included. I took that as a win.

I tossed my phone on the bed and glanced around the room. It was the smallest in the inn according to my cousin Sarah, the owner, and the good Samaritan who let me stay here on a “family rate,” which was extremely cheap. The walls were covered in faded pink floral wallpaper that looked like it had survived at least three divorces.

The narrow bathroom had an old claw-foot tub fitted with a shower that groaned every time I turned the handle. I had a view of the garden, not the ocean. But it was clean, safe, and Sarah said I could stay here for as long as I wanted.

The room still smelled faintly like lemon cleaner and old wood. My suitcase sat half-unpacked near the dresser because even my clothes lacked the emotional strength to fully commit to this situation.

One of my bras hung from the bedside lamp.

I stared at it for a long moment. “Wow,” I muttered to myself, “really pulling your life together, Sophie.”

But I couldn’t stay here indefinitely. I was almost thirty years old. It was time I grew up, took charge of my life, and did something.

Something stable. Something respectable. Something that didn’t end with local authorities knowing my full name.

I grabbed my phone, tapped on my diary app, and started typing.

Day 1:

Will take charge of my life and find a job.

I stared at the statement.

It sounded less like a plan and more like the kind of thing someone wrote right before things got dramatically worse.

A sudden banging from the other side of the wall made me flinch. And then voices rose. I recognized one in particular. Dottie, the inn’s breakfast chef shouted orders. If Dottie was barking out orders, that meant breakfast would soon be served.

A second later something metal clattered loudly.

“Move your ass, Frank!” Dottie yelled through the wall. “Those eggs aren’t gonna scramble themselves!”

Yes, it was one of the reasons why the room’s rate was so cheap. I could hear the kitchen staff moving around. I could almost smell the breakfast through the walls.

Bacon. Coffee. Toast.

It already felt more supportive than my last relationship.

My stomach growled loudly, so I looked down and gave it a small tap. “Keep it down in there.”

Was it weird that I spoke to my stomach? Probably. But considering it had expanded noticeably over the past two weeks thanks to stress, cheesecake, and what I now referred to as emotional support wine, I felt we had developed the kind of close relationship that required occasional communication.

I stuffed my phone into my bag, grabbed my keys, locked the door behind me, and went in search of breakfast.

The good thing about my room being right next to the kitchen was that I only had to go a few feet to the dining room.

It looked completely different now from the last time I was here. The old floral tablecloths, heavy curtains, and dusty brass chandeliers from my childhood were finally gone. Sarah had replaced them with white linens, soft light curtains, and simple farmhouse décor that somehow made the whole place feel brighter, bigger, and far less likely to smell faintly like cigarette smoke and grease.

Aunt Edna had left the inn to Sarah. Just as well too. I doubt I could have run it as well. Not that I wouldn’t have tried. I absolutely would have tried. Very enthusiastically. But realistically, within six months I probably would have accidentally double-booked three weddings, poisoned someone with undercooked quiche, and burned down part of the gazebo while attempting to hang fairy lights for a “rustic summer vibe.” Trust me, this way was safer for everyone.

A few guests were already sitting in the dining room. Smiling happy couples, enjoying their stay at the inn.

And then my eyes found the one person I didn’t want to see this morning.

Lola Sinclair.

She lounged in one of the dining room seats, wearing a tight blue dress and the kind of confidence usually reserved for movie stars and women who never forgot to moisturize. A retired socialite and former real-estate investor, she somehow managed to look glamorous before nine in the morning while the rest of us looked recently rescued from a natural disaster.

I still had pillow marks on my face. I told myself it was a textured foundation look.

Still, Lola would start asking questions, and unfortunately, I suffered from a terrible condition known as answering them.

Damnit.

This was a fight or flee moment.

And I chose to flee.

I spun around and started my way out…

“Sophie! Over here, darling,” came Lola’s voice from behind me.

Crap. I guess I needed to work on my stealth.

Slowly, I turned back around. “Lola. Hey. Didn’t see you there.”

Lola’s perfectly glossed lips parted slightly as her eyes moved over me from head to toe.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You look terrible.”

My mouth dropped open. “Uh… Thank you?”

“No, no, not terrible, terrible. More…” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Emotionally exhausted with undertones of possible dehydration.”

I glanced down at myself automatically. In my defense, I had attempted an outfit this morning. Unfortunately, somewhere between getting dressed and existing, things had taken a turn. My light blue short-sleeve shirt was completely wrinkled from being dragged out of my suitcase, my white cotton-linen-blend skirt looked like I’d slept in it, and my hair was in what could generously be described as an unstable ponytail.

Lola’s gaze drifted over me thoughtfully. “You don’t have your sister’s breasts, but honestly, darling, plenty of men prefer smaller. Very elegant. Very European. We can absolutely work with this. They make incredible padding now. Truly miraculous. Modern science is doing wonderful things.”

“Wow,” I said slowly. “We really skipped right past coffee and went directly to my boobs.”

Lola waved a hand dismissively. “Please. Women have discussed breasts over breakfast since the beginning of time.”

I shrugged. “I was literally just wanting some eggs.”

“For starters,” said Lola with a smile. She patted the empty chair beside her. “Sit down before you pass out.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sweetheart, your left eye is twitching.”

Was it? “That’s just stress.”

“That’s never a good sentence.”

I let out a sigh and sat. I was ravenous, and even Lola’s body shaming wouldn’t get in the way of me and my eggs, and maybe pancakes. Sausages. And if I was spending the morning alone, definitely beans with maple syrup. You didn’t want to eat those in a crowd. Trust me. Dottie’s maple syrup beans had a way of turning a perfectly innocent fart into a career-ending event.

Lola took a delicate sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim of the cup like a woman evaluating a disappointing handbag. “So. Tell me about this Henry character. He dumped you. Did you cry? Of course you did.” She gave a small sympathetic wince. “And then you lost your job and your apartment after? Darling, that’s not a rough patch. That’s the opening scene of a documentary.”

“I’m not a documentary.”

“You’re living in an inn with one suitcase and stress bangs. You’re dangerously close.”

I opened my mouth to point out that she lived here too. Okay, yes, she had the best room in the inn and more money than most of the people in town, but a cheerful voice stopped me.

“Sophie! Wonderful. You’re just in time for your breakfast,” said a voice I knew all too well.

I turned to see Dottie heading toward us, barefoot as usual, with pancake batter smeared across one cheek and her blonde-and-white hair twisted into a messy bun held together by two spoons. She wore a long denim skirt, a loose shirt, and an apron that read: I YELL BECAUSE I CARE.

Dottie had been running the inn’s breakfast kitchen for as long as I could remember and still moved around the dining room like a woman operating entirely on caffeine, rage, and salted butter. I was fairly certain she’d once threatened a tourist with a spatula for asking if the pancakes were gluten free.

She marched over carrying a plate so massive it nearly disappeared beneath the food. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, and something caramelized that may once have been fruit before Dottie decided sugar and frying it were better ideas. She set down a fresh mug of coffee beside it with a satisfied nod.

“Here you go,” she announced proudly.

The smell alone nearly healed me emotionally.

“Thank you,” I said, just as my stomach gave an enormous growl. My face burned. “Got to feed the beast.” I laughed, patting my stomach.

Lola slowly lowered her coffee cup. “Darling, I think your organs are trying to communicate with us.”

I grabbed my fork before my stomach could publicly embarrass me any further.

“Don’t eat too much,” said Lola. “Or you’ll never be able to fit your ass in a decent pair of jeans.”

I blinked. “Thanks for the tip.”

Dottie shook her head. “Don’t listen to the tramp. Eat your carbs. They’re good for you. And your butt.”

“She says that because she cooks entirely with butter,” Lola replied smoothly.

Dottie raised her brows. “Flavor matters.”

“It’ll make her fat,” countered Lola. “That’s the last thing she needs.” She waved a finger at me. “The woman got dumped. Lost her job and her apartment. Trust me. She can’t afford to put on weight. She’s already close to the point of no return. That’s a sizable ass.”

“What?” I turned around in my seat and tried to look at my butt. No idea why I did that.

Dottie pulled one of her spoons out of her hair and pointed it at Lola. “Leave her alone. She’s allowed to eat her sorrows. That’s what carbs are for.”

“Wine is for sorrows,” Lola corrected. “Carbs are for people who’ve given up.” She shook her head. “Only ugly people eat carbs. Sophie is not ugly.”

“I guess… thanks?” I said, not sure where this conversation was going.

I felt like I was being emotionally attacked and complimented at the same time.

“The point is,” continued Lola, “our girl needs all the help she can get. She needs to look presentable if she wants to find a job and get laid.”

I choked on my coffee.

Dottie rolled her eyes. “Not everybody’s life revolves around men and sex.”

“No,” said Lola calmly. “Just the fun parts.” She smiled and gave me a wink. “This reminds me of the time I was homeless.”

I looked up at her. “You were homeless?”

“For nearly four months.”

“What happened?”

Lola waved a hand lazily. “A misunderstanding involving my third husband, a yacht broker named Antonio, and a woman from Monaco with extremely aggressive cheekbones.” She took another sip of coffee. “Anyway, technically I had nowhere permanent to live, so I simply rotated between several very generous men with excellent mattresses and low emotional expectations.”

I nodded, not sure what to say to that.

“Here we go,” said Dottie with a sigh.

“Monday through Wednesday, I stayed with a plastic surgeon who kept silk sheets on the bed,” continued Lola, completely unbothered. “Thursdays were for a divorced architect with thighs like a Greek statue. Weekends depended entirely on wine quality and whether or not the man snored.”

“That’s not homeless,” I pointed out.

“That is luxury homelessness,” Lola corrected. “There’s a difference.”

I looked down at my pancakes. The saddest part was that even her homelessness sounded more glamorous than my actual life.

“I need the strongest cup of coffee you’ve got,” ordered a familiar voice.

I whirled around in my seat. A woman in her late fifties marched toward us with the energy of someone on her way to either solve a crisis or start one. Her shoulder-length gray hair brushed against the collar of her navy blazer, and she wore bright red glasses over a green shirt and a pair of faded jeans that looked suspiciously like they’d once belonged to an ex-husband.

Helen. Our town mayor.

Lola leaned back in her chair, watching Helen as she dumped her bag on the floor. “What crawled up your butt this morning?”

Helen glowered at her. “I’m not in the mood for your vulgarities.”

Lola shrugged. “Darling, changing the batteries of your vibrator is really not that difficult.”

Yup. It was going to be one of those days.

Helen’s face reddened, but she didn’t add anything to that.

“Here. Fresh pot,” said Dottie as she poured a steaming hot cup of coffee for Helen.

Our mayor pulled out a chair and sat. “I’ve been up since five this morning, going through all the résumés I have on file. And nothing. No one is qualified to help.”

“With what?” I asked before shoving half a pancake into my mouth and seeing Lola shaking her head disapprovingly at me.

Helen grabbed the coffee mug with both hands like it contained emotional stability. “The Summer Festival.”

I paused mid-chew.

The Maplewood Falls Summer Festival was a huge deal. Tourists flooded the town for fireworks, live music, food vendors, games, craft booths, a parade, and usually at least one small public disaster involving some nakedness.

“It starts in two days,” continued Helen. “And practically nothing is prepared. If Sheriff Walker calls me one more time about festival permits, I’m retiring.”

Lola sat straighter in her chair and pushed out her chest. “Wish Sheriff Walker would call me.” A slow smile spread across her face. “Tall, grumpy men with badges are exactly why I still own handcuffs.”

“It’s a disaster.” Helen pointed at her coffee for emphasis. “The event planner quit yesterday. Said I was too demanding.”

“Shocker,” mumbled Lola.

Helen rubbed her forehead. “I need someone organized. Competent. Calm under pressure.”

Every instinct in my body told me to remain silent.

Instead, for reasons I will never fully understand, my hand shot into the air, and I heard myself say, “I can do it.”

The words flew out of my mouth so fast I almost looked around to see who’d said them.

Helen stared at me.

Lola lowered her coffee cup very slowly.

Dottie looked delighted.

I swallowed hard, waiting.

“Well,” said Helen cautiously, staring as though this was the first time she’d ever laid eyes on me. “Do you have experience planning events?”

“Yes. Lots,” I answered. Total lie. The lie was so smooth, confident, and disturbingly natural I nearly believed it myself.

Wow. Unemployment had unlocked new personality traits.

“Really?” asked Helen.

“Absolutely,” I told her.

Technically, I had once organized a surprise birthday party for my friend Nicole. Okay, yes, the restaurant lost the reservation and someone’s husband got drunk and cried near the desserts, but overall people had eaten cake and survived. So, I took that as a win.

But inside, my brain was already screaming.

GOOGLE THE CRAP OUT OF EVENT PLANNING.

WATCH YOUTUBE VIDEOS.

BUY A CLIPBOARD.

Helen narrowed her eyes slightly. “You think you can pull together the festival in two days?”

I nodded, mostly to convince myself. “I do. Absolutely.” My voice sounded weirdly confident for a woman who’d nearly set her own toaster on fire making a bagel last month.

Helen studied me for another long moment. “Can you start today?”

“Yes,” I blurted out immediately.

Lola leaned toward Dottie and whispered loudly, “This is either going to save her life or destroy the entire town.”

Dottie shrugged. “Could go either way.”

I ignored them, my eyes fixed on Helen. “You can count on me.”

Look at me. I was doing it. I was moving forward with my life.

I had a job.

An actual real job.

Sure, I had absolutely no experience planning a town festival, had just lied directly to the mayor over pancakes, and currently knew roughly the same amount about event planning as I knew about brain surgery, but still.

Progress.

And then Helen reached into her bag, pulled out a thick overstuffed binder, and dropped it in front of me with a heavy thud.

“Wonderful,” she said. “The parade permits were denied, two vendors canceled, and someone accidentally booked a death metal band for the senior luncheon.”

My smile froze.

Lola leaned back into her chair, a slow smile creeping over her face. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

I stared at the binder.

And for the very first time since moving into the Hartwell Inn, I seriously considered faking my own death.

2

SOPHIE

Iparked crooked.

Not dramatically crooked but enough that when I climbed out of Sarah’s old Volkswagen Jetta—which she’d graciously let me borrow after taking one look at my bank account situation and making a concerned face—and looked back at it, I briefly considered getting back in and trying again. Unfortunately, I had already committed to the crookedness, and people were around. Witnesses.

Too late.

I had bigger problems.

Namely, the temporary stage that was about to be unloaded in the middle of Main Road, which felt like the kind of thing an actual event planner would probably have thought about before the truck arrived.

Rookie mistake.

A promising start to my first day as Maplewood Falls’ official event planner.

With Helen’s giant binder tucked under one arm and my bag hanging from my shoulder, I hurried toward the delivery truck.

The company name, ATLANTIC TENT RENTALS, was plastered across both sides in giant blue letters.

“Hi!” I called, attempting a wave with the arm currently pinning a binder beneath my armpit. It came out looking less like a greeting and more like I was having a full-body muscle spasm.

The driver’s head popped out the open window. He looked to be in his early forties, with a faded gray T-shirt and a sunburned face that suggested he’d spent most of his life outdoors. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and even standing several feet away, I caught the lingering smell of stale smoke mixed with something that suspiciously resembled last night’s beer. His thinning gray hair stuck out from beneath a baseball cap advertising some brand of fishing tackle.

The driver seemed relieved, which made me nervous. People should not look relieved to see me. Not when I was in charge of something. Especially not when I’d been in charge for less than an hour.

Fake-it-till-you-make-it event planner coming through.

“Where do you want the stage?” he asked.

Right. The stage. The stage I was apparently responsible for. The stage that everyone would eventually stand on while I hoped it didn’t collapse and become part of town history.

I opened Helen’s binder, flipped through several pages, turned it upside down and then right side up again. There were maps, charts, notes, and color-coded tabs. Who made these things? Military strategists? Air traffic controllers?

“Over there,” I said, pointing toward the town square. “Facing the lighthouse-style clock tower.” I had no freaking clue if that was the right spot.

The driver nodded. “You’re the boss.”

I blinked. Holy crap. That was true. I was the boss. The statement felt wildly irresponsible. Like giving a toddler the keys to a forklift and wishing them luck.

Then a woman wearing an apron came running out of the bakery next door, waving both arms above her head like she was trying to stop an airplane from landing. Flour dusted the front of her apron, and her dark hair was escaping from a messy bun while she hurried across the sidewalk. She had the determined expression of a woman who had survived several morning rushes and wasn’t afraid of conflict.

Uh-oh.

“No! Not there!” she yelled. “That’s where my pastry tent goes!”

The driver stopped.

Heat rushed to my face as I pointed to the stretch of grass closest to Town Hall. “Okay. How about over there?”

And just like that, another woman appeared.

When I say appeared, I mean one second she wasn’t there and the next she was standing beside us like she’d materialized magically. Spooky.

She was tall. The kind of tall that made you take a step back just to locate her face. She wore black from head to toe and held a pair of gardening shears in one hand like she knew exactly how to use them. She looked less like a florist and more like someone hired to dispose of problems.

“You can’t put it there,” she snapped. “My flower display goes there.”

“Ah. Okay.” I should have known that. I pointed toward the only patch of grass that hadn’t yet been claimed. “Here?” I instructed the driver.

The florist slowly turned her head and followed my finger. “The petunia arch goes there.”

“Right.” No idea what the hell she was talking about. I was beginning to understand why people drank during event planning. Just enough to take the edge off conversations involving petunia arches.

Ten minutes later the truck was blocking half the street.

And I was sweating through my antiperspirant and my clothes. My pits were practically bathing in sweat. It appeared I was sweating out of every pore on my body.

I was a sweaty, stinking mess.

Wonderful.

Traffic had backed up. A volunteer was asking where to put folding chairs. Someone wanted vendor assignments. A man carrying electrical cables wanted to know where the power hookup was. Another woman was asking where the lemonade stand was supposed to go. Everyone had questions, and for reasons I still didn’t fully understand, I was the person expected to answer them.

I had no idea. Not a single clue.

The worst part? I couldn’t even Google answers because everyone kept talking to me.

“Miss?”

I smiled brightly, like I was one inconvenience away from living in the woods. “Everything is completely under control.”

A deep voice behind me said, “That’s good to hear.”

I straightened and turned around.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Sheriff’s Department polo shirt. The name WALKER was embroidered over one side of his chest in gold letters, which was helpful because otherwise I might have spent the next ten minutes referring to him as Sheriff Hot Guy.

And a pair of brown eyes studied the scene with the exhausted patience of a man who’d seen this exact disaster coming from three towns away.

Sheriff Eric Walker.

For a second, my brain simply stopped working because no sheriff should look like that. Right?

Sheriffs were supposed to be slightly overweight men named Bob who drank too much coffee and complained about paperwork. They weren’t supposed to look like they belonged on the cover of a magazine titled Men Who Can Build You a Deck and Give You a Massage at the Same Time.

He stood with his hands on his hips, calm and steady while madness unfolded around him. The morning sun caught in his dark hair, and there wasn’t a wrinkle anywhere on his shirt.

Damn. That was one hot male specimen.

Double damn. I might have been drooling.

I casually reached up and wiped the corners of my mouth, disguising it as an itch.

No drool. Progress.

Still, even if I wasn’t drooling, I was definitely staring. The kind of staring that should probably require a permit.

Maybe I was hallucinating his hotness from stress. That felt possible. I’d slept badly and consumed too much coffee. A few hours of standing in the hot sun was enough to bring out the crazy. A hallucination wasn’t completely off the table.

I blinked several times. Then once more for good measure.

Nope. Still there.

Unfortunately, he was now looking directly at me.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked. His voice was deep and velvety. I wanted to bathe in it.

Oh yeah. I was also losing my damn mind.

“Not anymore. Nothing. Forget it. Unforget it. Forget I said forget it.” Damnit. Here I went with the nervous word vomit. It was happening again, the same condition that had once caused me to tell a dentist I loved him after a routine cleaning.

The sheriff watched me.

This was not improving. In fact, I was actively making it worse. If social interactions were an Olympic sport, I was currently competing for last place.

“Good to know,” he said finally, narrowing his eyes as he looked me over.

Oh god. He thought I was insane. Which, to be fair, was currently a reasonable working theory.

His gaze moved slowly from the blocked street to the delivery truck to the volunteers arguing over folding chairs before finally landing on me. Then to the binder I was holding upside down.

Super.

“Who are you?” he asked, finally.

“Sophie.” Why did my voice sound like that? All high pitched. Like I’d inhaled helium on the way over. I cleared my throat. “Sophie Hartwell.”

He cocked a brow. “Another Hartwell.”

It was my time to frown at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?” Okay. Captain Competent was starting to annoy me.

Hotness be damned. I was workin’ here.

For a second, I wondered if Sarah owed the town money. Or if one of my cousins had accidentally started a cult. There were a surprising number of Hartwells in Maplewood Falls. The odds of one of us having done something embarrassing were reasonably high.

His expression didn’t change. “How long have you been event planning?” he asked.

“Three years.” The lie flew out so fast I almost impressed myself.

He lifted a brow. “Really. Three years.”

That wasn’t a question. Just enough skepticism to make me want to fling myself directly into the harbor. Not swim. Just gently launch myself off the dock and let the fish judge me instead.

“And you have everything under control?” he asked, in that cop-like voice, the one that always considered you the suspect unless told otherwise. It somehow made me feel guilty about things I hadn’t even done yet. Like maybe I should confess now and save everyone time.

“Absolutely,” I answered, not breaking eye contact. See? Professional liar right here.

A car horn sounded behind me. The long, frustrated kind usually reserved for rush hour traffic and people who drove twenty under the speed limit.

The truck driver leaned out his window. “Boss, I still need to know where you want the stage.”

I looked back at the sheriff, my face feeling like I’d stuck it in Dottie’s oven. It was entirely possible my cheeks were now visible from space. Which was unfortunate because he was standing close enough to witness every second of my professional collapse.

The sheriff glanced at the truck still blocking half the street. His gaze lingered on the line of cars forming behind it and then on the volunteers wandering around holding folding chairs like confused migrating birds.

A folding chair collapsed somewhere behind me. The loud crash was followed by an offended yelp.

I sighed. “Mostly under control.”

Captain Competent nodded once. “Looks like it.”

Fantastic. I had known this man for approximately forty-five seconds, and he’d already caught me in a lie. Not the big lie about having three years of event-planning experience. Just the smaller lie about having any clue what was happening at this exact moment. Although, now that I thought about it, maybe they were related.

I pressed my lips together and tightened my grip on the binder. Okay. Fine. So things weren’t going perfectly. I had a few minor setbacks—a blocked street, a missing stage location, an electrical guy looking for answers I didn’t have. Nobody had died. That felt important.

Besides, I could do this.

Probably.

People planned festivals every day. Thousands of people.

How hard could it be? Actually, don’t answer that.

I straightened my shoulders and gave myself a mental shake. I had survived being dumped by text message. I’d survived losing my job. I’d survived explaining to my landlord why twelve strangers were doing yoga in my living room. Compared to that, organizing a small-town festival should have been manageable.

The fact that I had absolutely no evidence to support that conclusion felt irrelevant.

I was doing this. I could do this.

And if I couldn’t do this, I would simply continue pretending I could until somehow it became true.

A volunteer rushed over. He looked to be in his early thirties, wearing faded jeans, work boots, and a baseball cap with MAPLEWOOD FALLS MARINA stitched across the front. He had an open, friendly face like he probably helped old ladies carry groceries without being asked and volunteered for things because he genuinely wanted to help. Unfortunately, he had also made the mistake of assuming I knew what I was doing.

“Where do you want the petting zoo?” asked the volunteer.

I blinked. “The what?”

“The petting zoo.” He shifted his weight. “The animals are arriving tomorrow.”

There was a petting zoo? Of course there was a petting zoo. Somewhere between the stage, the vendors, the electrical hookups, the chairs, the permits, and the growing traffic problem, I had completely missed the fact that livestock were also about to become my responsibility. Which felt like information I should have received before accepting the job. Or before lying about being qualified for it. One of those two moments would have been helpful.

The sheriff crossed his arms over his wide chest. “You sure you’ve got everything under control,” he repeated.

I stood my ground. “Yes, I do.” I even lifted my chin a little. Not because I was confident. More because if I didn’t commit fully to the lie, it might collapse under its own weight.

Captain Competent watched me a beat too long to be considered polite. Long enough for me to become aware of every ridiculous thing about myself. My hair, my red face, the droplets of sweat trickling down my armpits, and the very real possibility that I smelled like a gym locker.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Hartwell,” he said finally and then spun around and walked away. His long stride carried him toward the traffic backup with the calm efficiency of a man who solved problems for a living.

Me? I was creating them professionally.

“Can’t wait,” I told him, my traitorous heart pounding. Which was annoying. I’d spent the last six months dating a perfectly normal man who sold insurance and had never once caused my heart to do anything except maintain a steady and medically acceptable rhythm.

I thought I saw the smallest hint of amusement cross his face before he turned around. Like he’d already reached a conclusion about me and found it entertaining.

Like I was entertainment.

Was I irritated? Yes. And I may or may not have stared at his ass as he walked away.

Okay, I did.

Still, I had a horrible feeling Captain Competent was about to become very familiar with all of my mistakes. At the rate things were going, he might need his own dedicated file.

Yay me.

3

SOPHIE

Pretending to be an event planner was hard. Trying to pretend to be an event planner while actually being expected to plan an event, well… that was a full-contact sport.

This morning, I’d woken up blissfully unaware of how much one’s life could deteriorate in eight hours. If you’d asked me then whether I’d ever stand in the middle of Maplewood Falls, drenched in sweat, clutching a binder the size of a tombstone, and telling grown adults where to put extension cords, I would’ve laughed in your face. A full snort-laugh. Possibly with choking.

Me? Run a summer festival? Never in a million years.

Yet here I was, standing in the middle of the town square doing exactly that. Or trying to. Mostly failing.

I squinted down at Helen’s binder, which looked like it had been assembled by someone with a deep love of tabs. Beside it was a stack of papers I was supposed to understand by now.

There was a vendor map. A safety checklist. A volunteer schedule that looked like it had been attacked by a highlighter. And my personal favorite: Livestock Holding Area Requirements.

Yeah. Super swell reading. Very comforting. No notes.

“You should sit down before you get a heat stroke,” announced one of the volunteers, standing near the folding tables with a clipboard of his own and a calm confidence that said he hadn’t accidentally lied his way into a municipal disaster. I’d already forgotten his name.

Stan? Steve? Stubert? It’d come to me in the middle of the night. Right after I finally fell asleep.

I shot him a look. “I’m fine. Thanks, Steve.” Total lie. I was tired. It was just after five in the evening, and I hadn’t even taken a break yet.

He shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss. And my name’s William.”

“Right.” Damn. Not even close.

I wanted to tell him to get lost. Or at least to take his clipboard and his reasonable tone and go be helpful somewhere else. But he was technically one of the only volunteers who hadn’t quit, wandered off, or asked me where the bathroom permits were, which I still wasn’t entirely convinced existed.

Besides, I was pretty sure I needed him.

He lifted his clipboard, unfazed. “Also, I just wanted to point out that the rental company still hasn’t dropped off the animal fencing.”

“I know,” I said, flipping through Helen’s binder. “I called. They said tomorrow.”

“But the animals are coming tomorrow.”

I shot him a look. “I know that, Stan.”

He frowned. “William.”

“I know that too.” I absolutely did not.

This wasn’t going at all as I’d imagined it in my head. The fencing should have been here and set up, then when the animals arrived, everything would go smoothly. And Helen would congratulate me on my planning awesomeness.

A truck rumbled somewhere behind me.

The volunteer smiled. “That sound? That’s either progress or a problem.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Part of me wanted to introduce Helen’s binder to his forehead. Repeatedly.

I turned around. A long trailer with slatted aluminum sides rolled up to the curb, its oversized tires crunching over the gravel. Dust coated the metal, and the unmistakable scent of hay drifted through the warm air.

Oh no. This was not happening.

“Looks like the animals have arrived early,” commented the volunteer, like he was announcing light rain instead of my complete professional collapse.

My heart dropped. “No. Nothing is ready yet.” If whoever was in that trailer expected me to know what to do with a petting zoo, I was going to have a stroke.

The trailer door clanked. Something inside bleated loudly.

A man stood there with a sturdy stance and an expression like he had already decided this was not his problem. Mid-fifties, gray beard, work boots, baseball cap, and a clipboard tucked under one arm. Behind him, something thumped hard against the trailer wall.

“You must be Sophie,” he said, walking up to me.

“Yes,” I said because my reputation as the woman accepting disasters had already spread. “And you are?”

“Earl,” he said. “Petting zoo.”

I stared at him. Part of me wanted to laugh, but then I remembered laughter was how people tipped into madness.

“You’re early,” I said instead, my smile tightening. “You’re actually a day early.”

Earl’s mouth twitched, and I could tell he was not at all bothered by this information. “Paperwork says today.”

Damn. Whose fault was that? Mine? Very possible.

The trailer rattled again. Whatever was inside was probably plotting my downfall.

“Thank you for coming, Earl,” I said, my voice climbing to a pitch no adult woman should use in public. “But the fencing isn’t here until tomorrow. So maybe you could just… come back then?”

“Can’t,” he said. “Got another delivery.”

I nodded like this information didn’t just derail my entire sense of reality. I might’ve had a brief out-of-body experience. Hard to say. I wasn’t entirely present for it.

So this meant I was now in charge of livestock with no enclosure.

Fantastic.

Nothing says “welcome to your new career” like unsecured livestock.

He lifted his clipboard. “I just need a signature.”

I grabbed his pen and scribbled my signature, not really seeing it.

Earl looked past me, already clocking the empty patch of grass, the folded tables, the pile of decorations, and my face. “Where do you want them?” he asked, already walking toward the back of the trailer.

“I…” I might cry today. It was looking increasingly likely.

Earl released the latch and swung open the trailer’s rear gate.

A goat leaped out.

“Wait! Are you crazy!” I stepped forward. “Have you lost your mind! You can’t unload them yet. There’s no fencing.”

The goat stood there, its black-and-white coat gleaming in the sun and its golden eyes calmly surveying its surroundings.

From inside the trailer came the clatter of hooves and the unmistakable sound of something much larger.

I spun around.

An alpaca appeared, easing down the ramp with surprising grace. Its creamy white fleece bobbed with every step, and it paused at the bottom to stretch its long neck toward me. Dark, curious eyes peered from beneath dark lashes while its pointed ears flicked forward and then back, catching every unfamiliar sound.

A second alpaca followed close behind, smaller and the color of rich caramel. It hurried to catch up, letting out a soft humming sound before pressing against the larger alpaca’s shoulder as if borrowing a little courage.

Then a miniature donkey picked its way down the ramp, placing each tiny hoof with careful precision. Its shaggy gray coat was dusted with silver, a darker stripe running along its back and shoulders, while a tousled chocolate-brown forelock spilled over bright, watchful eyes. Its oversized ears swiveled in opposite directions, listening to everything at once. Reaching the pavement, it stopped in the middle of the street, lifted its nose, and released a soft, questioning bray.

For one brief moment, everything was still.

Then the goat took off toward a stack of colorful festival banners.

“Damnit.” I dropped the binder and rushed after it. “Get back here, you!”

The goat darted between two folding tables, dragging half a banner behind it while chewing enthusiastically.

“Should I… do something?” asked the volunteer from behind me.

“Yes!” I shouted.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet,” I yelled back. At least the goat had stopped moving. Progress.

I stood there breathing heavily while trying to come up with a plan on how to deal with this situation. I was supposed to be the event planner. This was an event. I needed to event-plan the hell out of it.

The sound of the scraping of asphalt pulled my attention behind me.

The largest of the alpacas started walking directly toward me. My first thought was, Will it spit in my face or headbutt me? I wasn’t particularly interested in either outcome.

I moved left.

The alpaca moved left.

I moved right.

The alpaca moved right.

“This is so weird,” I said out loud.

The donkey chose that exact moment to wander into the parking lot.

“You,” I called after it. “Donkey, I need you to stay near the trailer. Stay! Good donkey.”

Obviously, the donkey kept going. I wasn’t sure why I expected it to listen to me. My sister Margot was the one skilled with animals. She could teach an old dog to do tricks. Me? Animals mostly looked at me like I worked for them.

“Okay.” I took a deep breath and spread out my hands. “Everybody stay calm. That’s it. No more funny business.” Just as the words escaped my lips, the goat climbed onto a picnic table and started to jump off and then back on again.

I was in hell. The furry, hooved kind.

The volunteer looked at me. “Now what?”

“New plan, Stan,” I said, knowing that wasn’t his name but absolutely not caring at the moment. “I’ll let you know when it comes to me.”

The driver checked his watch. “I gotta go.”

My head whipped around. “What?” Irritation flared. I was going to strangle him. You know it. I know it.

“Another delivery.” The driver shrugged like he hadn’t just unleashed my new furry-hooved hell.

I stared at him incredulously. “You can’t leave.” My body leaned forward, like it was prepared to go full-on quarterback and tackle the son of a bitch. Yes, he was bigger than me, but I was going for the knees.

“Sure, I can,” said Earl.

I pointed to the animals. “You brought me livestock. Emphasis on the word live. They’re not stuffed animals. They are living and breathing creatures.”

Earl shook his head. “Technically, I delivered livestock. It’s up to you now.”

I clenched my jaw. “Where am I supposed to put them?”

He pointed vaguely toward the square. “Somewhere. Not my problem.”

Then he climbed into his truck, turned on the engine and pulled away.

Motherfracker.

I watched the trailer disappear down Main Road, feeling my blood pressure rise to an all new level of high.

The petting zoo area wasn’t ready. The fencing hadn’t been delivered. The tents weren’t up. Nothing was ready.

Something tugged at my shirt. I looked down as an alpaca nibbled the hem of my shirt.

“Stop that,” I said, pulling away and walking off. I needed to think. Panicking wasn’t going to catch a goat. This was my job. Okay, yes, I’d exaggerated my experience. Fine. A lot. But I’d figure it out. I had to.

The alpaca followed me again across the square, past the decorations, and around a folding table. It always remained exactly two feet behind me like a fluffy stalker. If I wasn’t so stressed, I might have thought it cute.

“The donkey’s in the road!” yelled a voice.

I whirled around.

The donkey was, in fact, in the road. Standing directly in the center of Main Road.

I sighed. “You guys are killing me.”

A car stopped. Another car stopped behind it. Then another. Within thirty seconds, I’d somehow created another traffic jam, this time using livestock.

That had to be a record.

A large white SUV rolled up beside the growing line of cars, its tires crunching over the edge of the gravel shoulder. The late afternoon sun flashed off the windshield, and a bold gold-and-black sheriff’s star stretched across the front door. MAPLEWOOD FALLS SHERIFF was printed in large letters along the side, impossible to miss even from halfway across the square.

My stomach dropped so fast it practically left my body.

Captain Competent was back.

Damnit. Not him. Anybody but him. A state inspector? Fine. The mayor? Manageable. A television news crew? Honestly, at this point, why not?

But not Sheriff Eric Walker.

I had spent the entire afternoon trying to convince myself that our first meeting had been a temporary humiliation. A brief professional setback. A minor bump in the road.

The road had looped back around and hit me in the ass again.

The driver’s door opened, and the sheriff climbed out. He was all steady and capable, the exact opposite of the woman currently supervising a traffic jam caused by a donkey.

My gaze snagged on his shoulders for a second too long. Then his jaw. Then his hands. Those big, manly hands would feel delicious on my skin…

I shook my head from those thoughts. Literally. There was actual shaking.

My life was actively falling apart, and I was fantasizing about a man’s hands.

I really needed higher standards.

I needed a bottle of wine.

Captain Competent surveyed the scene—the stopped traffic, the donkey, the goat, the alpaca currently attached to me like an emotionally dependent shadow. The smaller alpaca had barely moved since it stepped off the trailer. Then his gaze landed on my face.

And there it was again.

That look. Like a calm, assessing expression that somehow made me feel like he’d already figured out every bad decision I’d made in the last twenty-four hours.

Which was concerning because there had been several.

For a long moment, he said nothing. “It’s been four hours,” he said, watching me again.

I considered lying. Not because it would help. Mostly because I was panicking. Also because something about the way he looked at me made me want to sound far more competent than I actually was. Unfortunately, there was a very large difference between sounding competent and standing beside a traffic jam caused by a donkey.

Instead, I said, “In my defense, they weren’t here when I started.” The second the words left my mouth, I realized how ridiculous they sounded. Like I was explaining to law enforcement that I hadn’t started the fire. I had merely been standing beside it. Or maybe adding tiny decorative sticks to it while insisting everything was under control. Neither option felt particularly strong.

His eyes moved from the goat, who was now chewing what may or may not be permit paperwork, to the donkey and then the alpaca who chose that exact moment to rest its head on my shoulder. The alpaca looked weirdly content about the arrangement too, as though we’d known each other for years and regularly spent afternoons together discussing our feelings.

If I was a witch, I would have magicked myself invisible right now. Or opened a portal and stepped into another dimension. Preferably one without livestock.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t a witch. I was just a woman who had lied about event-planning experience and somehow ended up emotionally hostage to an alpaca.

Captain Competent exhaled slowly. “I didn’t think I’d be back so soon, Hartwell.”

Something prickled at the back of my neck at the way he said my name. I pointed at the animals. “Technically, this isn’t my fault.” Even to my own ears, it sounded weak. Not completely weak. Just the sort of argument someone makes when they’re already losing and know it.

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “That’s your defense?”

Was he trying to annoy me?

I shrugged. “It’s all I have.” Which was, unfortunately, true. I could have attempted a longer explanation, but I suspected it would somehow end with me sounding even guiltier. Experience suggested that the more words I used, the worse things got. It was kind of my thing.

The sheriff rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Tell me you have a plan.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My brain offered several possibilities. Lie. Run. Point at the alpaca and pretend to be busy. None felt particularly professional. Just a tad crazy.

The sheriff’s gaze held mine for a second longer. “That’s what I thought.” Then he glanced toward the donkey still standing in the middle of the road. “Let’s go, Hartwell.”

I stared at the sheriff moving away from me, at his very, very fine ass. “Where are we going?”

“To catch your livestock.”

Okay then.

4

ERIC

After helping Hartwell wrestle a goat, two alpacas, and a miniature donkey into a temporary enclosure behind the festival grounds, I did what I always did when something threatened to derail my focus.

I went home.

Or at least I tried.

The problem was that Hartwell kept coming with me.

In my head.

At least if she was physically sitting in the truck beside me, I’d know where she was and what kind of trouble she was creating. The version in my head was far less predictable.

The woman had somehow managed to turn a petting zoo delivery into a public safety concern. She had no idea what she was doing, not even a little. I’d seen first-time volunteers with more preparation. Hell, I’d seen middle-school fundraisers run with more organization.

The strange part was that she didn’t quit.

Most people would’ve. Hell, some would’ve quit before the alpaca stole the clipboard. Most would’ve called Helen, admitted they were in over their head, and walked away.

Hartwell just kept going. She’d panic for about three seconds, say something completely ridiculous, make the situation worse, and then dig in and start fixing it again. It should’ve been exhausting to watch. Somehow, it wasn’t.

Half the time I couldn’t tell if she was solving problems or creating new ones. Sometimes it looked like she was doing both.

But she never stopped.

She’d looked exhausted, embarrassed, and completely overwhelmed. Yet every time something went wrong, she’d take a breath and throw herself right back in.

I took the next right, driving slowly to check out the streets, even though I was off duty now. Habit, I guess. I might be off duty, but I was always the sheriff. Twelve years on the job had a way of rewiring a man’s brain. You stopped seeing streets and started seeing details—open doors, broken streetlights, cars that didn’t belong where they were parked. Most of the time it amounted to nothing. But sometimes it didn’t.

The town was settling down for the evening. Shop owners were locking doors and flipping signs from OPEN to CLOSED before heading home to dinner. A few tourists wandered along the boardwalk with ice cream cones in hand, moving slowly enough that you could tell they weren’t locals. Nobody from Maplewood Falls strolled anywhere during mosquito season. The sky had started to darken over the water with thick gray clouds rolling in from the horizon and swallowing the last bits of blue, one piece at a time.

Rain.

A good one too, by the look of it. The kind that started with a few harmless drops before dumping buckets on everything in sight.

I slowed as I approached the four-way stop near the marina.

Mrs. Parker was crossing the street with her dachshund.

The dog was old. Mrs. Parker was older. Neither of them had ever been in a hurry, and they weren’t about to start now.

I gave the horn a quick tap.

Mrs. Parker looked up and pointed at me. “Don’t you start.” Her timing was impressive. Most people needed a second to identify the vehicle. Mrs. Parker somehow managed it before looking.

I rolled down the window. “Storm’s coming.”

She glanced toward the sky. “I have eyes.”

“I know. That’s why I figured I’d warn you.” Experience suggested logic rarely improved conversations with Mrs. Parker, but I kept trying anyway.

The old woman snorted. “You warn everybody.”

“Occupational hazard.” Also true. Half the town probably got weather reports from me, whether they wanted them or not.

She waved me off and continued walking. The dachshund stopped to inspect a fire hydrant. Mrs. Parker inspected it too. I’d responded to enough calls over the years to know there wasn’t much point hurrying people who had no intention of being hurried.

I shook my head and drove on.

Small town.

Everybody knew everybody and their business, generally before the people involved knew it themselves.

Usually that was enough to keep people out of trouble.

Usually.

I passed the hardware store, the bakery, and the pharmacy. A couple sat outside the coffee shop sharing a muffin. Someone was locking up the bookstore. Everything looked exactly the way it should.

Everything looked normal. The way I liked it.

I slowed when I passed Thompson Park, automatically checking the baseball field and picnic area the way I always did. Most nights there wasn’t much to see. Kids playing basketball. Dog walkers. Somebody pretending exercise was enjoyable.

Six teenagers occupied a picnic table near the far fence. Too old for the playground. Too young to be sitting around looking that guilty. They were attempting casual conversation with all the relaxed confidence of bank robbers waiting for the law to arrive.

One of the boys spotted my SUV.

His entire body language changed. His shoulders straightened, head lifted, and eyes widened.

Interesting.

Another kid quickly kicked something underneath the table.

Very interesting. People only made that kind of movement when they didn’t want you looking at something.

I already knew what that meant.

Beer. Maybe cigarettes. Maybe something stronger.

Whatever it was, nobody looked nearly relaxed enough for it to be legal. Innocent people generally didn’t react to seeing me like they’d just witnessed a shark fin in shallow water.

I pulled up alongside the curb and lowered my window.

Every head turned toward me.

The group suddenly became fascinated by absolutely everything—the grass, the trees, the baseball diamond, their shoes—except the sheriff. One kid became deeply invested in studying a squirrel. Another found the contents of his own hands absolutely riveting. Teenagers really believed they were subtle. It would’ve been impressive if it wasn’t so painfully obvious.

I recognized one of them immediately.

Tommy Baker.

Good kid. Terrible liar. His father owned the hardware store downtown. Tommy looked at me and tried to look somewhere else. Too late.

I pointed at him. “Tommy.”

His shoulders sagged. “Hey, Sheriff.”

“Storm’s coming.”

Six pairs of eyes lifted toward the dark clouds gathering over the ocean. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“You boys should head home,” I told them.

Nobody moved.

Tommy swallowed. “We weren’t doing anything.”

I looked at the table. Then underneath the table. Then back at Tommy. “I didn’t ask.”

The silence stretched.

Tommy nodded once. “Yeah. Okay.”

Another rumble of thunder rolled across the bay.

I hooked an arm out the window. “Get home before the rain starts.”

The boys exchanged looks. Then, remarkably, they started gathering their things. One backpack. Two backpacks. Somebody grabbed a suspiciously heavy cooler. Nobody made eye contact with me, which pretty much confirmed everything.

I watched them scatter toward the parking lot.

Tommy paused long enough to give me an awkward wave. “Night, Sheriff.”

“Night, Tommy.”

Thirty seconds later the park was empty.

I gave a satisfied nod and drove on. Sometimes being sheriff meant solving major crimes. Sometimes it meant giving a bunch of dumb teenagers the opportunity to avoid becoming paperwork.

Those were usually my favorite days.

My smile faded a second later when my brain betrayed me yet again.

An image of Hartwell trying to reason with a goat flared in my mind’s eye. Those soft curves, her blue eyes, and that smile that could trick you into doing things you didn’t want to do. Like volunteer for something. Or agree to help. Or spend an hour chasing livestock through the town square when you had absolutely no intention of doing any of those things. The woman smiled like she genuinely expected the universe to cooperate with her. The strange thing was that sometimes it almost did.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

I wasn’t doing that. I had enough problems without adding Hartwell to the list. The woman was madness in human form. She created a traffic jam with a miniature donkey and somehow looked surprised afterward. Sensible men avoided women like that. Unfortunately, I was beginning to suspect she made it difficult to remain sensible.

I could always spot a liar. She was good. I’d give her that. Most people probably would’ve bought it. The confidence. The quick answers. The way she said things without hesitation. She never paused long enough to sound uncertain. Everything came out smoothly and immediately, like she’d already convinced herself it was true before anybody else had a chance to question it. For a few seconds, you almost believed her.

But I’d spent too many years listening to people tell me stories. Listening was half the job. Most people thought being sheriff was about laws and arrests. Mostly it was about people. And people spent an amazing amount of time trying to convince you of things that weren’t true.

People lied when they got caught speeding. People lied when they got arrested. People lied when they cheated on their spouses. People lied when they got into fights. Hell, people lied about things that didn’t even matter.

I’d had grown men swear they hadn’t eaten the last donut in the break room while powdered sugar sat on their shirt. I’d listened to teenagers explain why somebody else’s beer had somehow ended up in their backpack. I’d heard husbands insist they were “just helping” their ex-wife move furniture at midnight.

And Hartwell? She’d answered my questions exactly the way somebody answered when they were trying very hard to sound like they belonged somewhere they didn’t.

After enough years, you stopped listening to the words. You watched everything else. The pause before the answer. The slight shift in posture. The eyes looking away a second too long. The overconfidence. The way someone tried just a little too hard.

Hartwell had all of it.

When I’d asked how long she’d been event planning, the answer had come too fast. Three years. Like she’d already rehearsed it. Then I’d watched her hold a binder upside down for five minutes.

There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d been planning festivals for three years.

She knew I didn’t believe her too. That was the interesting part. Most liars doubled down. Hartwell just got embarrassed. Then she kept going anyway.

I laughed. I should’ve been annoyed. Truthfully, I was annoyed. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I understood exactly what I should do next.

Nothing.

Nothing was the answer.

The festival wasn’t my responsibility. Hartwell wasn’t my responsibility. I’d already helped more than I needed to. The sensible thing was to let her figure it out herself. People learned fastest when nobody rescued them. I knew that better than most.

I turned onto the road leading toward my place and lowered the window slightly.

The air smelled like leaves and petrichor. Thunder rumbled somewhere out over the ocean.

My mouth twitched despite myself. Hartwell had looked exhausted by the time we’d finally gotten the animals secured. She was covered in dirt. Her ponytail was coming apart, and she had mud on one cheek as well as something that was probably animal spit on her sleeve.

Still beautiful.

And she’d still been trying to pretend she knew what she was doing.

That stubborn streak was going to get her into trouble. Or save her. Maybe both.

I pulled into my driveway and shut off the truck. The house sat exactly where I’d left it, quiet and peaceful with no animals and no event planners.

Exactly the way I liked it.

For a moment, I stayed behind the wheel, listening to the engine tick as it cooled.

The divorce had taught me a few things. Mostly that peace was underrated. People liked talking about passion and chemistry and grand gestures. What they didn’t talk about was the exhaustion. The arguments. The compromises that never seemed to stop. The way two people could slowly wear each other down without meaning to.

I’d done all that already.

Once was enough.

I didn’t need another complicated woman in my life. Didn’t want one. Certainly not one who collected disasters the way other people collected coffee mugs.

I got out of the truck and headed toward the house.

It sat back from the road, tucked between towering pines and old maples that had probably been there longer than the town itself. Most people driving by wouldn’t even know the place was there unless they were looking for it. That was one of the reasons I’d bought it two years ago.

After the divorce, the last thing I’d wanted was neighbors peering over fences or asking questions I had no intention of answering.

The old craftsman had been built sometime in the early sixties with cedar siding, massive timber beams, and a deep covered porch that wrapped around the front. Thick wooden posts supported the roof, and a pair of handcrafted rocking chairs sat near the front door, permanently facing the trees.

It wasn’t fancy or modern or trying to impress anybody, which suited me just fine. The place felt solid and quiet, like it had been built by a man who believed wood solved most problems.

Halfway to the front door, thunder rolled again through the trees. The sound echoed across the property, rattling the leaves overhead and bouncing between the pines that surrounded the house. A storm was coming. A proper storm that would send tourists scrambling for cover and make old dogs start looking nervous.

A few drops of rain hit the driveway. More quickly followed, tapping softly against the porch roof and darkening the cedar planks one spot at a time. The smell of wet pine drifted through the air, mixing with damp earth and fresh-cut grass from somewhere down the road.

Hartwell’s face flashed through my mind again. I smiled, remembering her flushed cheeks, the glare she’d aimed my way, and the panic she kept trying to hide behind a smile. It hadn’t fooled anybody. Least of all me.

Which was irritating because I’d specifically moved out here to avoid complications.

Hartwell looked like one.

If someone told me she’d accidentally started a parade involving livestock before breakfast tomorrow, I wouldn’t even question it. I’d just ask where it was happening.

My eyes drifted toward town, the festival grounds, and the temporary fencing we’d thrown together in a hurry while daylight disappeared. I thought of the livestock currently being supervised by people who probably had no idea what they were doing either. Then again, compared to Hartwell, they might’ve been experts.

The smart thing would’ve been to stay out of it. Stay home. Let the festival committee handle their own problems. Let Helen deal with the event planner she’d hired. Let the volunteers repair fences and figure out where the petting zoo was supposed to go. None of that belonged on my plate.

Let somebody else clean up whatever happened next. Because there was definitely going to be a next. With Hartwell, there was always a next.

Trouble seemed to find her. Or maybe she found it. I wasn’t sure which.

The problem was, I already had a feeling I wasn’t going to do the smart thing.

5

SOPHIE

Idragged my feet to my door, wincing at my newly formed blisters the size of golf balls because no one told me to wear proper footwear since I’d be chasing livestock for hours nonstop. Event-planning brochures really failed to mention that part. They showed smiling women with clipboards and headsets, not exhausted idiots sprinting after animals while trying not to cry in public.

I might have cried in the car.

Twice.

Fine. Every time I hit a stop sign.

Now, every step felt like I was walking on hot marbles. Or Legos. Possibly flaming Legos. At this point I would’ve happily traded my dignity for a pair of sensible orthopedic shoes.

Putting the key into the lock, I twisted, pushed open the door, and wobbled inside. I was too exhausted to eat or stop by to chat with Sarah and Dottie in the dining room. Which was saying something because Dottie was probably making something incredible right now. Normally the smell alone would’ve dragged me over like a cartoon character floating toward a pie cooling on a windowsill.

I just wanted peace and quiet. And maybe a medically unnecessary amount of sleep.

I heard the familiar sounds of dishes clinking through the wall. Home. Well, it was just a room and a separate bathroom. Still, it was better than sleeping outside on a park bench.

For the first time all day, my shoulders loosened slightly. Not much. Just enough that I stopped feeling like a human stress ball wrapped in animal fur.

I wrinkled my nose. “What’s that smell?” I sniffed around the room, thinking housecleaning had skipped me. Maybe something had gotten stuck under the bed or behind the dresser. Maybe a small animal had crawled into the walls and died. Given my luck lately, anything felt entirely possible.

But when the smell seemed to follow me around, it hit me.

“It’s me. I smell.” Damn. I smelled like a farm on a hot summer day. “Wonderful.” Not just a little farm smell either. Full commitment farm smell. The kind of smell that suggested I’d spent the day wrestling livestock. Which, horrifyingly, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

I was covered in sweat, animal fur, and drool along with other slimy things that I didn’t want to think about just now. My shirt had mysterious brown stains that were “unidentifiable.” Somewhere during the afternoon, I’d also acquired a piece of hay stuck to my bra. I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to know how. Some questions were better left unanswered.

And then. That’s when I spotted it.

A glorious bottle of red wine sat on my dresser. A card rested next to it.

It was a gift from god.

“Hello, gorgeous.” I dropped my bag on the floor next to the bed and made for the dresser before snatching up the card, flipping it open, and reading.

Congratulations on your new job!

Love, Sarah, Dottie, and Lola.

Four wine glasses were also neatly placed behind the bottle. Yes, I knew that was because the wine was to be shared with them. Was it rude that I was about to drink it by myself? Maybe. Did I care at this point? Absolutely not.

Seeing the corkscrew next to the glasses, I grabbed it, uncorked the bottle, and poured myself a generous glass. I filled it to the rim like a champ.

As soon as I took my first sip, my taste buds did the tango. “Whoa.” I took another mouthful, letting the explosion of fruit rest on my tongue before swallowing. “Doesn’t even burn my throat.” This was the best wine I’d ever had. Which made me realize this was most probably from Lola. Only she could afford wine that tasted like it was sent from the gods.

I took another gulp and sighed, looking around my room. The silence felt nice. No volunteers or angry vendors or delivery drivers casually dropping off livestock like it was no big deal.

Most importantly, no Sheriff Walker standing there with those annoyingly observant brown eyes, looking at me like he’d already figured out I was building this entire job out of confidence, panic, and whatever information I could find on Google.

Unfortunately, the second that thought entered my head, his face appeared in my brain.

Captain Competent.

Wonderful. Exactly what I needed. Captain Competent and his competent ass.

I took another mouthful of that glorious wine, trying very hard not to think about what those jeans did for said competent ass.

I groaned and let myself fall on the edge of the bed.

Why did he have to be so calm all the time?

That was what bothered me.

Not how good he looked in that sheriff’s uniform.

It was the calm.

The man could stand in the middle of a livestock-related disaster and somehow look like he was waiting in line at the bank.

Meanwhile, I spent most of the day operating one minor inconvenience away from a nervous breakdown.

And why did he have to look like that? Like he’d stepped out of some small-town calendar called Men Who Fix Things and Make Responsible Decisions.

He seemed like the kind of man who probably remembered to change the batteries in his smoke detectors, definitely owned matching toolboxes, and probably read instruction manuals before assembling furniture.

I found that disturbingly attractive.

Because I had recently been dumped. Lost my job. Lost my apartment as well as my dignity. And accidentally lied my way into becoming the event planner for a festival that started in less than a day and a half.

And somehow my brain had decided now was the perfect time to develop a crush on a sheriff.

Excellent priorities, Sophie. Truly outstanding work.

I tipped the wine glass to my lips, but all I got was a whole lot of nothing.

“How did that happen?” I said, staring at my empty glass.

Determined, I pushed myself up and filled my glass again all the way to the rim. Some sloshed onto the dresser.

“Oops.”

I stared at the tiny puddle for a second before bending over and licking it up.

“Too good to waste,” I informed absolutely nobody.

I straightened, feeling oddly pleased with myself. “Nailed it.”

Grinning like a fool, because my face had decided smiling was our default setting now, I sat back down on the bed and kicked off my shoes. My blisters protested, but I hardly felt them now.

My brain was too involved by presenting a crystal-clear image of Captain Competent rolling up his sleeves while helping repair the temporary fencing. Those golden forearms with muscles bulging when he flexed… and me imagining touching them, smelling them, maybe a little lick.

I dropped my face into my left hand. My palm still smelled faintly like alpaca. Or goat. Possibly donkey. At this point the scents had merged into one horrifying farm-themed perfume that I was fairly certain could never be fully removed from human skin.

Yeah. I was definitely losing my mind.

I took another gulp of wine.

Why was I thinking about the sheriff? I’d spent the entire day dealing with permits, deliveries, vendor complaints, electrical issues, and traffic backups. Yet somehow the thing my brain wanted to replay was Sheriff Walker.

The man had questioned my competence for approximately three minutes and somehow managed to become the most memorable part of my day. And that said deeply troubling things about both my priorities and my mental stability. I should’ve been angry, embarrassed, mortified. Instead, my brain kept replaying every conversation we’d had like some sort of humiliating highlight reel.

I sighed loudly, reached out, and grabbed the binder from my bag. The thing nearly pulled my shoulder out of its socket. If I threw it at someone, it would qualify as a weapon.

I dropped on the bed. And then I glared at it like a crazy person.

I hated this damn thing. Right now, it reminded me I had less than thirty-six hours before the festival started and hundreds of people arrived expecting a well-organized community event instead of whatever chaotic experiment I was currently conducting.

I took another sip of wine.

Thirty-six hours wasn’t enough time to become an event planner. It barely felt like enough time to become a functional adult. Some days I wasn’t entirely convinced I’d mastered adulthood at all. Paying bills and owning matching socks seemed suspiciously advanced.

Was I in over my head?

Yes. Yes, I was. Neck-deep in the crapper without a life jacket.

Did I care? Not really. Or maybe I cared a lot and had simply moved beyond caring into a strange new emotional territory fueled entirely by the effects of wine and denial.

Should I tell Helen I’d lied and try to cover up my inexperience today?

Hell no. The woman would probably have a stroke. Or worse, take the binder back and assign me something even more terrifying, like accounting.

I needed that job. I needed a job, preferably one that paid actual money and didn’t involve moving back in with my parents. Not that they would let me. My mother loved me. She just preferred loving me from a healthy distance.

I couldn’t face Helen now, or Lola, or Sarah, or even my sister Margo. Not after today. Especially Margo. My sister had spent most of our lives being responsible while I specialized in creative disaster management.

Every family member needed a role.

I raised my glass to that and took another mouthful of wine.

Margot thought I was a mess, that I couldn’t hold a job for more than a month. To be fair, historical evidence wasn’t entirely on my side. Still, family was supposed to ignore facts and support your delusions.

Well, I would prove her wrong. Even if proving her wrong killed me. Which, given the current trajectory of this festival, felt slightly more possible than it should have.

My thighs ached, even while sitting down, and that was saying something.

Apparently chasing livestock counted as extreme cardio, the kind that should come with a waiver.

Who knew?

If I’d lost two pounds, I’d count that as a win.

Still, if someone had told me twenty-four hours ago that I would spend today sprinting after livestock while arguing with an alpaca and embarrassing myself in front of a sheriff who looked like he’d been handcrafted by extremely ambitious women, I would’ve suggested they seek professional help. And maybe a hobby.

I flipped the binder shut. Every time I opened it, I discovered a brand-new problem. It was less a binder and more a magical portal to fresh anxiety.

Who planned festivals voluntarily? Who woke up one day and thought, You know what sounds fun? Managing hundreds of moving parts while strangers complain about parking.

Psychopaths.

That was my current working theory. And honestly, I felt pretty good about it.

Do you know who else was a psychopath?

Henry.

And what did single women do when they’d been dumped and were emotionally compromised by wine?

They drunk-texted their exes, that’s what.

I laughed. And when I realized that my wine glass was empty—again—I leaped to my feet and hobbled over to the two dressers—I mean, the one dresser. I stared at the wine bottle for a good three seconds before setting down my empty glass. Then I picked up the bottle instead. Seemed more efficient.

Moving over to my bag, I reached inside, pulled out my phone, and sat on the edge of the bed. Then I slipped and crashed onto the hardwood floor on my butt with a thud.

I held the wine bottle up in triumph. “Didn’t break.”

Another win.

After my vision stopped spinning and I could focus on the screen, I tapped Henry’s last text message, and my fingers fired away.

Deearr Hjenry.

You’r a jerk.

Jerkk.

I let out a laugh as I dropped my phone. That felt good.

For one glorious second, I considered staying in my room forever and becoming part of the furniture. I could let history remember me as the woman who disappeared into a guest room and never came out.

However, if Helen discovered I’d abandoned the festival to hide in my room, she’d drag me back herself. The woman looked like she could wrestle a bear if properly motivated.

The rain had started now, a steady rhythm against the glass. It was soft at first but quickly got heavier, drops tapping against the windows and then drumming.

The sound should’ve been relaxing. People paid money for rain sounds. Instead it reminded me of tomorrow, and tomorrow was the enemy.

Tomorrow meant more questions I probably couldn’t answer combined with more problems I definitely couldn’t solve.

I’d have more opportunities to expose myself as the least qualified event planner in the history of organized events, which felt like a surprisingly competitive category.

I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep. Or that I was dreaming of giant sheriff badges chasing me through the streets while I ran naked through Maplewood Falls with an alpaca bouncing happily beside me like we were participating in some deeply disturbing parade.

And, compared to my actual day, it wasn’t even that unrealistic.

6

SOPHIE

Iwoke the next morning with a migraine from hell.

I peeled my eyes open and stared at the ceiling. Something hard and cold pressed against my back. After a few seconds, I managed to roll my head to one side and spotted the legs of the bed. Legs?

I rolled my head the other way and found an empty bottle of wine lying on the floor beside me.

Oh yeah. I’d fallen asleep on the floor.

Every muscle in my body protested as I turned onto my side. My calves, shoulders, and even my fingers hurt.

I groaned and squinted at the digital clock on my phone next to me.

Seven thirty.

Far too early to be awake. Far too late to become an event planner.

For one glorious moment, I considered pulling the blankets back over my head and pretending none of this had happened. The festival could surely organize itself. Vendors loved organizing themselves. Permits practically signed themselves.

Then my stomach growled so loudly I was pretty sure the kitchen staff could hear it through the wall.

“Fine,” I breathed. “Breakfast wins.”

I dragged myself into the shower, letting the hot water pound against muscles I hadn’t known existed until yesterday. Somewhere around shampoo number two, I finally stopped smelling like damp hay, wet goat, and whatever scent alpacas left behind. Progress.

By the time I pulled on jeans, a soft green T-shirt, and my trustworthy sneakers—which would have been my heroes yesterday—I almost looked like someone capable of running a festival.

Almost.

The woman staring back at me in the mirror still had dark circles under her eyes, a ponytail that refused to cooperate, and the slightly haunted expression of someone who’d spent an afternoon arguing with livestock.

“You’ve got this,” I told my reflection.

She looked unconvinced.

Next, I grabbed my phone, tapped the diary app and wrote:

Day 2:

Chased a goat.

Was stalked by an alpaca.

Sheriff still thinks I’m incompetent.

Mixed results.

Satisfied, I picked up Helen’s binder from my bed and headed out. The smell reached me halfway down the hallway. Coffee. Then came bacon. Then something buttery. Then fresh bread.

My stomach practically shoved me the remaining steps.

Sarah had said breakfast was included in my “family package deal.” And I intended to get my money’s worth.

The dining room buzzed with the quiet sounds of breakfast. Guests chatted over newspapers while sunlight poured through the tall windows overlooking the ocean, turning everything soft and peaceful. A couple by the windows shared a basket of muffins while an older man in a golf shirt studied the crossword like the fate of civilization depended on seventeen across. Someone laughed softly near the fireplace. Coffee cups clinked against saucers.

I followed the smell into the kitchen, my stomach taking over navigation duties because my brain clearly wasn’t functioning yet. If someone had blindfolded me, I probably still would’ve found the coffee by instinct. Survival had kicked in.

Dottie stood at the enormous stove with three frying pans going at once, humming to herself while flipping pancakes with a confidence that said she’d probably done it every morning for the last thirty years without ever burning a single one. Bacon sizzled in another pan while biscuits cooled on a wire rack beside the counter. Her faded yellow apron had flour on one side and read: LIFE HAPPENS. BUTTER HELPS. Judging by the smell filling the kitchen, butter wasn’t just helping. Butter was performing miracles.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Morning, sleepyhead. You look tired. Didn’t sleep well?”

“Wine.”

Her eyes rounded. “Wine?”

“The wine bottle you guys left me. Well, we made friends last night.”

“Oh.” Dottie laughed. “Please tell me you only had a glass.”

I gave a shrug. “Do I look like someone who only drank one glass?”

Dottie narrowed her eyes at me. “Well, no you don’t. But did you at least enjoy it?”

I woke up on the floor. Of course I did. “It was a very nice bottle. Thank you.”

Dottie beamed. “Glad to hear it.”

My gaze darted over to the stove. “Please tell me that smell belongs to breakfast.” I was practically drooling. Yep. Drooling. Attractive. Very ladylike. Exactly the sort of image one wanted to project first thing in the morning. Good thing Captain Competent wasn’t here to witness my transformation into a caffeine-starved Labrador.

Dottie pointed the spatula at me. “It belongs to you if you go sit down in the dining room.”

I didn’t argue, mostly because arguing required energy. And my head was throbbing so much that I felt like my brain was trying to squeeze out my eyes through their sockets.

I stepped out of the kitchen and pulled a chair over to one of the empty dining tables. My butt had barely made contact with the seat when Dottie set a mug of coffee in front of me. The woman moved with speed and efficiency, as though she believed caffeine should reach suffering people before they had time to ask for it—a philosophy I deeply respected.

I wrapped both hands around it. “I think I love you.” The mug was warm against my fingers.

Dottie laughed. “I know,” she said with complete confidence, like this wasn’t the first declaration of love she’d received over breakfast and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

I took one sip. “Yum…” My eyes fluttered shut. That wasn’t coffee. That was emotional support in a mug. If someone bottled this stuff, I’d happily invest my life savings.

Dottie smiled without turning around. “That’s the good stuff.” I heard the unmistakable pride in her voice, as if she’d roasted every bean herself somewhere high in the mountains before sunrise.

I swallowed my dose of liquid brown heaven. “I was about thirty seconds away from licking coffee beans off the floor if necessary.” Honestly, I’d probably have checked under the tables too. Yesterday had lowered my standards considerably. Once you’d spent an afternoon negotiating with livestock, dignity became surprisingly flexible.

Dottie propped her hands on her hips. “I would’ve let you get halfway before stopping you.” She gave me the sort of look that suggested she wasn’t entirely joking, merely curious enough to see how committed I was to the idea.

“I appreciate your restraint.” It was nice knowing someone around here believed in letting me preserve at least a tiny shred of self-respect. Or at least delay its destruction until after breakfast.

She snorted. “You look exhausted. And I’m not talking about the wine.”

I let out a long sigh. “I chased a goat, a donkey, and two alpacas for three hours yesterday.” I took another sip of coffee. “In the wrong shoes.”

Dottie’s eyes lit up instead of filling with sympathy, which probably should’ve warned me where this conversation was headed. “You had a goat? A real goat?”

I frowned. “Yes… why do you sound excited?”

“Is it the little fainting kind? Or one of the long-eared ones? Does it have babies?” She clapped her hands together, completely invested now. “Oh! Please tell me somebody brought chickens.”

I stared at her. “No chickens.” Thank god. “The goat was a normal one, I think. But the donkey was miniature.”

Dottie’s entire face softened. “Oh…”

It wasn’t an oh of concern. It was an oh people usually reserved for newborn babies.

“And two alpacas?” she said dreamily. “With those sweet little faces?”

I snorted. “One of them followed me around like we’d signed adoption papers.”

Her face lit up. “Well, of course it did.”

“Of course?”

“Animals know good people.”

I stared at her. “You think?”

“I’m serious,” she said. “You can’t fool them. They know who’s kind. And they know the bastards.”

I laughed. “Well, I thought it was stalking me. Maybe it thought I had a cookie in my pocket or something.”

“It liked you.”

“Doubt that. My sister is the one gifted with animals. Animals don’t like me. They never do. Believe me.” I loved animals. They just didn’t love me back. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t bother me a little. Especially when all you want is to pet a beautiful fluffy cat and all it did was try to take out your eyes with its claws. “This one spat on my shirt.”

Dottie was still smiling at me. “It was sharing.”

I laughed so hard I nearly snorted coffee through my nose. “I’m fairly certain that’s not how alpacas express affection.”

She shrugged with complete confidence. “Maybe not to you.”

I opened my mouth to say something else, but someone beat me to it.

“There you are,” said a woman’s voice.

I turned in time to see Lola sashaying her way over to my table in a black dress that was way too tight, way too short, and far too sexy for this early in the morning. As she crossed the dining room, I watched three husbands glance up almost in perfect synchronization. Their wives noticed a fraction of a second later and delivered matching elbows. The husbands suddenly became very interested in their toast.

Lola grabbed the chair next to me and sat. “I had such a great time with Leo last night. My thighs are still numb.” She laughed, wiggling her eyebrows as if the rest of the dining room had somehow missed the announcement.

Eww. This was also way too early. I’d barely finished my first cup of coffee, and already Lola was treating breakfast like an after-hours girls’ night. There should’ve been rules about this. Preferably municipal ones. Nothing remotely suggestive before at least nine o’clock and a second cup of coffee.

Dottie tutted, shaking her head with the long-suffering patience of someone who’d heard variations of this conversation approximately five thousand times. She looked at me and said, “I’ll be back with your breakfast.”

Lola raised her arm. “Make that two, darling.”

Dottie gave her an annoyed look before disappearing back into the kitchen, muttering something under her breath about “women with too much energy and not enough shame.”

“You look dreadful,” said Lola, frowning at me as she leaned closer, studying my face with unsettling concentration. “You’ve lost that sparkle. What happened?” She tilted her head another inch. “Actually… no. Wait. You’ve got a different sparkle. It’s just buried under those dark circles under your eyes. Tell me everything.”

I debated whether to tell her and decided that she’d probably hear all about it later, so I might as well. When I was done, Lola had the strangest little smile on her face.

“What?” I asked her.

Lola raised her brows suggestively. “You and the sheriff? You naughty girl. When are you going to do the nasty?”

I snorted. “Nothing happened.” Though I’d thought about it. Once. Twice. A hundred times.

A smile spread over Lola’s face. “Honey, you practically licked him with your eyes, didn’t you?”

My cheeks burned. “You’re crazy.”

Lola pointed a finger at me. “You did. I can see it. Why, you little flirt.”

“Here you go,” came Dottie’s voice, just as a plate landed in front of me.

Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Toast. Home fries. Enough food to feed a family of four.

I stared. “I can’t eat all this.”

Dottie nodded, pushing the plate closer. “You can.”

I looked down at the plate. “You know… I think I might actually surprise myself.” After all, I’d only fed my stomach fermented grapes last night.

Movement caught my eye, and I looked over to see Sarah walking toward us, carrying a stack of fresh towels against one hip before stopping when she spotted me.

Sarah smiled at me. “The woman who survived the Great Goat Uprising of Maplewood Falls.”

I pointed my fork at her. “It’s been less than twelve hours and people are already giving the incident a title?” Wow. I wasn’t even sure I’d emotionally processed it yet, and somehow the town had already moved on to branding. Give them another day and there’d probably be commemorative T-shirts.

“Apparently, it was very memorable,” Sarah added with a smile.

I shrugged. “It was traumatic.” I took another bite of eggs.

Sarah laughed as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “So…” she said casually, standing next to our table. “How’s festival planning?”

I chewed thoughtfully, mostly because chewing gave me extra time to invent something that sounded optimistic. “I’d say we’re making excellent progress.”

Lola smirked. “That’s what I told Leo last night after round three.”

I sighed. “I now know significantly more about livestock than I did this time yesterday.”

“Well, that’s good. Right?” said Sarah.

“I know alpacas get emotionally attached alarmingly fast.” I shrugged. “One basically decided we were in a committed relationship after fifteen minutes.”

Dottie nodded. “They do.” She said it with confidence as though confirming the weather.

Sarah smiled over the rim of her mug. “You’ll laugh about it someday.”

I doubted it. “I’d prefer someday to arrive after the festival.” Preferably several weeks after.

Then Sarah asked, just a little too innocently, “Did Sheriff Walker help?”

My fork paused halfway to my mouth, and I could feel more flush rising up from my neck to my face. Wonderful. My skin had decided to answer for me. “Why?”

Sarah shrugged, but her smile betrayed her. “No reason.”

“They had passionate sex,” said Lola, grinning. “He took her in the back of his truck.”

Oh. My. God.

I looked around the dining room on instinct, half convinced one of the guests had heard her. This woman was going to be the reason I developed high blood pressure before forty.

“You did?” Sarah was smiling although the twitch at the corner of her mouth told me she knew exactly what Lola was doing.

“Ha. Ha. No. Absolutely not,” I said quickly, my face flaming. “The closest we came to intimacy was wrestling the same goat. Which, now that I’ve said it out loud, somehow sounds worse.”

Lola arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “But you wanted to wrestle him. Didn’t you? You big ol’ slut.”

I was not going to answer that. Mostly because any answer would be the wrong answer. Also because my brain, the traitor, had already started replaying Captain Competent in that fitted sheriff’s polo again.

Dottie slid another piece of toast onto my plate. “He seems nice. I’ve always liked Sheriff Walker. Very polite.”

“I wouldn’t know.” I took a determined bite of toast, as if carbohydrates could save me from this conversation.

“You spent half the afternoon with him,” Sarah pointed out.

“I spent half the afternoon humiliating myself in front of him. There’s a difference.” A very important difference.

Sarah smiled into her coffee. “So… do you like him? He’s very handsome.”

I nearly inhaled a piece of scrambled egg. “What?” I coughed, reached for my coffee, and wondered if choking to death would actually be less embarrassing than continuing this conversation.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Sarah as she and Lola shared a dangerous look. The kind women exchanged when they’d already decided something about your love life before you’d even admitted it to yourself.

“The really handsome ones are always trouble,” added Dottie.

I sighed. “He just…”

Sarah leaned forward expectantly. Lola stopped fidgeting. Even Dottie paused, her hands on hips. I’d attracted an audience.

“Has unfairly symmetrical features,” I finished.

Dottie’s grin widened. “And?”

“And he looks annoyingly competent.” Like the sort of man who alphabetized his spice rack for fun and had never once misplaced an important document in his life.

Sarah nodded. “Mmm.”

“And calm,” I continued.

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded again.

“And…” I stopped myself. “I was going to say he has very clean boots.”

Lola blinked. “Clean boots?”

I gave a one-shoulder shrug. “They were ridiculously clean.” Which was frankly a little odd. We’d both spent the afternoon chasing livestock. Mine looked like I’d hiked across three farms during monsoon season. His still looked polished enough to appear in a uniform catalogue.

Sarah burst out laughing. “You noticed his boots?”

“I noticed everything because I was actively embarrassing myself.” I pointed my fork at all of them. “This conversation is over.” Preferably forever. Or at least until my face stopped generating enough heat to warm the entire dining room.

Sarah lifted both hands. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Just then, my phone buzzed on the table. I grabbed it with far more enthusiasm than any text message deserved, grateful for the interruption, and stared at the screen.

A text message from Helen.

Helen: Morning! Quick update. Meet me at the festival grounds in thirty minutes. We have a tiny issue with the food vendors.

I stared at the screen. “When people say ‘tiny issue’…”

Dottie didn’t even hesitate. “It never is.”

I sighed, grabbed another piece of bacon, and reached for Helen’s binder.

Round two. Here we go.

7

SOPHIE

Sarah’s Jetta, which she graciously lent me again, smelled faintly of vanilla and one of those little pine-tree air fresheners that somehow never smelled remotely like pine trees. The seats were warm from the morning sun.

I started the engine. “Okay,” I told myself. “Today’s going to be different.”

I pulled out of the inn parking lot. “I am not chasing livestock today.” A beat passed. “I’m manifesting that.” Another beat. “Please don’t make me chase livestock today.”

The drive into downtown only took a few minutes, but Maplewood Falls was already awake.

The bakery had a line stretching onto the sidewalk. A florist was arranging buckets of colorful flowers outside her shop. Two fishermen were arguing beside the marina, both gesturing toward the water with the absolute certainty that only retired men seemed capable of possessing before nine in the morning.

A woman walked three golden retrievers that appeared to be walking her instead.

Normal. Peaceful. I relaxed a little.

Maybe yesterday had simply been… an unfortunate introduction. Maybe today would mostly involve paperwork. Paperwork sounded wonderful. Paperwork didn’t spit. Paperwork generally stayed where you left it.

As I approached the town square, colorful festival banners fluttered between the old brick buildings. Volunteers carried folding tables across the green while a landscaping crew planted bright yellow mums around the gazebo.

For the first time, I could almost picture what Helen had been seeing all along.

Families. Music. Food. Kids running around with sticky fingers. The whole town coming together. It really could be beautiful.

If we survived the next twenty-four hours.

I pulled into the temporary parking area behind the square and spotted Helen.

She stood beside a folding table with a clipboard tucked against her chest. She was dressed in a large blue blazer with shoulder pads that made her look like she was about to play football paired with cream linen pants and sensible shoes that looked capable of surviving both a town council meeting and a natural disaster.

Knowing Helen, they probably had.

She wasn’t alone.

Three food trucks sat parked in a crooked row with their serving windows firmly shut, looking less like cheerful festival attractions and more like disgruntled employees refusing to clock in. One was painted bright cherry red with cartoon tacos dancing across the side. Another advertised wood-fired pizza with flames climbing up the panels while the third was a polished silver with cheerful turquoise lettering that promised Coastal Lobster Rolls.

Beside the pizza truck stood a man in a spotless white chef’s coat with his arms folded so tightly across his chest I was surprised circulation still reached his fingers. He was somewhere in his late forties and broad through the shoulders with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. His jaw worked slowly as he chewed what looked suspiciously like gum. One foot tapped impatiently against the pavement.

A woman paced beside the lobster truck, talking animatedly into her cell phone while slicing the air with her free hand. She wore black capri pants, expensive running shoes that looked far too clean to have ever been used for actual running, and oversized sunglasses perched on top of perfectly highlighted blonde hair. Every few seconds she threw both hands into the air, stopped long enough to glare at Helen from across the lot, and then resumed pacing.

Neither looked happy.

Yesterday I’d negotiated with animals. Today I was moving up to humans.

I wasn’t entirely convinced this was an upgrade.

I took a deep breath. “I can do this. I’m an event planner. I plan. That’s what I do.” Well… since yesterday, anyway. But I was going to own it.

Watch me.

I parked, grabbed the binder, and climbed out.

Helen spotted me immediately. “There you are. Finally.”

“I came as fast as I could.”

She glanced toward the food trucks. “We have a problem.”

I looked from one tense face to another. “A tiny problem?”

Helen sighed. “I may have understated the situation.”

I had been afraid of that. “What happened?”

“The health inspector.”

I blinked. “The health inspector?”

“He changed the food vendor layout.”

“Can he do that?” I asked before realizing I’d probably just announced to Helen that I had no idea what I was doing. Experienced planners knew that. Right?

“He already did,” answered Helen, not suspicious about my question.

I looked toward the row of trucks. “They look pissed. How angry are they on a scale of one to ten?” Please say one.

Helen gave me a tired smile. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

Wonderful.

Helen tucked her clipboard beneath one arm and looked at me with complete confidence, which I very much wished I deserved. “The health inspector decided the trucks have to be rearranged,” she said. “Something about access lanes, fire regulations, and emergency vehicles. They all had their permits approved based on yesterday’s layout.”

I nodded slowly as though I knew what any of that meant. I didn’t.

“The vendors don’t want to move,” Helen continued. “The inspector says they have to. They’ve been arguing for the last forty-five minutes.”

Another slow nod. Forty-five minutes. Excellent.

I hadn’t even gotten out of Sarah’s car before inheriting almost an hour’s worth of someone else’s problems.

Helen smiled and patted my arm. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Oh, if only you knew.

“You’ve done this before,” she said. “You’ll know how to smooth everything over.”

I smiled back. It felt surprisingly convincing, considering my insides had just burst into flames. “Absolutely.” My mouth really needed to stop volunteering me for things.

Helen looked visibly relieved. “I knew hiring you was the right decision.”

Guilt twisted somewhere beneath my ribs. Please don’t say nice things to me. Nice things made lying feel significantly worse.

She glanced toward the vendors again. “Well…” Then she handed me her clipboard. “I’ll leave them in your capable hands.”

My fingers automatically closed around it before my brain had a chance to object.

“I have to meet with the parade committee and then check on the volunteer registration tent,” continued Helen. “If anyone can sort this out, it’s you.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Helen smiled warmly. “I’ll come check on you later.” Then she turned and walked away with a brisk confidence that said she believed every problem had now been delegated to someone fully qualified to solve it.

Me.

I watched her disappear across the square. “Okay,” I whispered to myself. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, tucked Helen’s clipboard under one arm, and marched toward the three food trucks with what I hoped looked like confidence.

Inside, however, my brain was running around in tiny circles screaming.

Nothing says “qualified professional” quite like internal panic.

The chef spotted me first. He uncrossed his arms, pushed away from the side of his truck, and fixed me with the sort of expression usually reserved for people who announced they were microwaving steak. “You the event planner?”

My smile arrived two seconds before my confidence did. “I am.”

He looked me up and down. “Good,” he said. “Tell him we’re not moving.”

“Tell who?” I looked behind me like an idiot. Nice.

“The inspector,” he growled, staring at me like I was a simpleton.

I glanced back at him. “Yes. Right.”

The blonde woman ended her phone call with an exaggerated sigh and marched over. “I’ve already rearranged my truck twice this morning,” she said without bothering to introduce herself. “First Helen wanted us one way. Then the inspector wanted us another way. I’ve already plugged into the electrical hookups.”

The chef pointed toward the pavement. “So have I.”

I looked. Sure enough, thick black power cables snaked across the asphalt toward each truck. Right. Electricity. Of course food trucks needed electricity. Why had I imagined they simply… showed up?

I opened Helen’s binder. Surely something in here would cover negotiating with angry chefs. Or electrical cables. Or conflict resolution. Instead I found a laminated page titled WASTE MANAGEMENT.

Helpful.

If one of them suddenly needed information about recycling bins, I was ready.

I closed the binder. “So…” I said brightly. “Let’s all take a breath.”

“I’ve already taken one,” the chef replied.

“I’ve taken several,” said the blonde.

I smiled, even though their expressions at the moment looked like they both wanted to strangle me. “I understand everyone’s frustrated. But I’m sure we can figure something out.”

The blonde folded her arms. “The inspector says we need twelve feet between trucks.”

“The fire department regulations changed,” the chef added.

“But if I move twelve feet,” the blonde shot back, “I’m blocking the dessert truck.”

“The dessert truck isn’t even here,” growled the chef.

“It will be,” pressed the woman.

The chef furrowed his brow. “When?”

The blonde woman paused for a second. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” answered the chef.

I watched them argue for another thirty seconds, which felt oddly like watching tennis. My head kept turning left. Then right. Then left again. At some point I became reasonably certain they’d forgotten I was standing there.

I cleared my throat.

Nothing.

The chef was now explaining something about propane tanks. The blonde countered with customer flow. He replied with generator clearance. She came back with foot traffic.

I didn’t understand a single word. Not one. This was like listening to two surgeons debate spleens.

Eventually I raised both hands. “Okay! We all want the same thing. Right? A successful festival,” I continued. “Happy customers. Am I right? Yes?”

They nodded cautiously.

“And…” I searched desperately for something inspiring. “Food. People like food. I like food. We all like food. Carbs. Yum.” I wasn’t sure I’d landed the motivational speech I’d been aiming for.

“Obviously food,” the chef muttered.

“People generally expect it at food trucks,” said the woman.

“Right. Excellent point.” I laughed.

They didn’t.

“So…” I tried again. “What if…” Dangerous beginning. “Everyone just moved a little?” I demonstrated the distance with my thumb and forefinger, as if visual aids could make this work.

The chef didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

The blonde answered at exactly the same time. “Also no.”

Interesting.

Unanimous agreement was possible after all. Just not in my favor.

I watched them. “Out of curiosity… how difficult is it to move one of these?”

The chef looked genuinely horrified. “They each weigh six tons.”

“Ah.” I nodded thoughtfully. “So…” Another dangerous beginning. “Not like parallel parking.”

“No,” snarled the chef.

“Not even remotely,” added the blonde.

Good to know.

Behind me, another truck rumbled into the lot.

Everyone turned.

A brightly painted dessert truck rolled slowly toward us before stopping twenty feet away. Across the side, in giant pink letters, were the words: SWEET SURRENDER.

A woman leaned out the driver’s window. “So…” She smiled nervously. “Am I late?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m going to need more coffee.”

“You and me both.”

The deep voice drifted in from behind me. A voice I recognized.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I slowly turned around.

Captain Competent stood a few feet away, one hand resting on the open door of his white SUV and a thick manila folder tucked beneath his arm. Sunlight caught the silver badge stitched over his chest, and somehow—not that I was looking—his boots were still ridiculously clean.

How? Did the man polish them hourly? Did deputies have a secret boot fairy? His eyes swept over the line of food trucks. Then over the chef and the blonde. Then the dessert truck.

He looked at me. His expression remained perfectly relaxed. Mine probably looked slightly panicked.

“Morning, Hartwell,” he said.

“Morning, Eric—uh, I mean Walker. I mean Sheriff Walker.” Wow. Already with the verbal diarrhea. Wonderful. “So…” I continued, feeling my cheeks flame. “I can explain. The trucks are here.”

He glanced toward them. “I noticed.”

“They’re… not where they’re supposed to be.”

“I noticed that too,” he said.

I swallowed. “The inspector changed the layout. And now nobody wants to move.”

“I gathered.”

I nodded. “So…”

“So?”

I shrugged. “I don’t really have an ending for this sentence.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. I wasn’t even sure I’d seen it.

“You usually don’t,” he said.

Was… Was that a joke? I blinked. Captain Competent had jokes.

Who knew?

He shifted the folder under his arm. “I came by because the food vendor permits still need signatures before tomorrow.”

I looked down at the stack of paperwork still sitting on Helen’s clipboard.

Right. Permits. Those.

The permits that had completely fallen out of my brain the second six-ton trucks started arguing with each other.

The chef stepped forward. “Sheriff.”

Captain Competent gave him a nod. “Tony.”

They knew each other? Of course they knew each other. Everyone in Maplewood Falls seemed to know everyone. That included the sheriff.

Tony pointed toward the trucks. “Inspector wants us moved.”

“I know,” answered the sheriff, his voice calm as if Tony had just informed him it might rain later instead of announcing the beginning of World War Food Truck.

“We’re already connected,” informed Tony.

Captain Competent’s gaze moved behind Tony. “Yeah. I can see that.” His eyes followed the thick electrical cables stretched neatly across the pavement before drifting toward the power boxes.

Tony folded his arms over his chest, a defiant look in his eye. “We’re not moving.”

The sheriff nodded once. “I figured that was your position.” There wasn’t a hint of irritation in his voice. Just the quiet acceptance of a man who’d probably spent half his career listening to stubborn people explain why they weren’t about to do the thing they absolutely had to do.

The blonde woman propped her hands on her hips. “It’ll take us an hour to disconnect everything.”

“And another hour to hook it back up,” Tony added.

The sheriff looked toward the spaces marked with bright orange spray paint on the pavement. Then toward the access lane and the electrical hookups. His eyes swept slowly across the lot, taking everything in with an ease that made it seem almost effortless.

I found myself watching him. It was annoyingly attractive. Competence shouldn’t be sexy. Yet somehow there he stood, studying asphalt like it contained the answers to the universe, and part of my brain was going… Yep. There it is. Nothing says “take me now” quite like a man silently calculating turning radiuses. Wonderful. This was who I’d become.

The sheriff finally pointed toward the pizza truck. “Tony. If you move six feet instead of twelve… she can swing back another six.” He gestured toward the lobster truck. “Your electrical cable still reaches. The dessert truck backs into this space.” He pointed toward the empty corner. “You leave the emergency lane open.” He glanced at both of them. “Everybody passes inspection.” He said it so matter-of-factly that it almost sounded obvious.

Tony scratched his beard. “That actually works.”

Seriously? Didn’t I say this already? But because now the sheriff says it, it’s better?

“It does,” answered the sheriff, like he hadn’t just untied a knot that had been strangling everyone for nearly an hour.

I stared. Forty-five seconds. That was all it had taken him to repeat my suggestion and somehow come out looking like the hero. I hated people who could do that. Correction. I hated how ridiculously attractive I found people who could do that. There was an important difference.

Tony sighed. “Fine.”

The blonde nodded. “Fine.” She didn’t even sound annoyed anymore. Somehow, he’d managed to make two people who’d been arguing five minutes ago voluntarily agree with each other. Was that a sheriff thing? Did they teach that at the academy? Conflict Resolution Through Excessive Calm?

The dessert truck driver leaned out her window. “So… where do you want me?”

The sheriff looked at me. “You’re the event planner,” he said, his eyes searching my face. “You tell her.”

My stomach performed an unexpected somersault. I looked around. “Uh…” I pointed toward the empty corner the sheriff had indicated. “There.” My finger remained confidently extended for a full second.

The dessert truck driver smiled. “Perfect.” She started the engine.

I leaned a little closer to the sheriff, taking in his musky aftershave and liking it, and lowered my voice. “That was the spot you were pointing at. Wasn’t it?”

He looked down at me. “It was.”

“I knew that.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“I absolutely didn’t.”

“I know.”

I cocked a brow. “I was hoping you didn’t.” Mostly because I’d been trying very hard to maintain the illusion that I knew what the hell I was doing.

“I figured.”

I looked up at him. “Is it really that obvious?” I almost didn’t want to know the answer. Almost.

He was quiet for a second. Then one corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Only to me.”

For reasons I couldn’t begin to explain, that somehow made me feel better. Which probably should’ve worried me a whole lot more than it did.

I couldn’t shake the strange feeling that Captain Competent wasn’t looking at me the way he had yesterday.

And somehow…

I wasn’t sure which of us that should worry more.

8

ERIC

The first thing I learned as a sheriff was simple.

People usually already knew the answer.

They just needed someone to ask the right question.

Hartwell was standing in the middle of three food trucks with increasingly impatient vendors and what looked like the beginning of another public argument. She appeared overwhelmed. Drowning quietly. She wasn’t trying to control the conversation so much as catch every word before another problem landed in her lap. Her binder was tucked tightly against her side, her pen already uncapped, like she thought writing faster might somehow make the answers appear. It wouldn’t. But I had to give her credit. She hadn’t walked away.

Most people would’ve started shouting. But she kept trying to listen to everyone at once. Every time one vendor spoke, she’d instinctively turn toward them, only for someone else to interrupt from the opposite direction. She’d nod, apologize, nod again, and then glance at the next person waiting. She looked overwhelmed but too stubborn to admit it.

“Who’s handling parking?” I asked her.

She glanced at me. “Parking?” The hesitation told me everything I needed to know.

I nodded. “For the people attending the festival as well as the vendors.”

She stared another second before looking around the lot. “I…” She frowned. “I don’t know.” She looked genuinely annoyed with herself for not knowing, which told me more than any confident answer would’ve. She wanted to do this job right. She just didn’t know where to start.

“Okay.” I looked toward the pizza truck. “Tony.”

“What?” answered the chef.

“When you unload tomorrow, where are your customers going to park?”

He scratched his beard. “They usually use the municipal lot.”

I nodded once. “Overflow?”

Tony thought about it. “The church lets us use theirs.”

I looked back at Hartwell. “Write that down.”

She flipped open Helen’s binder, nearly dropping her pen before catching it at the last second. She didn’t need me to answer everything. She needed someone to slow the conversation down enough for her to think. Right now, every problem was hitting her at once. My job wasn’t to solve them for her. It was to help her deal with one problem at a time.

Hartwell was writing so fast her pen could barely keep up. She scribbled one note, drew an arrow beside it, crossed out a word, and then squeezed another sentence into the margin.

It wasn’t pretty, but it didn’t need to be.

Good.

She was gathering information instead of defending herself.

That was progress.

A volunteer hurried toward us carrying two folding tables. “Sheriff?”

I looked at him. “You’ll have to ask Hartwell.”

He turned toward her. “Where do you want these?”

She stared at the map. After a beat she looked up and glanced around the square. I watched her eyes move from the dessert truck to the pedestrian lane and back again. She wasn’t guessing as much this time. She was thinking. “Beside the dessert truck.”

The volunteer nodded. “Got it.” He disappeared.

Hartwell looked at me. “You knew where those should go.”

“I did.”

“Why didn’t you answer him?”

I stared at her face. Her cheeks were flushed from equal parts frustration and determination, making her blue eyes stand out even more against the morning light. I saw a stubborn streak there too. “Because it should be you.”

She frowned. “I might’ve gotten it wrong.” Her voice had softened, just enough that I wasn’t sure anyone else would’ve noticed. It wasn’t fear. It was the voice of someone who expected to be wrong.

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Then you’d know for next time.”

She stared at me for a long second. Whatever she’d expected me to say, it hadn’t been that.

Another volunteer approached with a heavy roll of orange extension cords slung over one shoulder. Late twenties, work boots, faded jeans, sun-tanned skin, and the easy confidence of someone who spent more time outdoors than behind a desk. He shifted the weight of the cords as he reached us.

“Sheriff Walker?” His breathing was a little heavier from hauling the cables across the grounds, but he still managed an easy smile. Around here, volunteers always smiled first and complained later.

I nodded toward Hartwell next to me. “You’ll want Hartwell.” It would’ve been faster if I answered. Easier too. But that wasn’t the point anymore.

The young man offered Sophie an apologetic smile, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Sorry. Ms. Hartwell?” Even he looked a little uncertain, like his instincts told him to ask me again anyway, but he was willing to give the new event planner a chance.

Hartwell gave him a confident smile. “Yes? What is it?”

He lifted the roll of extension cords slightly. “Where do these go?” He shifted the weight again, patiently waiting while the heavy orange cable slowly tried to slide off his shoulder.

She glanced around at the food trucks. “I… uh…” Her eyes bounced from the electrical boxes to the trucks and then back to the cords. I could almost see the gears turning. This wasn’t really about extension cords anymore. It was about trusting herself to answer before certainty showed up.

For just a second, I watched the panic creep back into her face. It arrived quickly, the same way it had yesterday. Only this time she caught it before anyone else did.

Then… it disappeared.

She took one slow breath. “Leave them beside the power boxes until the inspector signs off.” She didn’t rush the words. She simply picked a direction and committed to it, even if I knew she was still guessing.

The volunteer nodded immediately. “No problem.” He spun around and jogged away, the extension cords bouncing lightly against his back.

She looked at me again. “I guessed.” There wasn’t much pride in her voice. Mostly relief.

“I know.”

“It happened to be right.”

“I know.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you messing with me?” She looked almost suspicious now, like she’d decided there was no reasonable explanation for my behavior other than I was entertaining myself at her expense.

“A little.”

She sighed. “I can’t tell when you’re joking. You’ve got that sheriff face.”

I watched her. “What’s a sheriff face?” I wanted to know.

“It’s like…” She tilted her head, studying my face like she was trying to solve a puzzle. “Your face has excellent customer service. Very polite. Very calm. Very reassuring. But your eyes are impossible to read. They give nothing away. It’s like trying to negotiate with a really attractive granite countertop.” She winced. “That came out weird.”

“A little.”

“See?” She pointed at me immediately, as though she’d just won her own argument. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I don’t know if you’re teasing me or evaluating me. You could tell me I was doing a great job and then arrest me five minutes later, and I’d never see it coming.”

“Maybe both.”

She groaned. “Exactly. Sheriff face.” She threw both hands into the air before letting them fall to her sides.

That made me smile. Just a little. It wasn’t the comparison. It was the look on her face the second the words left her mouth. Most people measured every word around me because of the badge. Hartwell didn’t seem capable of stopping her thoughts before they reached her mouth.

Her eyes flicked to my mouth, and her cheeks reddened further. She’d noticed I’d smiled. But she was smiling too, despite herself. And I noticed her shoulders relaxed a fraction. Since I’d walked into the lot, she looked less like someone waiting for the next disaster and more like someone who might actually believe she could handle this one.

I looked up as Tony approached.

“What about the propane inspection?” he asked. He hooked both thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans, waiting without the impatience I’d seen earlier. Amazing what solving one problem could do for a person’s blood pressure.

Before I could answer, Hartwell spoke.

“When is it scheduled?” Her voice was steadier this time. Not completely confident, but confident enough. There was a difference.

Tony looked surprised. “One o’clock.”

She nodded and wrote it down. “Perfect. We’ll make sure nobody blocks access before then.” She flipped the binder shut with a small nod, as if she’d known the answer all along. If I hadn’t been standing beside her the whole time, I might’ve believed it too.

Tony stared at her. His expression softened almost immediately. “Okay. Thanks.” Then he walked away without another question, already calling instructions to someone across the lot. One answer. One decision. That was usually all people wanted before they moved on.

Hartwell looked after him. “Did that work?” she asked quietly.

I nodded. “It did.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I sounded like I knew what I was doing.” She looked genuinely puzzled.

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.”

She laughed. Actually laughed. Not the nervous kind she’d been hiding behind all morning. A real one that escaped before she could stop it, bright and warm enough that a couple of nearby volunteers glanced over with small smiles. It caught me off guard because I found myself liking the sound of it a whole lot more than I should have.

Funny. In less than a day I’d watched this woman put out one fire after another. A goat. Alpacas. A miniature donkey blocking traffic. Food trucks parked in the wrong places. Somehow, trouble kept finding her.

But the first time she stopped pretending she had all the answers. The first time she asked a good question, listened, and made a decision. People started listening.

She hadn’t changed. Her approach had.

Yesterday she’d tried to prove she belonged.

Today she was letting people do what they already knew how to do.

I watched her scribble another note into Helen’s binder before tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist, careful not to smear ink across her face. She looked tired with faint shadows under her eyes that she hadn’t bothered trying to hide. A smudge of blue ink stained the side of her hand, but she probably hadn’t even noticed. A strand of hair escaped again almost immediately, falling back across her cheek. She blew at it absentmindedly without looking up from the page. It didn’t move. Neither of us mentioned it.

She’d hate knowing I’d noticed.

Not because she wanted to impress me. Because she wanted to convince everybody she belonged here. That she knew what she was doing. Pride had very little to do with it. It looked more like determination. The stubborn kind. The kind that kept people showing up after bad days instead of packing a suitcase and calling it quits.

I’d seen that look before on new deputies, firefighters, first-year paramedics, and people thrown into jobs that felt one size too big. Some rose to it. Some didn’t. The ones who succeeded usually weren’t the loudest or the smartest. They were the ones willing to ask one more question, work one more hour, and come back after making a mistake without pretending it hadn’t happened.

She caught me looking. “What?” she asked. She glanced down at herself, checking for spilled coffee or something, and then looked over one shoulder as if she expected to find another disaster standing behind her.

Considering the last twenty-four hours, I couldn’t blame her.

“Nothing,” I answered.

She narrowed her eyes. “That wasn’t a ‘nothing’ look.”

“I don’t have a ‘nothing’ look.”

She raised a brow. “You absolutely do.” She pointed vaguely toward my face. “It’s the same one you use for traffic violations, escaped livestock, and event planners.”

“I have one look.”

She smiled. “Exactly.” The smile arrived before she could stop it, small but genuine. It changed her whole face. I found myself noticing that too, which was becoming an increasingly inconvenient habit.

I looked away first. She wasn’t my responsibility. The festival wasn’t my responsibility. Technically, the only reason I was still standing here was because of permits and public safety. That’s what I’d tell anyone who asked. It also happened to be true.

That was the story.

A good story. Logical. Professional. The kind of story I could live with. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that every time another problem landed in her lap, she straightened her shoulders, took a breath, and tried again instead of walking away. Or the fact that she’d stopped pretending in front of me before she’d stopped pretending in front of everyone else. Trust wasn’t something people handed out by accident. Especially not people who’d spent the last day trying so hard to convince the world they were fine.

I’d been married to someone who quit the moment things got difficult. Different situation. Different woman. I wasn’t making comparisons. I didn’t want to. Comparisons had a way of leading places I had no interest in going. I’d spent enough years convincing myself that if I just worked harder, fixed one more problem, compromised one more time, everything would eventually fall back into place. Sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes people simply left.

I’d already made enough mistakes where women were concerned—one marriage, one divorce, more lawyers than I cared to remember, and enough disappointment to last a lifetime. I’d promised myself there wouldn’t be another relationship complicated enough to require attorneys billing by the hour. Peace and quiet suddenly had a lot of appeal after that.

Life was quieter now. Exactly the way I liked it. My house. My job. My routines. Nobody arguing over where I spent my evenings. Nobody questioning why my phone rang after midnight. Nobody expecting me to leave being sheriff at the office when that had never been possible.

Then Hartwell showed up carrying a giant binder and somehow managed to inherit every problem in town.

It was temporary. The festival would end. She’d move on to whatever came next. Someone like Hartwell wasn’t built to stay in one place forever. She wasn’t built to stay in one place. She had too many ideas and never seemed to sit still.

I’d go back to normal.

That was the plan.

I preferred plans. They were reliable. Predictable.

Unfortunately, I’d already seen the look in Hartwell’s eyes.

And that usually meant trouble.

9

SOPHIE

By the time the last vendor had stopped asking questions, the sun had slipped low over Maplewood Falls, turning the ocean beyond the harbor into a sheet of molten gold. The afternoon crowd had long since disappeared, replaced by volunteers wandering around with staple guns, ladders, extension cords, and varying levels of confidence. Somebody had found an old portable speaker, and soft country music drifted lazily across the square, mixing with the cries of gulls and the steady rhythm of waves rolling against the docks.

The whole place looked… hopeful. Which was strange. Yesterday it had looked like the opening scene of a documentary called How Festivals Die.

Now people were laughing, working, and hammering signs into place. Someone had already strung flowers around the gazebo. Somehow we’d gone from complete disaster to organized panic.

I wasn’t naïve enough to think we were out of the woods. We were probably still standing in the middle of them, surrounded by angry bears. But at least everyone had stopped screaming. Nobody was threatening legal action. Nobody was chasing livestock. Almost like the universe was taking a coffee break before deciding what fresh horror to throw at me next.

I looked around the square and tightened my grip on the ladder. “You can do this.”

Yes, I was talking to myself. And no, I didn’t care who heard me.

“I had to do this.”

This wasn’t just about the Summer Festival anymore. It wasn’t even about Helen. Or the paycheck.

This was my chance.

My one chance to prove—to Helen… to Sarah… to Margo… and maybe most of all to myself—that I wasn’t the woman who always quit. The one who bounced from job to job collecting awkward exit stories like loyalty cards.

I’d spent years telling myself I’d eventually figure life out. Eventually had started feeling alarmingly overdue.

But I wasn’t walking away. Not this time. Even if tomorrow brought escaped llamas. Actually… scratch that. If tomorrow brought llamas, I might cry first.

Then I would deal with the llamas.

See? This was growth.

I balanced on the second rung of a ladder, stretching on my tiptoes to hook another strand of white café lights between two wooden poles. Whoever invented decorative lighting had clearly never been five-foot-five with average upper-body strength. The lights refused to cooperate, tangling around my wrist like creepy glowing snakes.

“Come on,” I hissed. “We’re literally on the same team.”

One end slipped free, and then the entire strand slithered off the ladder and landed in a heap around my feet.

Naturally.

I stared at it. One tiny motivational speech to myself about becoming a capable adult and the universe responded with, That’s adorable. Here’s some electrical spaghetti.

“I saw none of that.”

Captain Competent’s voice floated up from somewhere below.

I flinched, and then I turned.

Sheriff Eric Walker stood on the opposite side of the ladder with both hands tucked casually into the front pockets of his jeans, looking infuriatingly relaxed. His uniform shirt was gone now, replaced by a dark charcoal T-shirt that fit his shoulders far better than any piece of fabric had a right to. The badge was gone too, but somehow he still looked every bit the sheriff.

“Good,” I said, trying to reel the strand back onto the ladder with as much dignity as someone who’d just lost a wrestling match to decorative lighting possibly could. “Because I almost had them.” Which, technically, wasn’t a lie. Another five seconds and I absolutely could’ve… continued making the knot significantly worse. Progress comes in many forms.

“You were winning,” he said, looking up at me.

“I was. I totally was.” And then I wasn’t. “They lulled me into a false sense of security. I got cocky. Rookie mistake.”

“They surrendered,” he added.

“They staged a tactical retreat.” I glanced down at the tangled pile wrapped around one of my ankles. “They’re regrouping. You watch. They’ll be back.”

One corner of his mouth moved, like his face had briefly considered trying to smile before deciding it might set a dangerous precedent.

I squinted at him, imagining what his face would look like with a genuine, full smile. It had to be spectacular. Like stop-traffic spectacular. Like rip-off-your-clothes-and-jump-him⁠—

The ladder shifted, jolting me back to reality. I hadn’t even realized I’d been leaning toward him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked quickly, trying to cover it up. Weird. Shouldn’t he be at home resting with his wife or girlfriend? Or fiancée? Surely a man who looked like that didn’t just spend Thursday nights wandering around festival grounds checking extension cords. Maybe he was here to make sure I wasn’t about to screw up again. Honestly, statistically speaking, that was a reasonable assumption.

He glanced around the square. “Checking on the festival.”

Ah. I looked at the empty streets, the volunteers hanging banners, and Dottie several yards away enthusiastically arguing with someone about flower pots. She was waving a geranium around like it was compelling evidence in a court case. “At eight thirty at night?”

“I told you.” He looked back at me. “I’m always the sheriff.”

I hated how attractive I found that sentence.

That’s right. Words were making me horny.

Not abs. Not forearms. Not the whole rugged-lawman thing. A sentence.

I clearly needed more sleep.

But in my defense, those words were responsible. Dependable. Solid. Exactly the kind of thing that made sensible women fall in love.

I had never once accused myself of being sensible. My dating history alone should qualify as supporting documentation.

I climbed down another rung, reminding myself to focus on the ladder instead of the sheriff standing beneath it.

My face heated.

Was he staring at my ass? Oh, god. I bet he was. It was practically at eye level. Did he like it? Why did I care if he liked it? Why was this even a thought I was having?

The ladder wobbled dangerously, and I righted myself.

“So…” I said, trying not to think of him staring at my butt. “Did any of the animals escape tonight?”

“Not yet.”

“I appreciate the optimism.”

“I’ve learned not to rule anything out where you’re concerned.”

I laughed. “In my defense, nobody tells you miniature donkeys have that much confidence.”

For a second, neither of us said anything. We just smiled at each other. It should’ve been awkward, but it wasn’t.

Somewhere farther down Main Road, someone laughed. The music drifted toward us again, softer now. A couple wandered hand in hand past the bookstore carrying ice cream cones while farther along the boardwalk a little girl spun in circles until she fell onto the grass giggling.

Maplewood Falls felt different at night. Smaller. Slower. Like everyone collectively agreed the day had worked hard enough.

The sheriff crouched and reached for the tangled knot of lights around the base of the ladder, working patiently through the mess with quick, practiced fingers.

Such lovely fingers. Lovely strong fingers.

And this was how people ended up pregnant after discussing Christmas lights.

“You’ve done this before?” I asked, blinking rapidly and dragging my brain back where it belonged.

“My dad hated crooked Christmas lights.”

I laughed. “That’s oddly specific.”

“He believed they were a reflection of character.”

My lips parted. “Seriously?”

“No.”

I stared at him. He kept a perfectly straight face, and I pointed at him. “That sheriff face is becoming a real problem.”

He looked almost amused. “It seems to bother you.”

“It does,” I told him. “I never know if you’re joking.”

“I usually am.”

“See? That’s exactly the problem.”

He handed me the now perfectly untangled strand. “You’re clear.”

“Thanks.” Feeling rather pleased with myself for surviving another ladder-related incident, I carefully climbed down.

One step.

Another.

Only one left.

Easy peasy.

I started to step off the last rung when something tugged around my ankle.

The next series of events happened in slow motion. I shit you not.

First, I looked down at another strand of café lights wrapped around my foot. Then my balance shifted. Then the ladder wobbled.

“Oh crap.” I reached for absolutely nothing useful.

This was going to hurt.

The world tilted and then—stopped.

Strong hands caught me around the waist before I hit the ground, lifting me so effortlessly that I barely noticed my feet finding the ground again.

For one suspended heartbeat, everything else disappeared.

I looked up, and Sheriff Walker was standing impossibly close, one arm still around my waist with the other steadying my shoulder. He smelled ridiculously good. Clean, woodsy, and entirely too distracting for someone who’d just saved me from face-planting into the grass. His eyes searched my face, serious now, all traces of teasing gone.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I…” Brilliant. An excellent start. “Yes.”

He didn’t let go. His gaze flicked down to the lights still wrapped around my ankle before meeting my eyes again. “I think,” he said, “the festival decorations are becoming possessive.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “I was winning.” But then my brain went Please don’t fart. Please don’t fart.

After a beat, he loosened his grip just enough to make sure I could stand on my own, and a selfish, hormonal part of me wished he hadn’t.

My knees, traitorous things that they were, briefly considered forgetting how to function. I decided right then and there that falling for Sheriff Walker was probably every bit as dangerous as falling off ladders.

Possibly more.

“You’re safe now, no breaks.” His eyes met mine, and a smile materialized on his face.

For just a second, neither of us moved.

He was still standing close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him. One hand lingered lightly at my waist as though he wanted to make absolutely sure I wasn’t about to topple over again. His gaze stayed on mine, steady and impossibly calm, before drifting—just briefly—to my mouth and then returning to my eyes.

It couldn’t have lasted more than a heartbeat. I might’ve imagined it. Probably imagined it. Hopefully imagined it.

Because the alternative was far more dangerous.

Heat crept across my cheeks before I could stop it, and I suddenly became painfully aware of everything. The way my pulse had mistaken itself for a jackhammer. The fact that he was still holding me. The fact that I could smell cedar and clean soap. The fact that his eyes weren’t just brown. They had little flecks of amber in them that caught the last of the evening sunlight.

Why was I noticing eye flecks? Nobody should ever notice eye flecks. That was how these things started.

First it was eye flecks. Then it was wondering what someone looked like when they laughed. Next thing you knew, you were picking out curtains together.

My brain was sprinting toward a future I’d never authorized.

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

Was… was that flirting? No. Probably not. Maybe. Possibly. Or maybe he looked at everyone’s lips after catching them from falling off ladders. That seemed unlikely. Although I admittedly didn’t have enough experience falling into attractive sheriffs to say for certain.

My brain called an emergency meeting. Unfortunately, nobody attending appeared qualified.

I cleared my throat. “Well…” Brilliant contribution, Sophie. Very articulate. I’d always dreamed that when I met an attractive man I’d leave him breathless with my wit.

The sheriff rescued me before I could make things worse. “You’ve done a lot today.”

I nodded. “I’ve mostly survived today.”

“That’s usually the first step.” I didn’t hear a hint of teasing in his voice. Just quiet certainty. Like surviving counted. Like maybe I’d been measuring success all wrong. For some ridiculous reason, that landed somewhere right behind my ribs.

Nobody had said anything like that to me in a very long time.

Long enough that it caught me completely off guard.

I looked back toward the lights stretching across the square, imagining families walking beneath them tomorrow night, kids laughing, music playing, people eating from food trucks that were finally parked where they belonged.

He followed my gaze across the square, taking in the lights, the volunteers, the banners swaying gently in the evening breeze. “It’s coming together.”

I smiled. “I was beginning to think I’d imagined that possibility.” Yesterday I’d been picturing headlines involving escaped livestock and insurance claims. Progress was lowering the odds of public humiliation one hour at a time.

“You’ve still got work to do,” he added.

“Oh, believe me, I know. Helen reminds me every five minutes.”

One corner of his mouth lifted again. “I imagine she does.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a simple white business card. He held it out to me. “Here.”

I looked at the card. “What’s this?”

“My card.”

“I gathered that.” I looked it over. Nothing fancy. Just his name, the sheriff’s office number with his extension, and an email address. Somehow even his business card looked organized. Mine would probably have coffee stains and mysterious glitter on it for reasons nobody could explain.

“If you run into something you’re not sure about…” He shrugged one shoulder like it wasn’t a big deal. “Road closures. Crowd control. Safety questions. Permits. Anything that falls under my department.” His voice stayed matter-of-fact, but something was reassuring about the way he said it. Like asking for help wasn’t admitting defeat. It was just part of getting the job done. He paused. “Call before it becomes a problem.”

“You mean… instead of waiting until livestock are involved?” I turned the card over even though nothing was on the back, mostly because it gave my hands something to do besides shake.

He gave a short laugh. “I’d recommend that.”

“I was hoping yesterday wouldn’t become my professional reputation.” I sighed dramatically. “I’d really been aiming for ‘competent event planner.’ Somehow I overshot and landed on ‘woman frequently outsmarted by hooved mammals.’”

His eyes warmed with amusement. “I think it’s a little late for that.”

I groaned. “I’m forever going to be remembered as the woman who shut down Main Road with a miniature donkey.” Stories were probably already being told about it over dinner. Children would grow up hearing the legend. I’d become local folklore before I’d even unpacked it emotionally.

He considered it. “The goat eating permit paperwork didn’t help.”

“Oh, good. Thank you. That’s exactly the reassurance I was looking for.” I placed a hand over my heart. “Really building my confidence there, Sheriff.”

“I do what I can.”

I lifted his card. “I’ll try not to abuse this.”

The sheriff watched me for a beat. “I don’t think you will.” There it was again—that quiet certainty I’d started noticing. He never sounded like he was flattering me. He simply said things as though they were facts. He took a step backward and glanced toward the parking lot. “I should let you finish.”

“Right.”

He nodded once. “Good night, Hartwell.”

“Good night, Sheriff.”

He turned and started walking across the square toward the parking lot, his hands tucked casually into the front pockets of his jeans. His long stride was relaxed and unhurried, like a man who never needed to prove he was in charge because everyone already knew.

I watched him go, strictly because it would’ve been rude not to. It would’ve been disrespectful to the denim.

He reached his white SUV, opened the driver’s door, and then glanced back over his shoulder.

For one horrifying second, I thought he’d caught me staring.

I became fascinated by a nearby flower planter. What lovely petunias. Very… petunia-like. Incredible petals.

When I finally risked another look, he was climbing into the SUV. A second later the engine started and headlights swept briefly across the square before he slowly pulled away.

I let out a breath. “Get a grip, Sophie,” I muttered to myself as I picked up the strand of café lights again. “You have a festival to finish. This is your chance. Don’t blow it because you got distracted by a hot sheriff.”

A beat passed.

“And stop thinking about his ass in those jeans.”

Yeah, that was not going to happen.

10

ERIC

My SUV rolled slowly down Cedar Lane before turning into a long gravel driveway flanked by towering pine trees. At the very end sat a weathered two-story farmhouse with a detached garage big enough to hold three pickup trucks and half the town’s bad decisions.

Tonight it held four.

I pulled in beside Mike’s F-150 and killed the engine.

The garage door stood open despite the cool evening air, warm yellow light spilling across the driveway. The muted sound of a Bruins game drifted outside, followed by laughter and somebody insisting the Bruins hadn’t had a decent power play in years.

Some things never changed.

Every Thursday night, we ended up here. Didn’t matter if we’d had a quiet week or one that kept us working until two in the morning. Didn’t matter if someone had gotten married, divorced, promoted, or had retired.

Thursday was poker.

The rules were simple. Bring cash. Bring beer if you drank it. Don’t whine when you lost.

I climbed out of the SUV, grabbed the six-pack I’d promised Mike, and headed toward the side entrance of the garage. The smell hit me before I even reached the door. Pizza. Motor oil. Fresh-cut lumber. And whatever air freshener Mike’s wife insisted on hanging in here every few months to convince herself the place didn’t permanently smell like forty years of men hanging out.

It never worked.

I opened the side door without knocking. “You boys behaving yourselves?”

Four heads turned.

“There goes the neighborhood,” Dave said, tossing another poker chip into the pot. The retired firefighter still looked like he could carry someone out of a burning building if he had to. He was broad through the shoulders with cropped silver hair, permanent gray stubble, and the comfortable stomach of a man who’d traded a six-pack for beer without giving up an ounce of strength.

Mike grinned from behind his cards. “Took you long enough, Sheriff.” At six-foot-four, the owner of the garage had to angle his knees sideways beneath the poker table, his grease-stained hands making even a deck of cards look undersized. His thick dark beard had picked up more gray over the last few years, and laugh lines fanned from the corners of his eyes whenever he smiled, which was often.

I set the six-pack on the old workbench, stained with decades of oil, paint, and whatever Dave insisted was character. “Brought a peace offering.”

Mike reached over and snagged one before I’d even taken off my jacket. “Accepted.”

The garage looked exactly the way it always did—half workshop, half man cave. Pegboards lined one wall with enough tools to rebuild a small country while an ancient beer fridge hummed. Somebody had left the big garage door open to let the cool evening air drift through, carrying the smell of fresh rain and cut grass inside. The muted hockey game flickered on an old television bolted high in one corner, though nobody appeared to be watching it.

Dylan pointed toward the empty chair. At twenty-eight, he was the youngest guy at the table by a good decade. His faded Maplewood Falls Volunteer Fire Department T-shirt still had sawdust on it, and a fresh scrape crossed one knuckle. He looked like he’d come straight from a job site. “Buy-in’s fifty.”

“You boys trying to rob me?”

Dave snorted. “You make sheriff money.”

“I make government money.”

“Worse,” said Curt, nodding. “I get it.” The principal of Maplewood Falls High pushed his reading glasses onto the top of his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. His plaid shirt was as neatly pressed as ever, despite the streak of pizza grease on one cuff. Twenty years of dealing with teenagers had given him the patience of a saint.

I pulled out my wallet and tossed my cash into the middle before settling into the chair.

Mike shuffled with a practiced ease, likely born from cheating since high school. Or at least he wanted everyone to think he was. He never looked at the cards while he shuffled, carrying on conversations the entire time like his hands had long ago decided they no longer required supervision. “I don’t cheat,” he said without looking up.

I watched him. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was.” After twenty years of poker nights, we both knew exactly how this conversation went.

The cards slapped against the table. Beer bottles hissed open. Somebody reached for another slice of pizza before Dave could claim it first, earning himself a well-deserved glare. Normal. Exactly what I needed after the last two days. Familiar voices. Familiar insults. Familiar routines. Usually they managed to drown out whatever had happened during the week.

Mike dealt.

I glanced down. Ace. King. Nice. Any other night, the hand would’ve practically played itself.

Dave tossed in five dollars confidently, as though he’d never once believed folding was an acceptable life choice.

Dylan matched it without hesitation, absently wiping pizza grease off his fingers onto a paper napkin before reaching for his beer.

Curt raised, his expression never changing. The man had the same face whether he was announcing school closures, handing out detention, or bluffing everyone at the table.

I sighed and folded, tossing my cards faceup onto the table.

Nobody said anything.

At first.

Mike stopped halfway through taking a drink, the beer bottle hovering an inch from his mouth.

Dave slowly lowered his cards onto the table like he was afraid any sudden movement might spook me.

Dylan frowned, looking from me to my discarded hand and back again.

Curt blinked once behind his reading glasses.

The entire table went strangely quiet, the kind that usually preceded someone confessing to backing a truck into a mailbox.

“What?” I asked.

Mike leaned back in his chair, studying me over the top of his cards like I was evidence in an ongoing investigation. “You folded ace-king.”

“I did.”

“You always play ace-king.”

“I didn’t feel like it.” It sounded reasonable to me. I was the only one.

Nobody moved.

Dave looked at the others before slowly shaking his head. “I don’t like this.”

Dylan nodded solemnly, like we’d just received troubling medical news. “Me neither.” He looked genuinely concerned. “Should we be taking his temperature?”

Curt rubbed his chin, his principal face settling into place. “Maybe he’s sick.”

“I’m not sick.” At least I didn’t think I was. The looks around the table suggested nobody believed me.

Dave pointed his beer at me, his expression growing more suspicious by the second. “Did you hit your head?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sitting right here.”

“Could’ve happened earlier.” Dave shrugged like he was presenting a perfectly reasonable medical diagnosis. “Head injuries are sneaky.”

Mike studied me another second before dealing the flop, his eyes narrowing the way they always did when he was trying to figure out whether an engine was making a real noise or the customer was imagining things. “I’ve known you for twenty years.”

“Congratulations.” I reached for my beer. “Should I get you a card?”

“You don’t fold ace-king.”

“I just did.”

“Exactly.” Mike pointed a card at me as though he’d uncovered the missing piece of a criminal investigation. “That’s what’s bothering me.”

Another silence settled over the table. The kind only old friends could create, comfortable and dangerous. That sort of silence didn’t need filling because everybody already knew where it was heading. I’d seen juries deliberate faster.

Everybody was thinking the same thing. I could practically hear the gears turning. Folding ace-king wasn’t the problem anymore. It was evidence. They were simply trying to determine what crime had been committed.

Dave finally looked at Mike. “Woman.”

Mike nodded once, far too confidently. “Gotta be a woman.”

Dylan looked at me with exaggerated sympathy, shaking his head. “Poor bastard.”

I sighed, already regretting coming. Somewhere along the way, poker night had turned into everyone sticking their noses into everyone else’s business.

Curt threw a chip into the pot quietly, as though he’d somehow managed to win just often enough that everyone suspected him of cheating, despite the complete lack of evidence. “It’s definitely a woman.”

“There isn’t a woman.” I took another drink of beer, hoping the conversation would die a natural death. It didn’t. Conversations like this never did.

Dave grinned, like he’d just smelled blood in the water. “There it is.”

I exhaled through my nose. “What?”

“The denial.” He pointed his bottle at me like a prosecutor presenting Exhibit A.

“I wasn’t denying anything.”

“You literally said, ‘There isn’t a woman.’” Dave looked around the table for support. “Textbook denial.”

“Because there isn’t.” I was beginning to understand why suspects often asked for lawyers even when they were innocent.

Mike folded his hands on the table, his fingers disappearing beneath forearms thick enough to rebuild an engine block. “So…” He let the word hang there just long enough to become irritating. “Who is she?”

“There isn’t a she.” I already didn’t like where this was going. Mostly because I’d completely lost control of where it had already gone.

Dave scratched at his beard and settled back in his chair. “Let’s narrow it down.”

I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck. “No.”

Dave didn’t miss a beat. “She passing through town?”

“No.”

He reached for his beer. “Tourist?”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Divorced?”

“No.”

Dave leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “From here?”

I looked up before I could stop myself.

Dave’s grin widened another inch.

Damn. “I didn’t answer because there isn’t⁠—”

Mike held up a hand before I could finish. “Notice he didn’t say no that time.”

Dylan pointed toward me. “Oh, this is fun.” He leaned back with a grin. “Finally. Something besides Dave’s fishing stories.”

I rubbed a hand across my jaw. “You boys done?” I knew they weren’t. I asked anyway. Sometimes optimism slipped through the cracks.

“Not even close,” Dave said without missing a beat.

Curt smiled down at his cards. “When did this start?”

He asked it with the same calm patience that probably made him a good principal.

“It didn’t.”

Mike dealt another card, not taking his eyes off me. “Then why’d you fold ace-king?”

I looked down at my cards. I’d forgotten I still had them. That annoyed me more than the interrogation. I’d spent twenty years reading suspects during interviews, noticing every twitch, hesitation, and change in breathing. Meanwhile, four idiots armed with pizza and beer had me forgetting I was in the middle of a poker hand.

“I’ve had a long couple of days,” I told them.

Dave took a slow sip of beer. “Festival?”

“Festival.”

Mike nodded knowingly. “We heard about the donkey.”

Dylan laughed. “My wife said there was an alpaca.”

I nodded. “There were two.”

Curt nearly dropped his cards. “There were two?” His eyebrows disappeared somewhere near his hairline. “How do you accidentally end up with two alpacas?”

“Don’t ask.”

Dave leaned forward, his elbows landing on the table. “We’re asking.”

I looked around the table. Four grown men, all staring at me like they had nowhere else to be. I should’ve known poker night wasn’t going to stay about poker.

Before anyone could ask another question, the side door opened.

“Who’s ready for dessert?”

Every head turned.

Mike’s wife Carol came in carrying a homemade blueberry pie in one hand and a stack of paper plates in the other. Flour dusted one sleeve of her sweatshirt, and her chestnut hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looked like she’d been baking.

She also looked like she’d heard enough of the conversation to know exactly what was going on.

That wasn’t unusual. Carol missed very little.

She set the pie on the table. “Well, don’t stop on my account.”

“Perfect timing,” Mike said, sounding far too pleased with himself.

“I know.” She set the pie down on the workbench before looking around the table, taking in five grown men with the same expression elementary school teachers reserved for classrooms that had suddenly gone suspiciously quiet. “What are you all staring at?”

Mike pointed at me with absolutely no loyalty whatsoever. “There’s a woman.”

Carol didn’t even look in my direction. “Of course there is.” She reached for the pie server calmly, like she refused to acknowledge manufactured drama until she’d confirmed it deserved her attention.

Dave laughed. “No, no. A woman.”

Carol picked up the pie server. “I’m still not hearing the problem.” She glanced between the five of us. “Unless one of you suddenly forgot how women work.”

“The sheriff’s got a girl,” pressed Dave.

Finally she looked at me.

I raised both hands. “I’ve said absolutely nothing.” That seemed like the smartest move.

“I noticed.” She nodded approvingly before turning back to her husband. “Unlike the four of you.” Her gaze lingered on each man in turn. “Honestly, you’re worse than my quilting group, and at least they wait until everyone has coffee before dissecting someone’s love life.”

“We’re investigating,” said Dave, sounding offended that she’d reduced serious detective work to gossip.

Carol rolled her eyes. “You’re gossiping.”

Dave shook his head. “It’s different.”

“It isn’t,” said Carol, her lips pressed into a fine line.

Curt accepted a slice of pie. “It really isn’t.” He didn’t even bother looking up from his cards. Even the principal knew when an argument had already been decided.

Dylan reached for another plate. “We’re just curious.” He paused. “Professionally curious.”

Carol continued cutting generous slices. “You’re behaving like a sewing circle.”

Mike looked offended. “We’re poker players.”

“You’re middle-aged men who get together every Thursday and spend half the night talking about everybody else in town.” She handed me the first slice. “That’s a sewing circle with worse snacks.” She looked around the garage. “And significantly more body odor.”

Dave pointed at the pie. “The snacks are excellent.”

Carol raised her chin. “They’re only excellent because I made them.”

“They’re still excellent.” Dave took a bite before she could change her mind. “You’d win ribbons at the county fair.”

She smiled despite herself before looking at me again. “You don’t have to answer them.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” I’d learned that lesson a long time ago.

“Good,” said Carol, still smiling.

Mike frowned. “So there is a woman.” He leaned forward like he’d finally uncovered a witness willing to testify.

Carol sighed, obviously having been married long enough to know stubbornness wasn’t something men grew out of. They just got older while insisting they were right. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Michael.”

“What?”

“If there is, he’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

“And if there isn’t?”

“Then you’ve spent twenty minutes interrogating an innocent man over a poker hand.” She looked around the table. “Which, now that I say it out loud, somehow feels even sadder.”

Dave leaned back in his chair. “He folded ace-king.”

Carol stopped serving pie. “He what?”

The entire table nodded in perfect unison.

She looked at me. “You folded ace-king?”

“I did.”

She stared another second before slowly setting the pie server back down. “Huh.”

I pointed across the table. “See?”

She shrugged. “I never said you weren’t acting strange.” She crossed her arms. “If Mike folded ace-king, I’d probably schedule him a doctor’s appointment.”

Four idiots burst out laughing.

I rubbed my temples. Even the voice of reason thought I’d lost my mind.

It was going to be a long night.

11

SOPHIE

The last strand of café lights finally clicked into place.

I climbed down the ladder—carefully this time, making absolutely certain my feet weren’t wrapped in electrical wire again. I even checked twice before stepping off the last rung. Trust, I’d learned, was something you earned. Extension cords had not.

I stepped back, tilting my head as I admired my handiwork. I’d never been good at anything. Not really. And not that I remembered. But this? This looked good. More than good. It was beautiful.

“Not bad, Sophie,” I told myself. “Not bad at all.”

The lights stretched across the square in soft golden arcs. The banners fluttered gently in the evening breeze, flower boxes lined the sidewalks, and volunteers packed away ladders and extension cords with satisfied exhaustion, knowing they’d actually accomplished something. For once, nobody was shouting my name across the square.

This felt… right.

I smiled. A real one. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t completely ruining everything for once. Maybe I was only ruining it in manageable, reparable ways. That felt like progress too.

Dottie waved from across the square before climbing into an ancient station wagon. “Don’t stay too late, sweetheart!”

I waved back. “I won’t!” That was probably a lie. At this point, I was developing an unhealthy relationship with optimism. It kept convincing me I was leaving “in five minutes,” yet somehow thirty minutes kept mysteriously disappearing.

I couldn’t leave. Not until I felt like I’d given it my all. Not until I felt it was perfect and that we were ready for tomorrow.

As everyone else slowly drifted home, the square settled into a quieter rhythm. The volunteers were gone, leaving only the distant hum of cars drifting through Maplewood Falls. The café lights glowed warmly overhead, softening the edges of the town after a long day.

I hugged Helen’s binder against my chest. I should go home, take a shower, relax a little, and eat something that hadn’t come from a food truck. I might have a glass of wine—maybe a bottle—and sleep for approximately three days. If I woke up sometime next week, maybe I’d find somebody else had magically finished organizing the festival.

Instead, my eyes wandered toward the temporary fencing behind the community center.

The petting zoo.

I frowned. “I should probably check on them.” The words came out before I had a chance to stop them, like my mouth had made evening plans without bothering to consult my brain first.

Because I was a responsible adult. Mostly. Still, I couldn’t just leave until I knew they were okay.

“Going to check on the animals. Margot would be proud,” I said as I made my way over. “Our family dog whisperer. Whisperette?” That didn’t sound right.

The temporary gate squeaked as I pushed it open and locked it behind me.

The goat looked up and wandered over.

“Hey, buddy.”

The little troublemaker had the same black-and-white patchwork coat I’d been chasing all afternoon yesterday, one floppy ear that never seemed to stand up quite right, and bright golden eyes full of the kind of confidence usually reserved for toddlers and extremely drunk people.

“You really are cute.” Too cute for his own good.

He trotted toward me with his stubby tail wagging so enthusiastically his entire backside bounced with every step, looking far too pleased with himself for an animal who’d committed several crimes against festival property in the last twenty-four hours.

I shot my hand out. “Not so fast. We’ve discussed boundaries. Remember?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “And don’t poop on my shoes again, okay? I can’t afford another pair.” Not until Helen paid me.

The goat ignored me completely, as if personal space was merely a suggestion, and nudged my hip with surprising enthusiasm before attempting to investigate the pocket of my hoodie. He’d reached the conclusion that every pocket in the world contained snacks.

“Hey, hey, hey. No. That’s not yours.” I laughed, scratching between his ears. “You’re lucky you’re adorable, you little shit.”

He looked up at me with an innocent expression, and I felt a tug in my chest. I wasn’t used to animals looking at me like that. Usually snarling and spitting were involved before the combat started.

This was… different.

Nobody had ever accused animals of pretending. If this goat wanted scratches, he actually wanted scratches.

“That’s it.” I pointed at him. “Until somebody tells me your real name, I’m calling you Bandit.” It suited him. Tiny, mischievous, probably one questionable decision away from another felony.

The goat gave a happy little hop, which I chose to interpret as enthusiastic approval rather than a warning sign that he was about to climb on something expensive.

“You like that, huh?” I said, smiling. “You absolutely look like a Bandit. With that face, you’ll get away with anything. Right?”

At that moment, behind Bandit, both alpacas lifted their heads. The smaller one blinked at me from across the pen with enormous dark eyes framed by ridiculously long eyelashes. It looked permanently surprised, like every moment of its existence was unexpected. It watched me carefully but stayed where it was, politely chewing hay and minding its own business.

But as soon as I made eye contact with the larger one, it was game over.

Its fuzzy ears perked up, and it started walking over with determination.

I waved my hand at it. “Don’t even think about it.” I took one instinctive step backward, even though I already knew the outcome.

The alpaca continued approaching, its long neck bobbing happily with every step and looking like an oversized stuffed animal that had somehow come to life and developed serious attachment issues.

“I mean it.” Now I was waving both hands. “You stay there. No more alpaca drool all over my clothes. I can’t afford dry cleaning right now or new clothes.”

Another step.

I cringed as the beast kept coming. “And your breath stinks. Didn’t anyone ever tell you?”

Another step.

I frowned. “What is it with you animals? This isn’t supposed to happen. You’re not supposed to like me.”

The alpaca ignored every word as it closed the remaining distance and promptly rested its long, ridiculously fluffy head against my shoulder with a contented sigh, like it clearly believed we’d been best friends since kindergarten. Or perhaps soulmates. I wasn’t entirely sure how alpacas categorized these things.

I sighed. “Fine.” I reached up and scratched beneath its soft chin, still surprised by how the animals were behaving around me. The smaller alpaca and the donkey were ignoring me, which was much more in line with my previous experiences. Clearly these two were just… desperately lonely.

“You need a name too.” If we were going to be emotionally codependent, the least I could do was stop calling it “the alpaca.”

The alpaca hummed.

“I know. It’s a big responsibility.” Names lasted. Or at least until somebody from the farm corrected me.

It leaned even harder against me, nearly knocking me sideways. For something covered in fluff, it had the structural integrity of a refrigerator.

I straightened. “Watch it. You’re going to make me fall.” I wrinkled my nose at its strong animal smell. Weirdly enough, it didn’t hit me as hard as yesterday. Maybe I was getting used to it.

“Name, name, name…” I tapped a finger against my chin. “Oh, you’re definitely a Theodore.”

The alpaca blinked.

“Oh yeah. Theodore,” I repeated thoughtfully. “Theo for short. You have very strong Theo energy. Sweet. Slightly needy. Completely convinced everybody wants to hug you.” Also the sort of guy who’d text “You home?” three minutes after leaving.

Theo hummed again, sounding absurdly pleased with himself. Looked like I’d nailed it.

Bandit, seemingly jealous, attempted to nibble Theo’s ear. Friendship, in goat language, involved low-level harassment.

Theo ignored him. Either he was remarkably patient, or he’d simply accepted this was his life now.

“You know,” I said, looking from one to the other, “I’ve known you guys less than two days, and you’re already becoming emotionally exhausting.” Which, now that I thought about it, might actually have said more about me than them.

Theo responded by pressing his head even more firmly against my shoulder.

“Yeah,” I muttered, smiling despite myself. “You are impossible.” Which, unfortunately, seemed to be exactly my type lately.

A nearby hay bale looked surprisingly comfortable.

I wobbled over, my legs feeling like they were filled with cement, and lowered myself onto it with considerably less grace than I’d intended. I felt like I was in the body of an eighty-year-old. Every limb protested the movement. If anyone had filmed that descent, it would’ve qualified as interpretive dance inspired by muscle failure.

“Ow.” Every muscle complained. I hadn’t noticed how tired I was until my butt hit the hay. And now, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get back up.

Bandit wandered over, gave me one thoughtful look, and then settled down a few feet away with a long, satisfied sigh. He was more like a dog than a goat, that one.

Theo bounded over too and immediately pressed himself against my shoulder, nudging me with his head and demanding more scratches.

“If you try to sit on me, we’re going to have words,” I said, trying—and failing—to push him off.

I tried again, putting more effort into it. I took a breath and coughed, something tickling the back of my throat.

“Great. I think I inhaled some of your fur.”

Eww.

I spat on the ground.

Nope. The fur was still lodged in my throat.

Was I about to get up and freak out?

No.

I was just too tired to care.

I looked around the pen. “You know…” Bandit blinked up at me. Theo continued existing directly in my personal space while Daisy—my new name for the smaller alpaca—watched us from a few feet away. “I think you guys might actually be the least judgmental audience I’ve had in years.”

Daisy sneezed.

“I’ll take that as encouragement.” I scratched behind Theo’s ears. “You know what today was?” I paused thoughtfully. “Besides emotionally exhausting, physically humiliating, and strangely educational.”

Theo’s jaw moved in slow, lazy circles.

“My second full day pretending to be an event planner.” It still sounded ridiculous to say out loud. Like I’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s career, someone else’s life, and nobody had noticed yet.

Bandit flicked an ear.

“I’m still pretending.” I sighed. “Although… maybe a little less than yesterday.” Yesterday I’d been improvising, like I’d just watched half a YouTube tutorial. Today I almost resembled a functioning adult for several consecutive minutes.

The words surprised me because they were true. Today I’d actually solved things.

Okay… Sheriff Walker had solved a few things.

Fine. Several things.

But I’d solved some too. And I was good at it.

Theo nudged my shoulder a little harder, nearly tipping me sideways again.

“I know.” I smiled faintly. “I’ve had a lot of jobs.” The words slipped out before I really meant to say them. “Receptionist.” I ticked one finger. “Travel agency.” Another. “Dental office.” Another. “Real-estate assistant.” Another. “I even worked in a candle store for three weeks.” I looked down. “Turns out scented wax isn’t really a long-term career path.” Especially when you accidentally knocked over an entire display of vanilla bean candles and the place smelled like baked cookies for six months. “Nobody ever says they’re going to grow up and become professionally unemployed.” Yet somehow I’d managed to make it feel less like a career path and more like a recurring hobby.

Bandit started chewing on one of my shoelaces.

“Hey. Stop that.” I tugged my foot back. “I’ve already lost enough dignity this week. And I need those laces.” I’d like to leave here wearing both shoes, if that’s not asking too much.

The goat looked offended, as though I was being unreasonable by expecting to keep my own footwear.

“You know,” I sighed. “You would’ve liked my old bosses.” They probably would’ve blamed me for the shoelace too.

Theo rested even more weight against me.

“I wasn’t always fired.” I laughed to myself, like a crazy person. “Okay. Usually the firing came pretty fast. But it’s not like I didn’t try. I always showed up on time. I was polite. Respectful. And I did the job as best I could. It’s just… sometimes… my best was a disaster.”

The breeze stirred the café lights behind me, and somewhere in town music played. The sound drifted across the quiet festival grounds, mixing with the soft rustle of hay and the steady breathing of a goat, a miniature donkey, and two alpacas who, against all odds, were becoming the most emotionally available friends I’d had in a very long time.

I leaned my head gently against Theo’s neck. “You know what the really embarrassing part is?”

The animals continued listening.

I blew a tuft of alpaca fur off my lips and said, “I actually think I can do this.” I looked out toward the glowing festival square. “Like maybe this was my calling. You know? Everybody gets a calling. Right? Maybe this is mine. You know what I mean?”

Bandit opened his jaw, and some hay fell out.

“Sophie Hartwell, professional event planner.” I beamed. “It does have a nice ring to it. And if it works out, I might eventually get my own place. You know? Keep an apartment. Have privacy in case I wanted to bring home a guy.”

My traitorous brain went straight to the sheriff’s ass.

I groaned. “Oh, don’t start,” I muttered to myself.

Theo hummed against my shoulder.

“I’m serious.”

He hummed again.

“I know he helped today.” I waved my hands around for emphasis. If anyone was seeing this, they’d think I was nuts. Or drunk. Probably both.

I looked absentmindedly toward the festival grounds, where the café lights glowed softly through the darkness. “But… why? Why even bother with me? He doesn’t even know me. He doesn’t owe me anything.”

That was the part I couldn’t figure out.

And why did he come back tonight and help me untangle myself from the lights? He wasn’t even on duty.

But he’d come.

And like a fool, I’d fallen... and he’d caught me.

And then there was the whole staring-at-my-lips thing. He had stared at them. That wasn’t a hallucination.

Still, it was almost like he was checking up on me. To make sure I didn’t screw up and accidentally electrocute myself. Could happen.

It was almost like he wanted me to succeed, which was really strange. Most people spent their time waiting for me to mess up. He’d spent his making sure I didn’t.

I frowned. “Maybe that’s just what sheriffs do.”

Bandit sneezed.

“I know. It sounds suspicious to me too.” I reached for Helen’s binder beside me and slipped my hand into the front pocket. My fingers brushed against stiff cardstock.

His business card.

I’d almost forgotten I’d put it there. I pulled it out and ran my thumb over the raised black lettering of his name.

Weird. Somehow, the simple white card suited him perfectly. No unnecessary flourishes. Just Sheriff Eric Walker.

A man of few words.

Unlike me.

Captain Competent probably alphabetized his spice rack and folded fitted sheets for fun.

I smiled to myself. “He’s annoyingly…” I searched for the right word. “Solid. With a great ass.”

Theo blinked.

“I know.” I shook my head. “It’s irritating. But he’s not half as bad as I first thought. I would even go as far as saying he’s a decent guy.”

Bandit pushed himself up and wandered closer.

I snorted. “Who knows. Maybe one day we can even be friends⁠—”

Before I could react, Bandit stretched out his neck and plucked the business card straight out of my fingers and started chewing.

“Hey!” I lunged toward him. “Drop it. That’s not food! Give it!”

Bandit took two proud steps backward, happily working his jaw.

“Spit out the sheriff!” Yeah, that sounded weird.

He blinked and kept chewing.

“Damnit.” I reached for the card.

Bandit danced sideways.

I frowned. “You little shit. You think this is a game. Don’t you?”

The goat took another step. Another chew. He was doing it on purpose.

“Give. It. Back.”

Theo wandered over to watch. Daisy stayed exactly where she was. Smart girl.

I crouched low, ready to tackle the goat if he didn’t stay still. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was going to this length. It was just a business card. I could probably find Captain Competent’s work number online in under thirty seconds.

But he’d given it to me.

And I wanted it back.

Just as I shifted my weight to lunge, Bandit spat the card onto the hay, deciding it wasn’t nearly as delicious as he’d first thought.

I snatched it up and winced. “Great. Nice job with the goat drool, buddy.” I sighed. “Okay. I can still work with that.” One corner now bore unmistakable goat teeth. A tiny semicircle was missing. I held it up. “It has character now.”

Bandit looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

I pointed the soggy card at him. “If Sheriff Walker asks why his business card has bite marks, I’m absolutely blaming you.”

He wagged his tiny tail and gave one happy little hop.

God, he was cute. “Don’t look so proud of yourself.” I laughed despite myself. “I have a feeling you and I are going to be responsible for a lot of gray hair.”

I looked toward the festival lights again. Today hadn’t been the disaster I thought it would be. The lights were up. The vendors were ready. The animals were safe.

Tomorrow… Tomorrow Maplewood Falls would finally have its Summer Festival.

I smiled. Maybe I could actually do this.

Still grinning like a fool, I slipped Captain Competent’s half-eaten card safely into my back pocket.

Strictly for professional reasons.

My brain laughed.

12

ERIC

Ilost forty-three dollars.

I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Forty-three dollars wasn’t exactly life-changing money. But that wasn’t the point. If I’d actually been paying attention instead of mentally replaying the last two days, I probably would’ve noticed when I was folding decent hands.

The point was I’d spent half the night thinking about a woman I hardly knew. A woman who seemed to create havoc wherever she went. That threw me off my game.

“Drive safely,” Mike called as I stepped out through the garage side door.

“I always do.” Occupational hazard. The last thing I needed was to get a speeding ticket when I was the one who usually handed them out.

Dave pointed a beer bottle at me. “Don’t let the mysterious woman keep you up.”

“There isn’t a mysterious woman.” There wasn’t. There was just a woman who seemed determined to occupy entirely too much space in my thoughts for someone I’d known less than forty-eight hours.

“There it is again.” Dylan laughed. “The denial.”

I shook my head, climbed into my truck, and pulled away before they could invent another theory. Given another five minutes, they’d probably have us engaged, arguing over baby names, and jointly renovating a farmhouse we’d never bought.

The streets of Maplewood Falls were nearly empty now. Storefronts sat dark and quiet beneath old-fashioned streetlamps, and the little town had settled into the comfortable silence that always came after the tourists went back to their hotels or the inn and the locals finally called it a night.

Most porch lights had gone dark. The cafés were closed. Even the boardwalk had quieted down, save for one young couple walking hand in hand beneath the streetlamps. They moved slowly, completely unconcerned with the time, stopping every few feet like they had nowhere else they’d rather be. I remembered what that felt like once. Or at least I remembered thinking it would last forever.

I turned toward home. My house. My porch. My quiet.

Or at least I intended to.

Ten seconds later, I found myself slowing at the intersection that led toward downtown. My hands stayed loose on the steering wheel, but my eyes drifted toward the left-turn lane before I consciously realized they had. I frowned at the windshield.

“What the hell am I doing?”

I let out a slow breath. I should go home. Take a shower. Get some sleep. Tomorrow was festival day, which meant I’d probably spend twelve straight hours dealing with parking complaints, lost children, noise complaints, and at least one person convinced somebody else had stolen their lawn chair. If history was any indication, I’d also get at least three questions that had absolutely nothing to do with law enforcement. Where’s the nearest ATM? Did anyone turn in my sunglasses? Can you settle an argument about whether alpacas spit because they’re happy? Small towns had a way of making the sheriff responsible for everything except the weather. Even that was occasionally negotiable.

Instead, my turn signal clicked.

Left.

I looked at it, surprised. “When did that happen?” My hand was still resting on the steering wheel exactly where it’d been five seconds earlier, which meant I’d made an executive decision without inviting the rest of me to the meeting.

That was the story I was going with. It was either that or admit I was voluntarily driving toward the woman my poker buddies had spent two hours teasing me about, and I wasn’t giving them the satisfaction. Even if they weren’t there to witness it, somehow they’d still know. Middle-aged men had an unsettling instinct for these things.

Three minutes later I rolled slowly down Main Road. The tires hummed softly over familiar pavement, storefronts reflecting across the windshield as I passed the bakery, the bookstore, and the little barber shop that still closed every Thursday because Frank insisted fishing was good for business, somehow.

The café lights Hartwell and the volunteers had hung glowed warmly above the empty square, swaying gently in the breeze. They cast soft pools of golden light across the sidewalks, making the whole place look less like a construction zone and more like the postcard Maplewood Falls liked to pretend it always was.

It looked… good. Better than I expected. Better than it had any right to after the last two days. Somehow the scattered ladders, tangled extension cords, panicked volunteers, and wandering livestock had transformed into something people would actually want to visit.

The food trucks sat where they belonged. Barricades were stacked neatly. Vendor tents waited for morning. Even the flower pots looked better.

I wasn’t about to spend time figuring out why.

She’d done it.

Or at least she’d gotten a whole lot closer than I’d expected forty-eight hours ago.

She hadn’t quit. I respected that.

I smiled to myself. It wasn’t a big smile. Just enough to surprise me when I caught my reflection in the windshield.

That needed to stop.

Then movement caught my eye behind the community center.

The animal pen.

I eased my foot off the accelerator out of instinct, habit, or curiosity. Probably all three. Anything moving around temporary fencing the night before a festival automatically earned a second look.

A figure sat on a hay bale inside the enclosure.

Blonde hair. Surrounded by animals. Talking to them like they were old friends.

It should’ve seemed odd. Instead, it seemed... about right.

I pulled the truck against the curb and shut off the engine. The silence settled around me almost immediately, broken only by the breeze stirring the leaves and the soft ticking of the cooling engine.

What was she doing there? Probably checking the animals. Responsible.

Good.

I climbed out, closing the door carefully behind me. Years on patrol had taught me how to move without announcing myself.

The evening air carried salt water, fresh-cut grass, and hay from the temporary pens. A light breeze moved through the square. It was quiet. Finally.

I walked toward the fencing. Not because of Hartwell. Because the sheriff checked on things. Temporary animal enclosures. Gates. Fencing. Public safety. If that inspection happened to include one slightly chaotic event planner sitting in the middle of a petting zoo after dark… well, that was purely coincidental. Or at least that was the explanation I intended to stick with.

Especially temporary animal enclosures. That was all.

Halfway there, I overheard her talking in that easy, conversational way people usually reserved for dogs.

“I’m still pretending,” I heard her say.

I stopped and listened. My first instinct was to announce myself. My second instinct was to leave.

Instead, I stopped just outside the pen. Her back was to me, and the animals had her full attention.

I suddenly felt like I’d wandered into a conversation that wasn’t meant for me.

An alpaca rested his head against her shoulder while she scratched behind his ears. A goat sat nearby, his head angled toward Hartwell. A smaller alpaca stayed back along with a miniature donkey, both eating hay contently.

“I’ve had a lot of jobs.”

Her voice carried easily across the quiet grounds, soft enough that she clearly wasn’t talking to be heard but loud enough that the words drifted through the night all the same. There wasn’t any performance in them now. Just honesty.

“Receptionist.” She held up one finger. “Travel agency.” A second finger. “Dental office.” A third.

I leaned one shoulder against the fence post without thinking. The rough wood pressed against my sleeve, grounding me there while I listened to a conversation I probably shouldn’t have been hearing.

“I even worked in a candle store.” She sighed dramatically. “Turns out scented wax isn’t really a long-term career path.”

I smiled before I could stop myself. She had a way of making even failure sound oddly entertaining, like she’d already decided she might as well laugh because the alternative wasn’t improving anybody’s day.

She turned her head just enough that I caught the smile on her face.

Then it faded.

“Nobody ever says they’re going to grow up and become professionally unemployed.” The joke landed with a little more weight than she’d intended. I could hear it in her voice. She probably could too.

The goat wandered over and started chewing on her shoelace.

She pulled her foot away. “Hey. Stop that.”

The rest of her words were lost as she moved around. Then she leaned back and scratched the alpaca absentmindedly again.

“You would’ve liked my old bosses.” There was humor in her voice, but not much of it. “You all would’ve gotten along. They were very good at nibbling away at my confidence one little bite at a time.”

Something about the way she said it wasn’t funny. I’d heard that tone before. People used it when the truth hurt too much to tell it straight.

Witnesses making jokes after bad accidents. Victims smiling through statements because they weren’t ready to admit how much something had hurt. It was easier to laugh than say the words out loud.

The alpaca leaned harder against her. Like somehow he understood she needed the extra weight keeping her anchored.

The rest of her words were mumbled again. And then her voice carried over to me.

“I wasn’t always fired.” She laughed, like people tended to when nobody else was around to hear it—not because the joke was funny but because people laughed when they didn’t know what else to do.

I didn’t.

I’d spent two days assuming she lied because she was overconfident. Because she thought she could bluff her way through anything. That she’d walked into town believing charm could solve logistics and optimism could replace experience.

I’d been wrong.

She wasn’t bluffing because she believed she could do it.

She was bluffing because she was terrified she couldn’t.

Big difference.

I’d known plenty of people like that. Sometimes they became the best deputies I ever trained. Sometimes all they needed was one person to believe they belonged before they started believing it themselves.

She turned toward the festival lights and muttered something I couldn’t make out. Then she slipped a hand into the front pocket of her binder and pulled out a business card.

She held it between her fingers for a few seconds, her attention fixed on it.

Whatever had been on her mind, the card had something to do with it.

My card.

She turned it over in her fingers. Studying it. Front. Back. Front again. Like hidden instructions might be printed in invisible ink.

That made me smile. It was ridiculous. It was a business card. I’d handed out hundreds over the years. Most ended up stuffed in glove compartments, kitchen junk drawers, or wallets until somebody cleaned them out six months later. Nobody had ever looked at one like it was worth thinking about.

Then the goat snatched the card right out of her hand. One quick bite, and it was gone.

“Hey!”

Hartwell lunged after him.

The goat trotted a few steps away with the card hanging from his mouth and stopped just out of reach. He looked pleased with himself. I’d arrested people with less confidence.

I tried not to laugh as I watched her chase the goat around the pen. She pointed at him like she expected him to listen.

He didn’t.

I looked away. My shoulders shook anyway. I had to stop laughing.

When I glanced back, the goat had spat my card out into the hay. I watched as Hartwell snatched it up and inspected one corner, tilting it left and then right while holding it up to the light. Then she pointed the card at the goat and said something to him that I couldn’t hear. But her face said it all. She wasn’t thrilled he nibbled on my card.

One hand rested on her hip as she pointed the damp business card at the goat, giving him what looked like a stern warning.

He didn’t seem concerned. His tail wagged back and forth while he watched her.

I’d dealt with suspects who took a lecture more seriously.

Then Hartwell laughed again. A real laugh this time.

It started quietly before she finally gave in, shaking her head as the goat chewed on the corner of the business card.

For a few seconds, the worry I’d heard in her voice was gone.

I watched her for another moment, longer than I probably should have. Long enough to notice things I hadn’t paid attention to before.

She looked exhausted. Strands of hair had worked loose around her face. Hay clung to one sleeve. There was dirt on one knee. She probably hadn’t noticed any of it.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d found someone so easy to look at.

She wasn’t trying to impress anyone anymore. She was just... Hartwell.

And I couldn’t seem to look away.

The alpaca still leaned against her like he belonged there. He looked so content you’d think he’d spent years waiting for Hartwell to show up. She absentmindedly scratched behind his ears while still pretending to scold the goat, managing to carry on two entirely different relationships at once—one disciplinary, one therapeutic.

Tomorrow she’d probably make another mistake. Something else would go wrong. The festival wouldn’t be perfect. No festival ever was. Somebody would complain about parking. Somebody else would complain about the music being too loud or not loud enough. A kid would lose a balloon. An ice cream cone would end up face down on the sidewalk. There’d be a line at the portable toilets and at least one volunteer who’d disappear exactly when they were needed most. That was how festivals worked.

But she’d still show up. She’d still keep trying. She wouldn’t pretend everything was easy. She’d panic a little, overthink a lot, make a questionable joke at exactly the wrong moment, and then roll up her sleeves and deal with whatever landed in front of her.

There was something admirable about that. She didn’t have confidence. She had persistence. Sometimes that mattered more.

I’d spent the last two days trying to figure out what Hartwell was hiding. Turned out it wasn’t incompetence. It was fear—of failing and proving everybody right.

She was scared she’d mess this up. Scared she’d let people down.

But she kept showing up anyway.

I pushed away from the fence as quietly and quickly as I could. The last thing I wanted was for her to see me standing there like a goddamn stalker.

I wasn’t a stalker. I was just checking up on things. That’s what I did. Temporary animal enclosure. Festival grounds. Public safety. Entirely reasonable. Entirely professional. The fact that I’d somehow remained rooted to one spot listening to a conversation between a woman, two alpacas, a goat, and a donkey was… an unfortunate detail I’d be keeping to myself.

But she might not take it that way if she saw me.

I moved without making a sound. Years on the job had taught me that sometimes the best thing a sheriff could do was leave people exactly where they were, believing they had a quiet moment all to themselves.

Some moments weren’t meant to be interrupted.

This was one of them.

13

SOPHIE

Ibarely slept. If I managed to sleep for ten minutes, I’d consider that a win.

I was exhausted, but my brain, that cruel little beast, decided it was the perfect time to host a seminar on Every Possible Way the Festival Could End in Public Humiliation.

Attendance was excellent.

Last night, I dragged myself back to my room at the Hartwell Inn, kicked off my shoes somewhere near the door, face-planted onto the mattress, and waited for unconsciousness.

It never arrived.

Instead, my mind clocked in for a full overnight shift.

Did we have enough volunteers? What if the food trucks lost power? What if it rained? What if somebody parked in the emergency lane? What if Bandit escaped? What if Sheriff Walker showed up and discovered I’d accidentally violated seventeen municipal bylaws before breakfast? What if Helen fired me?

Around three thirty, I accepted that sleep had become more of a philosophical concept than an actual biological function.

So when my alarm went off at five thirty, I was already awake, staring at the ceiling like a sleep-deprived zombie.

I hauled myself into the bathroom and stared at my reflection.

“Oof. Now, that’s horrifying.” My eyes had developed impressive dark circles underneath them, my hair appeared to have formed its own nest above my head, and every muscle in my body hurt worse than yesterday. How was that even possible?

The shower helped loosen some of my muscle pain. But not much.

“Ow.” Pain flared as I turned my neck to the right. Super. My neck was stiff. That’s all I needed.

So what’s a girl to do when she’s suffering from a stiff neck and needs to shower?

She showers at a forty-five-degree angle.

And I did, washing only the body parts I could actually see without moving my neck.

Good enough.

If I dropped the soap, I was fucked.

Fortunately, I didn’t.

Unfortunately, the last time my neck was this stiff was when Henry, the douchebag ex, had dumped me over a text.

You’re too much. Life’s too short.

I hated that I couldn’t get those two stupid sentences out of my head.

He hadn’t responded to my last drunken text.

Maybe tonight I’d send him another. You know. Just for shits and giggles.

By the time I pulled on black pants, a fitted black shirt, and comfortable sneakers followed by tying my hair into a ponytail that could generously be described as “functional,” I looked almost like someone who knew what she was doing. If you stood far enough away. And squinted.

Next, I picked up my phone, tapped the diary app and wrote:

Day 3:

Didn’t quit.

Goat still won.

Sheriff remains impossible to read.

Festival starts today.

I considered adding still employed but decided not to tempt fate. Instead, I grabbed Helen’s binder and then paused.

Sheriff Walker’s business card was still tucked safely inside the front pocket. Slightly wrinkled and partially chewed but still perfectly readable despite Bandit’s best efforts to eat it.

I smiled before I could stop myself. Then frowned. “Damn. I’m in serious trouble.” I closed the binder with considerably more determination than necessary. “We are not smiling at business cards.”

That was a slippery slope. Next thing you knew I’d be framing the thing. Or laminating it. Or casually mentioning I happened to know the sheriff whenever anyone asked for directions.

Absolutely not. I still had standards. They might’ve been wobbling a little, but they were technically still standing.

Resolute, I headed downstairs. The inn was quiet, but Dottie was already in the kitchen, by the sound of clanging pots. The smell drifted through the hallway, followed closely by fresh coffee, and suddenly the world seemed marginally less hostile.

“I made breakfast,” she called, marching out of the kitchen barefoot before I even reached one of the tables in the dining room. She somehow balanced a coffee pot in one hand and a loaded breakfast plate in the other with the confidence of a woman who’d been defying gravity since the seventies.

I lowered myself gently into the chair without moving my neck. “I could kiss you.”

Dottie beamed. “I know.”

“I won’t.”

“I know that too,” said Dottie, looking not remotely disappointed.

I flipped a coffee mug onto the table and watched as Dottie poured it full of delicious brown liquid heaven. The white apron across her middle today read: BUTTER FIXES MOST THINGS.

For me, right now, that was coffee.

I winced as I reached out for the mug. Even lifting my arm tugged at the knot in my neck. Great. I grabbed the mug, took a sip, and moaned. “This is so, so good.”

Dottie gave me a knowing smile. “I know that too.” She watched me for a moment. “What’s wrong with you? You look… off.”

I swallowed. “Stiff neck.”

“Ah.” She looked me over. “That’s called stress.”

“No shit.”

Her eyes widened. “You know. I’ve got just the stuff to make that go away.”

“You do—ow.” Pain flared in my neck as I’d twisted it to look at her.

“In fact, I just finished a batch last night,” she said happily. “A little goose fat, crushed garlic, cayenne pepper, pine tar, and just a sprinkle of well-aged horse manure. Nature’s anti-inflammatory.”

I slowly lowered my mug. “Horse manure?”

“Don’t worry. I boiled it first.” She beamed. “I call it Dottie’s Miracle Muscle Melt. It works miracles. Trust me.”

“Okay.” Hell, I was willing to try anything at this point. Looked like that was going to be horse manure. Excellent.

“Be right back!” She spun around, bare feet slapping, and disappeared into the kitchen.

And she’d left with the breakfast plate too.

I let out a breath as I rubbed my neck. Having a stiff neck on the festival’s first day was probably one of the worst things that could happen.

I couldn’t exactly project calm, capable festival coordinator energy if every time someone called my name, I had to rotate my entire body to look at them.

Dottie appeared a moment later with a tiny jar in one hand, and thankfully my breakfast plate in the other. “Here,” she said, holding out the jar. “Rub some on. You should start feeling better in no time. Oh, it might burn a little. Don’t worry. That means it’s working.”

“Right.” I took the jar and twisted the top. Of course I had to smell it. I brought it to my nose and took a sniff. “Dottie.”

“Yes.”

“It smells like manure.”

Dottie gave me a light smack on the back of the head. “Don’t be a baby. Now put some on. It works. I rubbed some on my hands earlier. Nobody’s complained.”

Yet. “Fine.”

I dabbed two fingers into the ointment, trying not to breathe through my nose, and rubbed it onto my neck. The moment it touched my skin, my neck caught fire.

“Sweet mother of…”

The burning faded almost as quickly as it started. I rolled my shoulder. “Oh my god.” I turned my head to the right. “I think it’s actually working.”

“Told you,” said Dottie proudly.

I twisted the lid back onto the jar and set it on the table. I might smell like a stable, but at least I could turn my head again.

“So,” began Dottie, her expression softening. “You ready for today?”

I nodded, not finding the words. Mostly because they’d all been replaced by caffeine and low-grade panic.

Yes. Today was festival day. The real one. No more planning or pretending I still had time. In a few short hours, Maplewood Falls was going to fill with hundreds, possibly thousands of people. Children. Parents. Tourists. Vendors. Musicians. Volunteers.

And today, I’d find out whether forty-eight hours of controlled panic had actually been enough. Whether every checklist, every frantic note in Helen’s binder, every near-disaster, every conversation with Sheriff Walker, every escaped goat, and every cup of coffee had somehow added up to something resembling competence.

I took one long drink of coffee. “Maybe I should make a run for it.”

Dottie snorted. “You can panic after breakfast. Eat. You’ll feel better. Trust me.” She slid the plate toward me. On it sat a perfectly golden pancake.

My stomach answered with an enthusiastic growl. “Fine. But I also think I might throw up if I eat.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll be fine.” Dottie propped a hand on her hip, studying me with that look she had, half maternal, half amused, fully unbothered. “You can do this.”

“We’ll see.” I slumped in my chair, my fingers shaking from nerves. Great. Now I had the shakes to go with my not-so-stiff neck.

Dottie made a face. “I just remembered. I think I left my rosemary hair-growth serum warming on the stove again.” She winced. “Last time it dissolved a wooden spoon.”

“Powerful stuff.” I made a mental note to never touch any of Dottie’s hair-growth serums. Not if I didn’t want to end up bald.

Dottie pointed at me. “Eat half. Half the carbs is better than no carbs. You’ll need all the energy you can get today. Trust me.”

I frowned at the emphasis she put on the word trust, like she knew something I didn’t.

I didn’t know why, but at that moment, I flipped open Helen’s binder and pulled out Captain Competent’s card. Even wrinkled and slightly chewed, I could still make out his number.

His number…

Maybe I should call him? Like for a preventative measure thing? Nah. Knowing what I knew of him, he’d probably already be there by the time I arrived. Checking up on me… watching me… staring at my lips…

My brain really needed to stop replaying that moment. It refused to let it go.

Still, I liked it. I liked it a lot.

In a blur, a hand moved in front of me and snatched up the business card.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” said a woman’s voice. Only one woman in town who could make eight words sound simultaneously scandalized and delighted.

I turned in my seat to see Lola, dressed in a mini red dress, red pumps, and matching lipstick. It was still very early in the morning, yet somehow she’d already achieved the level of glamorous most people needed a professional stylist and excellent lighting to accomplish. I wasn’t convinced she experienced mornings the same way the rest of humanity did.

“It’s just a business card,” I told her, trying to sound matter-of-fact but failing miserably.

Lola cocked a brow. “Oh, darling, I don’t think so. Why is it all wrinkled?” She looked at me. “What have you been doing with it?” The smile spreading across her face suggested she’d already imagined at least twelve inappropriate answers.

“Don’t be gross.” I snatched it back. “A goat might have nibbled it a bit.” I pointed the card at her. “That sentence sounded completely normal yesterday.”

Lola’s eyes widened with theatrical delight. Her entire face lit up the way normal people reacted to winning vacations or finding twenty dollars in an old coat pocket.

“A goat?” She pressed one hand dramatically against her chest. “That’s somehow even sexier.”

“No, it’s not.” What the hell was wrong with her?

“It is,” said Lola. “Nothing says forbidden romance like a sheriff’s business card that’s survived an attack by livestock.”

My insides did a little flip. “There is no romance.”

Lola sighed dreamily. “Broad shoulders. Nice smile. Calm voice.” She fanned herself with a paper napkin. “The sort of man who could tell you to renew your driver’s license and somehow make it sound indecent.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I’d probably renew it twice. More like three times.”

I nearly inhaled my coffee. “Why is this happening to me?” I coughed into my mug.

“What?” Lola looked innocent. “I’m appreciating public service. There’s no harm in that.”

“He is single, you know,” added Dottie, her eyes on me.

I set down my mug. “How do you know that?” I hated how interested my voice sounded.

Dottie shrugged. “It’s Maplewood Falls.”

That explained everything. Which was both reassuring and deeply unsettling.

Lola nodded solemnly. “We know who’s sleeping with the pool boy and who’s sleeping with the gardener in this town.” She beamed. “And it’s not me.”

“And who’s been borrowing flowers from the town planters,” added Dottie.

I looked from one woman to the other. “That’s actually a little creepy.”

“It’s community,” Dottie said with complete conviction, like she’d just settled a constitutional debate instead of defending what sounded suspiciously like organized neighborhood espionage.

I pointed my fork between them. “You two need hobbies.”

“We have hobbies,” said Lola. “We’re discussing yours.” She raised her brows suggestively. “The sheriff.”

I groaned. “He’s not my hobby.” The fact that I’d thought about him approximately seventy-three times since yesterday was completely beside the point. Seventy-four if you counted right now. Which I refused to do.

Lola rested both elbows on the table. “So… when did he give you his number?”

I shook my head. “He didn’t give me his number.”

She looked pointedly at the card. “You understand how evidence works. Yes?” She tapped the table beside it. “Because Exhibit A is sitting right there looking slightly damp.”

“It’s his business card.”

“With his direct line.”

“Because he’s the sheriff.”

“And?”

“And…” I searched desperately for a logical explanation that didn’t somehow make me sound guilty. “Sheriffs have business cards.”

Lola smiled patiently. “So do dentists. I don’t carry my dentist’s card around.” She tilted her head. “And if a goat chewed on it, I’d throw it away instead of carefully preserving it.”

She had a point. I looked down at the slightly chewed card still sitting beside my coffee. I could have thrown it away. Instead, I’d kept it.

What did that say about me?

Dottie chuckled. “So why do you still have it?” She wasn’t teasing anymore. She sounded genuinely curious, like she’d already guessed the answer and simply wanted to hear me say it out loud.

“Because he told me to call if I needed help with road closures or permits or safety questions.” I shrugged. “It’s practical.” I slipped the card carefully back inside Helen’s binder before they asked me more questions. “He’s just being nice.”

Dottie nodded. “He is nice.”

“Exactly,” I said, giving her a short smile.

“And handsome,” she continued.

I gave her a look, though I felt warmth pool in my middle. “He came around to help out a few times. That’s what sheriffs do. They help people.”

Lola poured herself some coffee. “He didn’t have to.”

“No, he didn’t,” I answered. “He was just making sure the festival didn’t become a public safety hazard.” And maybe making sure I didn’t accidentally become one too. The line between those two possibilities had gotten a little blurry.

Lola grinned. “Sure he was.” She smiled slowly, like she’d just spotted the final missing puzzle piece sliding into place.

Heat crept up my neck. “He was.” And then I got tangled and fell into his arms like an idiot.

But it had felt nice. Really nice.

The sort of nice that kept replaying in my head at two thirty in the morning while I should’ve been worrying about generators instead of wondering whether he’d noticed how fast my heart had been beating.

Lola leaned back with the satisfied smile of a woman who’d spotted blood in the water. Sharks had nothing on her. At least sharks finished the job quickly. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“What?”

Her smile widened. “You’ve already started defending him.”

“I am not defending him.” I stabbed my pancake. It had done absolutely nothing to deserve it, but at this point, breakfast was becoming collateral damage. “He’s not interested in me like that.” I waved my fork vaguely in the air. “Besides, have you looked at him? Men like Sheriff Walker don’t notice women like me. They notice women who have their lives together. Women who don’t accidentally shut down Main Road with a miniature donkey. Me? I’m a walking tragedy.”

Lola gave me a look. “Honey. A tragedy is when you sit down and your thighs are twice as large.”

Good point.

But right now, I had bigger problems than the size of my thighs.

The festival started in less than thirty minutes. I had vendors to check. Volunteers to organize. Hundreds of visitors arriving. A million things that deserved my attention.

Which would’ve been great…

If my brain had kindly stopped wondering whether Captain Competent was already there.

14

SOPHIE

By ten thirty this morning, I was officially suspicious.

The kind of suspicious normally reserved for miracle diets, people who claimed they enjoyed assembling IKEA furniture, and emails that started with Congratulations! Something about all this competence felt… statistically unlikely.

Because the festival had been open for a few hours and nothing had exploded.

No animals had escaped or kicked a kid in the face. Nobody had called the fire department, the health inspector hadn’t fainted, and as far as I knew, no one had attempted to sue anyone over a hot dog.

Bandit had remained inside the petting zoo, Theo had adopted approximately seventeen different children as temporary best friends, and Daisy continued judging everyone from a respectful distance. And the donkey? Well, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

It all felt… strangely wrong. Not bad. Just wrong. Like the universe had forgotten about me for a few hours and would eventually remember with alarming enthusiasm. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

So far, it hadn’t.

I turned just in time to catch a volunteer hurrying toward me. She looked to be in her early forties with rosy cheeks that gave her face a permanently cheerful roundness, long, curly brown hair, and a faded black Star Wars T-shirt stretched beneath an unzipped festival volunteer hoodie. An ID badge bounced against her chest with every hurried step, and she clutched a clipboard like it was the only thing preventing complete organizational collapse.

Here it comes.

“Yes?” I asked her, my heart thumping in my chest.

“We’re almost out of ketchup,” she panted.

I blinked. “That’s it?”

She frowned. “Should there be something else?”

“No.” I smiled a little too brightly. “Ketchup. Great. I can absolutely handle ketchup.” I nodded with far more confidence than the subject of condiments deserved.

She wrinkled her face in confusion. “Should I go buy more?”

“Yes. Great idea. Thanks.”

She gave me an uncertain smile, as though she wasn’t entirely convinced she’d just witnessed a normal human reaction to a ketchup shortage, and then turned and hurried back toward the food trucks, her hair bouncing behind her.

I watched her leave, and my pulse slowly returned to something resembling normal. Normal for today, that is.

I jerked as something tugged on my sleeve.

Glancing down, a little boy of about nine or ten looked up at me, still clutching the fabric.

Freckles were scattered generously across his nose, a shock of sandy-blond hair stuck up in three different directions beneath a tiny blue baseball cap, and his oversized festival T-shirt hung almost to his knees. He looked up at me with wide brown eyes full of complete seriousness, as though he was about to report an international emergency.

“Miss Sophie?” he said.

“Yes?”

“A goat sneezed on my dad.”

I looked over toward the petting zoo. Sure enough, a very amused Bandit stood beside a thoroughly unimpressed man whose entire jacket now sported what appeared to be fresh goat mucus.

Nice.

It wasn’t even a little sneeze either. Several impressive globs of goat snot still clung to the front of the man’s shirt, one of them slowly inching its way toward his belt.

The little boy looked delighted. Like he’d just witnessed the greatest event of his young life and couldn’t wait to tell his friends that his dad got slimed by a goat.

His father… not so much. He stood there holding his arms slightly away from his body while staring down at the damage with quiet disbelief, like he’d probably left the house expecting hot dogs and games, not biological warfare.

A month ago, I would’ve been grossed out. Today, I was trying very hard not to laugh.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, already grabbing a handful of paper towels and hurrying toward him. “He’s still working on his social skills.”

Bandit wagged his tail. The traitor looked proud of himself. If anything, he seemed to think he’d successfully welcomed another visitor to the festival. Somewhere deep inside that tiny goat brain, he was probably expecting a participation ribbon.

Five minutes later, the situation had been resolved with apologies, paper towels, and two complimentary festival drink vouchers. Fortunately, the father had a good sense of humor once the initial shock wore off and enough paper towels had entered the conversation.

He laughed. The little boy declared Bandit his favorite goat. Ever. Which of course, Bandit accepted this praise with entirely too much confidence. He puffed himself up and trotted around the pen like he’d just won Best in Show instead of Best in Unexpected Nasal Discharge.

The morning rolled on.

Children laughed. The food trucks stayed busy. Happy chatter drifted from all the different vendors. Volunteers smiled instead of panicking. People wandered from booth to booth carrying lemonade, hot dogs, and oversized stuffed animals that looked larger than some of the children dragging them around.

Still no explosion. No great collapse. Everything was actually going… well.

And people actually thanked me.

Me. Sophie the disaster was a disaster no more. At least for the moment. I wasn’t naïve enough to think the universe had suddenly changed its opinion of me forever. It was probably just taking a coffee break.

Still, I’d take it as a win.

My stomach, my nerves, had spent the last forty-eight hours preparing for a complete catastrophe. All that anxiety had trained for this moment.

But so far, things were moving along smoothly.

And through it all, I was looking for Captain Competent.

I wouldn’t lie and pretend I wasn’t. Damn Lola and Dottie for putting ideas in my head. Ideas I’d already been thinking myself, but still. Before breakfast they’d just been thoughts. Now they refused to leave me alone.

I tried not to seem like I was looking for him, in case he was watching me.

So how does a woman spy on a man without him knowing?

She goes into full-on stealth mode, that’s what.

Which meant I’d casually glance around the square for the hot sheriff, and then I’d suddenly become deeply fascinated by absolutely everything else. Flower baskets. Garbage cans. The ticket booth. I even nodded thoughtfully at a recycling bin.

I was scanning the area with what I hoped was the relaxed curiosity of an event planner surveying her festival.

Not a crazy-ass stalker.

Which, admittedly, I kind of was at the moment.

What the hell was wrong with me? Hormones? Maybe. A sexy sheriff—a single, sexy sheriff—who’d happened to glance at my lips? Possibly. Very possibly.

Yes, I might have been a complete mess for the past few months. But I was still a warm-blooded female. And I had eyes.

But he wasn’t here.

Too bad since I’d memorized the way one corner of his mouth lifted when he almost smiled.

Yup. Total stalker.

And just when I’d finally convinced myself he probably hadn’t come by yet and my brain could kindly move on to something productive… like ketchup inventories, emergency exit routes, or literally any thought that didn’t involve Captain Competent…

I spotted him.

He stood near the information booth talking to one of his deputies, his dark sheriff’s uniform crisp despite the growing warmth of the morning. His sunglasses rested on top of his head, pushing back a few strands of dark hair the breeze had already managed to undo.

One hand rested casually on his duty belt while the other moved as he spoke, calm and unhurried, with the kind of quiet confidence that somehow made everyone around him relax without realizing why.

And I was still staring at him.

People drifted toward him naturally. A volunteer stopped to ask him something. An elderly couple smiled as they passed. A little girl proudly showed him the blue ribbon she’d won at one of the games, and he crouched just enough to admire it like it was the most important thing he’d see all day.

That made my heart squeeze a little.

I kept staring.

He had this irritating habit of making whoever he was talking to feel like they were the only person in the crowd, which was both incredibly admirable and spectacularly inconvenient for my ability to remain emotionally uninvolved.

Could the man be any more… sheriff?

Then, as though he could actually feel someone staring at him, he turned his head.

Our eyes met.

“Shit!”

I ducked behind the pretzel booth.

Smooth, Sophie. Very subtle.

Nothing says I wasn’t staring at you quite like hiding behind carbohydrates.

Then, because I had learned absolutely nothing from the previous five seconds, and my self-preservation instincts had gone home for the day, I risked another quick glance.

He was still looking at me.

And unless my sleep deprivation had reached full hallucination territory, one corner of his mouth lifted. Just a little.

Oh, yeah. Sheriff face. With the tiniest crack in it.

Heat rushed to my cheeks and up into my head until I swear even my scalp was sweating. And now my stomach was doing gymnastics. Super.

“Sophie!”

I winced and turned in time to see Helen weaving through the crowd faster than I’d seen anyone move without technically running. She apologized to three people without actually slowing down, sidestepped a stroller with surprising agility, and nearly collided with a man carrying three lemonades. One somehow survived in his cup. The other two, less so. She walked like her brain had already sprinted five minutes ahead of her body.

The clipboard she’d been carrying was tucked under one arm, her red reading glasses were perched crookedly on top of her head, and she looked… panicked. Really panicked. Her usual neat silver hair had escaped its clip in several places, and her brow was drawn so low it nearly shadowed her eyes.

Oh crap.

There it was. I knew it. The universe had simply been building suspense. Of course it had. It couldn’t possibly let me enjoy an uneventful morning. That would’ve set a dangerous precedent.

Helen reached me slightly out of breath, one hand still pressed against the clipboard like it might somehow contain better news if she squeezed hard enough.

“Sophie.”

“Helen?”

“We’ve got a problem,” she wheezed.

I took a deep breath, braced myself, and asked, “What happened?”

“The headlining band.”

My stomach dropped. Not metaphorically either. I’m fairly certain several internal organs briefly changed floors. “What about them?”

Helen looked around before lowering her voice, although not nearly enough considering half a dozen people nearby had already started pretending not to listen. “They’re not coming.”

For one second, everything around me seemed to disappear—the music, the laughter, the crowd. Even the smell of burgers and hot dogs faded into the background as my brain locked on to exactly three horrifying words.

They’re. Not. Coming.

Amazing how such a tiny statement could instantly shave ten years off a person’s life expectancy.

I shook away my brain fog. “What do you mean they’re not coming?”

“I just got off the phone with their manager.” Helen pressed a hand against her forehead. “Their van broke down almost two hours away. Tow truck’s on its way, but they won’t make it here today.”

I stared at her. “You can’t be serious?”

She dropped her hand and glared at me. “Of course I’m serious! They’ve canceled.”

They’ve canceled.

My heart hammered in my ears.

“What are we going to do?” whispered Helen. For the first time since I’d known her, she didn’t sound like the woman who’d organized yearly successful festivals. She sounded scared. And her face paled. Oh yeah. Panic pale.

Been there. Done that.

A lot.

I didn’t have an answer. My brain, which had spent the last forty-eight hours enthusiastically inventing imaginary disasters, had decided that a real one was far too much responsibility.

Out of the corner of my eye, movement caught my attention.

Across the square, Sheriff Walker looked up from where he’d been talking with one of his deputies.

Our eyes met—again. He frowned at whatever he saw on my face, which was probably a constipated look.

He didn’t rush over. Thank god. Because that would have been embarrassing.

I took one slow breath. Come on. Think. Panicking wasn’t a strategy. It was a terrible hobby I’d become alarmingly good at.

Think.

Somewhere in the back of my mind… Something clicked.

Music. The little pub with my friend Sasha. Two weeks ago. The band…

And then it hit me. “Hang on.” I grabbed my phone so quickly with trembling fingers I nearly dropped it.

Helen blinked at me. “What are you doing?”

“I… I think I have an idea.”

“You do?”

“I said think. Let’s not get carried away.”

My fingers flew across the screen as I opened Google. Come on… What was the name? “The Riverstone Ramblers!”

Helen stared. “Who?”

“The Riverstone Ramblers.” My thumbs were already typing. “A friend of mine dragged me to Murphy’s Pub a couple of weeks ago because she can’t walk past live music without treating it like a civic obligation. They were incredible. Country. A little folk. Everybody was singing along.” I found the band’s website and practically jabbed the screen. “Please… please have a phone number… There.” I pointed triumphantly.

Helen leaned closer. “You found them?”

“I found their manager.”

Before I could lose my nerve, I pressed the little green phone icon. The line rang once. Twice. Then…

“Riverstone Ramblers. Stan speaking.” His voice sounded cheerful.

Good sign.

“Hi!” I said, perhaps a little too loudly. “My name’s Sophie Hartwell. This is probably the strangest phone call you’re going to get today.”

There was a brief pause. “I’ve likely had stranger.”

“Our headlining band for the Maplewood Falls Summer Festival just canceled.” I glanced at Helen, whose eyes had grown wider with every word. “Their van broke down a couple of hours away, and I’m desperately hoping this is one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments where the universe decides to be nice instead of… you know… itself.”

Stan laughed. “How soon do you need a band?”

I looked toward the main stage and then at Helen. “About…” I swallowed. “An hour?”

Another pause. Long enough for my optimism to begin packing its bags.

“No problem,” said Stan.

My mouth dropped open. “Really?”

“Yup. We’re rehearsing fifteen minutes outside town.”

My heart actually skipped.

“I can have the boys loaded up and headed your way in twenty minutes,” Stan continued. “Just text me the load-in location and stage schedule. We’ll take it from there.”

“Oh my god. You’re amazing.”

He laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes.” I laughed too. “Definitely yes.”

“We’ll see you soon.”

The call ended.

For a second, I just stood there staring at my phone. I glanced at Helen. “They’re coming.”

Helen’s mouth actually fell open. “I…” She shook her head in complete disbelief. “Sophie… that was…” She laughed. A relieved, slightly breathless laugh, but I could see the color returning to her face. “I knew I hired the right person for this job. Good work.” With one last smile, Helen disappeared into the crowd leaving me standing there, still in a bit of a shock.

And then something strange happened to me.

I smiled.

Because something inside me shifted.

Because maybe I wasn’t pretending anymore.

Maybe I finally knew what I was doing.

15

SOPHIE

By nine o’clock that night, Maplewood Falls looked like somebody had bottled summer and poured it across Main Road.

The café lights glowed overhead in soft golden ribbons, music drifted across the square, and everywhere I looked people were smiling. Children chased each other between booths with painted faces and sticky fingers. Couples wandered hand in hand carrying lemonade. The replacement band—the Riverstone Ramblers, bless every one of their ridiculously talented souls—had half the town singing along.

They were awesome, even better tonight than I’d remembered.

I’d spent the afternoon waiting for someone to discover I’d only survived by accident. Instead, the festival had simply worked.

I walked slowly through the square, Helen’s binder tucked under one arm, smiling at volunteers as they packed fresh supplies into booths. A gray-haired man in faded denim overalls cheerfully wrestled a stack of folding chairs into neat rows while humming along with the band. Nearby, a college-aged girl with purple streaks in her dark braid restocked bottles of water with practiced efficiency, her volunteer badge bouncing against a bright yellow festival T-shirt. Across the walkway, a broad-shouldered woman with laugh lines around her eyes and gardening gloves still tucked into the back pocket of her jeans was happily arranging baskets of fresh flowers she’d probably grown herself.

Everybody looked busy, tired, and happy, like they’d all decided this festival belonged to them.

“Everything okay?” I asked her.

“We’re good,” the woman answered with an easy smile, brushing dirt from her hands onto her jeans.

No emergencies or disasters.

Things were good.

I was beginning to miss the adrenaline a little. Only a little.

Near the beer garden, I spotted Lola.

She’d somehow acquired another man. Scratch that. Make that two.

She stood between them wearing a different dress than the one from this morning. This one was teal with delicate spaghetti straps, hugged every dangerous curve she possessed, and somehow managed to be both elegant and capable of causing minor traffic accidents. Either she’d gone back to the inn to change… or she’d gone back to the inn with one of these guys and emerged looking even more spectacular than before. Honestly, with Lola, both possibilities felt equally plausible.

On her left stood a tall silver-haired man in an expensive navy blazer with the kind of suntan that suggested a sailboat and a retirement fund. On her right was a rugged, broad-chested man in worn jeans and a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, his laugh deep enough to carry over the music. They couldn’t have looked more different if they’d been cast by competing dating apps. Yet somehow both were leaning toward her, smiling like she’d just made each of them believe they were the only man in the crowd.

Lola threw her head back laughing, one hand resting lightly on the arm of the man in the blazer while the other absently straightened the collar of the one in plaid. She wasn’t flirting with either of them exactly. She was flirting with the entire concept of being adored, and the two men looked perfectly happy to participate.

She kissed one on the cheek. Took the other’s hand. Then switched.

I watched for a second. “How is that even possible?” She was in a league of her own and put all us singletons to shame.

Lola caught me staring and winked.

Yeah, I didn’t want to know. Some mysteries were healthier left unsolved.

I walked away, my gaze on all the booths and the band, making sure everything was still working. Every few steps someone waved, another volunteer asked a quick question, or a child ran past clutching a balloon nearly bigger than they were. The festival had settled into that wonderful, impossible rhythm where everyone looked busy without looking frantic.

I wasn’t scanning the square waiting for disaster. I was just… checking on things.

And checking to see if the sheriff was still around. I hadn’t seen him in about two hours, since I’d ducked behind the pretzel booth.

He’d simply disappeared. Maybe he’d been called away on more important matters than a street festival. That made sense.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed.

I enjoyed stalking the sheriff. A little too much.

A minute later, I found myself at the petting zoo.

And I wasn’t the only one.

Dottie was inside the pen standing beside Bandit and holding a faded cloth bag embroidered with tiny daisies. She was talking to the animals in the same calm, matter-of-fact voice she used with people, as though discussing important business. Bandit stood in front of her with perfect attention, Theo hovered nearby with hopeful eyes, and even Daisy and the donkey had wandered a few cautious steps closer.

Somehow, in the space of a single afternoon, Dottie had become the livestock equivalent of a beloved grandmother.

Curious, I wandered closer. “What are you feeding him? Are those… cookies?”

Dottie beamed at me. “Grass cookies. They love them.” She reached into the bag and produced another perfectly round little biscuit, which Bandit accepted with surprising delicacy.

I stared at her, open-mouthed. “Grass cookies?”

“They’re gluten-free.”

“For the goat?” I wasn’t even sure why I asked. At this point, I’d accepted that normal rules no longer applied in Maplewood Falls.

“He has a sensitive stomach,” she explained.

“Ah.”

Bandit happily accepted another cookie.

“I made carrot ones for you, sweetheart,” said Dottie, smiling at Theo.

I laughed. “Of course you did.”

“They’re part of the festival.” Dottie shrugged as though that explained absolutely everything. “Besides, happy animals make happy children, and happy children convince their parents to stay longer. It’s practically marketing.”

“Okay then.” I couldn’t even argue with that logic.

A slow country song floated across the square. I turned as the lead singer stood at the microphone in worn cowboy boots and faded jeans, an old acoustic guitar hanging comfortably against his chest like it had belonged there forever. His warm, easy voice wrapped itself around the lyrics while a woman with long auburn curls added soft harmonies beside him.

The stage itself glowed beneath strands of golden lights and old-fashioned lanterns hanging from wooden posts. The flower boxes tucked along the front made the whole thing feel less like a concert and more like somebody had invited the entire town into their backyard.

I loved it.

Conversation softened. Couples drifted toward the open space in front of the stage. An elderly couple who looked well into their seventies moved together with the effortless rhythm of people who’d been dancing the same songs for forty years. Nearby, a little girl stood on her father’s boots while he guided them in slow circles, her giggles carrying through the warm evening air.

Movement caught my attention.

Lola sashayed toward the dance floor—with both of her admirers.

One man held her right hand while the other rested a respectful hand against the small of her back, and Lola drifted between them as though dancing with two men at once was perfectly normal. Every few seconds she’d twirl from one to the other, neither man looking remotely bothered. If anything, they both looked delighted just to be included.

I watched them for a long moment, and something inside me loosened.

The frantic knot I’d been carrying around for two days untied itself one careful loop at a time. I wasn’t mentally rehearsing my next apology. I was simply… there, watching people smile because of something I’d helped make happen.

It was a strange feeling, wonderful and terrifying, like happiness had shown up uninvited. I was afraid to make any sudden movements in case it changed its mind.

I heard a burst of laughter and looked back toward the petting zoo. Dottie had kicked off whatever tiny sense of dignity she’d ever possessed and was twirling barefoot through the pen while Bandit bounced around her in ridiculous little hops.

I laughed. I loved Dottie. She moved through life like someone who’d never once worried what another person thought of her. Something was wonderfully fearless about that.

And part of me wished I was more like her.

Then…

“Care to dance?”

I turned. Sheriff Walker stood beside me, his hands tucked into his jeans with sheriff face. A very lovely, lovely face. Although tonight, it seemed softer somehow.

“You dance?” I asked, my pulse picking up.

He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Occasionally.” Then he held out one hand. “Dance with me.”

My heart promptly forgot how hearts worked. It skipped, stumbled, and then started up again. And finally I said, “Sure. I’d like that.”

His hand closed gently around mine. It was warm and rough with calluses. A man who worked with his hands. Not the decorative kind of calluses you got from going to the gym twice and posting about it online. Real ones, the kind that came from real physical work.

Very sexy.

Snap out of it, Sophie.

He led me toward the edge of the dance floor. His fingers closed gently around mine, warm and steady, neither too tight nor too loose, as though he’d instinctively found the exact amount of pressure that said, “I’ve got you,” without actually saying it. When we stopped, his other hand settled lightly against the small of my back. My free hand rested against his shoulder, the soft cotton of his sheriff’s uniform still warm from the day, and I became acutely aware that the man was… solid.

The music eased us into a slow rhythm, and for one completely unreasonable second, I forgot several hundred people were standing only a few feet away. It was alarmingly easy to fall into step with him. Even more alarming was how naturally I fit there, like my body had somehow skipped the awkward introductory chapter.

We simply… fit.

“So,” I said, my mouth feeling suddenly dry like it was full of cotton balls.

“So,” he repeated.

“Where did you go? You disappeared for a while. Not that I noticed.” Good one.

His lips pulled into a short smile. “You were looking for me?”

“No.” Yes. Yes. Yes.

His eyes searched my face. “I was here. Just walking around. Checking. I never left.”

“Good to know.” I blew down the front of my top. “It’s hot tonight. Isn’t it?”

“Not especially.”

“Well I’m hot.”

He glanced at me. “You are.”

I felt my mouth drop open. “Huh. The festival isn’t a disaster.” Did he just say I was hot? Like hot as in sexy? Or hot as in he can smell the stress sweat?

One corner of his mouth lifted. “No. I don’t think anyone can accuse it of that.”

I gave a short laugh. “I’ve still got three hours left. Let’s not tempt fate.”

His hand pressed a little firmer against my back. “It turned out really well.”

I looked up. “You really think so?”

He held my gaze. “I know so.”

That hit me somewhere I wasn’t expecting. Right behind my ribs.

“Thank you,” I told him, suddenly aware my palms were getting sweaty. “I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.”

“You figured it out.”

“I mostly guessed. I’m very good at winging things.” I paused. “It’s less of a skill and more of a long-term survival strategy.”

He searched my face for a second. “Winging things?”

I nodded. “Oh yes. I’ve accidentally built an entire career on looking like I know what I’m doing about five minutes before everybody discovers I don’t. Somehow it keeps working. I don’t understand it either.”

His smile widened just enough to show teeth. Such lovely teeth.

“My family thinks I’m a disaster. Especially my sister Margot, though she won’t say it to my face,” I kept on.

“The one with that big German Shepherd.”

“Zeus.” I nodded. “He’s a great dog. And really clever. Wait. You know about my sister?”

His thumb brushed my back. “I heard about the dog. Maplewood Falls is a small town. Word travels fast.”

I thought of something. “Do you have a sister? Sisters? A brother? Cousins?” There I went again with the nervous word vomit.

A chuckle sounded from him. “An older sister.”

“Ah ha. Then you know what I’m talking about.”

He laughed again. Softly this time. Controlled, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of Sheriff Walker.

Yet dancing with him, talking, just enjoying the moment felt natural.

“This is nice,” I blabbed before I could stop myself. “I mean… this. The dancing. Just the dancing.”

He tugged me an inch closer. “It is nice.”

The music carried us slowly across the square. Around us, couples swayed beneath the café lights while laughter drifted in from the beer garden.

And suddenly I was very aware of how close he was, of the gentle pressure of his fingers against my back.

“You’re good at winging things,” said the sheriff after a beat. “I’ve been watching you.”

I cocked a brow. “Are you stalking me now?” And if so… why did I find that ridiculously attractive?

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ve been watching you work.”

That somehow sounded even better.

He looked into my eyes. “You don’t quit. You work hard.” His thumb shifted almost imperceptibly against the small of my back as we swayed with the music. “When something goes wrong, you don’t look for someone else to fix it. You figure it out.” His gaze never left mine. “That’s not winging it.” He paused just long enough for the words to settle between us. “That’s someone who’s stronger than she gives herself credit for.” Another beat. “You proved that today.” His smile was small but completely genuine. “You’re very capable, Hartwell.”

I felt my insides shift. Like a lock I’d been trying to force open for years had finally clicked all by itself.

All day I’d been carrying around this impossible feeling. Like maybe today hadn’t just been luck. Maybe the replacement band wasn’t luck. Maybe the volunteers listening wasn’t luck. Maybe people thanking me wasn’t luck either. Maybe I wasn’t simply surviving another job until someone eventually realized they’d hired the wrong person.

Maybe I’d been wrong about myself.

The thought was so unfamiliar it almost felt dangerous.

Now standing here with the sheriff, surrounded by music and lights and an entire town laughing because today had actually worked, for one ridiculous, impossible, wonderful moment, I felt awesome. And brave.

And before my brain could object, before common sense reeled me back in, I rose onto my toes, cupped his face gently between my hands...

And kissed him.

His lips were warm and soft and perfect. But the second mine touched his, my brain finally caught up.

Oh… shit…

I was kissing the sheriff.

16

SOPHIE

Yup. I was kissing Captain Competent.

And I liked it.

Correction.

I liked it far, far more than seemed remotely sensible for a woman who’d known him all of… what? Two days? Two and a half if you counted all the time I’d spent accidentally thinking about him, which unfortunately, my brain insisted qualified as a meaningful relationship.

His hand slid around my waist, warm and steady, drawing me a fraction closer like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he kissed me back.

Really kissed me back. Not the polite sort of kiss that said, Well, this seems socially acceptable. The sort that said he’d wanted to do it too.

Or maybe that was just me.

When my lips parted and his brushed against mine again, every coherent thought abandoned ship without so much as a polite goodbye. My brain didn’t explode, exactly. It simply packed a suitcase, wished me luck, left a forwarding address, and wandered off into the sunset while my common sense stood on the platform waving a tiny white handkerchief.

Heat rushed from my face all the way to my toes, and I felt the tiniest, completely involuntary sound escape my throat.

Yikes.

That was embarrassing.

His kiss wasn’t rushed or careless. It was slow, confident, and patient enough to make me forget an entire festival was happening only a few yards away. He kissed me like a man who’d thought about doing it before and had finally stopped talking himself out of it. I leaned into him before I even realized I was doing it, breathing him in and losing myself in the clean scent of soap, cedar, and whatever impossible ingredient made Sheriff Walker smell unfairly good. One of his hands tightened ever so slightly at my waist, and a delicious little shiver raced straight through me. Somewhere nearby the band kept playing, children laughed, and a dog barked, but they all sounded impossibly far away. The entire town could’ve packed up and relocated to another county, and I genuinely don’t think I would’ve noticed.

Damn. I’d been kissed before. Technically.

This, however, felt like discovering I’d previously been eating instant mashed potatoes and only now realized actual potatoes existed.

Or believing frozen pizza was perfectly acceptable until someone handed you a slice from a tiny family-run pizzeria in Italy.

There was simply no going back after this.

I pulled back first. Mostly because another five seconds and I was genuinely going to forget we were standing in the middle of a festival with half the town nearby. Also because there was an extremely real possibility I’d do something completely unreasonable.

Like kiss him again. Or worse. Start planning our wedding because he’d complimented my leadership skills.

I could already picture it. Our first dance. Bandit somehow eating the wedding cake. Theo serving as ring bearer because he’d already decided we were family. Lola crying dramatically in the front row while flirting with my uncle. Dottie insisting she’d bake gluten-free goat cookies for the reception.

Damn. We hadn’t even gone on one date. “Well…” I said a little breathlessly. “That escalated.” I gave a tiny, disbelieving laugh.

He looked at me, his eyes still warm. One corner of his mouth lifted. “Yeah.”

The music continued drifting across the square. People laughed. The festival carried on as though my entire universe hadn’t just rearranged itself.

And I, Sophie Hartwell, had just kissed the sheriff. Captain Competent. The man responsible for enforcing the law. There was probably a bylaw somewhere about not randomly making out with law enforcement officers during public events. If not, I was fairly certain the town council would be drafting one and naming it after me.

The Hartwell Amendment: No spontaneous kissing of municipal employees while on duty.

When I made bad decisions, I didn’t just dip a toe into poor judgment. I cannonballed straight into the deep end while waving enthusiastically at everyone on the shore. Go big or go home. Right?

Silence settled between us again, like we’d both accidentally walked through a door neither of us had intended to open. Neither of us seemed entirely sure whether to step farther inside or back out and pretend we’d been looking for the restroom all along.

“I…” I pointed vaguely between us. “That…”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t usually…”

“I know.”

“I mean, I don’t just kiss people.” I frowned. “I should probably make that clearer because that sentence somehow sounded like I occasionally do this as a hobby. I don’t. I don’t wander around kissing random sheriffs. Or accountants. Or mailmen. There’s no list. No punch card. No loyalty program.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“Good.” I nodded quickly. “Because that would’ve been embarrassing. More embarrassing. I feel like we’ve already achieved a fairly impressive level of embarrassment.”

He looked at me. “Sophie.”

“I’ve made this weird. Haven’t I?” I winced. “Please don’t answer that because I feel like you’re going to.”

He raised a brow. “A little.”

I closed my eyes. “Fantastic.” I rubbed both hands over my face. “I’ve been an event planner for what… barely two days?” I sighed dramatically. “And now I’ve chased a goat through Main Road and kissed the sheriff. When you hear it out loud, it does sound like the beginning of a psychological evaluation.” I frowned thoughtfully. “Actually, if I told this story to a therapist, they’d probably ask me to slow down around the goat chapter because that’s where things really start going off the rails.”

For the briefest moment, the corner of Eric’s mouth twitched again. Sheriff face. With another crack in it. It was becoming my new favorite expression. Unfortunately, I suspected it was also becoming addictive.

His thumb brushed lightly against my back before he seemed to realize he was still touching me. Then he let his hand fall away.

The sudden absence of it was ridiculous. It shouldn’t have mattered. It absolutely mattered. My body noticed before my brain did, which felt both inconvenient and slightly traitorous.

“I wanted to kiss you,” he said.

I had a brain fart moment. “What?”

His expression stayed calm. “I have for a while.”

“You did?” My heart attempted to leave my body. It didn’t simply skip a beat. It packed a lunch, climbed over my ribcage, and made a determined run for freedom.

“But…” he continued.

There it was. The responsible but.

“We probably picked the worst possible time,” said the sheriff.

“Right.” Right? Did he regret kissing me? Was that what he meant? After what was probably the best kiss of my life?

“You’re running the festival,” the sheriff went on.

“And you’re the sheriff,” I added.

He nodded once. “So…”

“So…”

I sighed. “This was probably a bad idea.” Saying it out loud felt strangely disappointing. I hadn’t realized how much I’d wanted him to disagree.

His eyes stayed on mine. “It was.”

Yup. And that was when my ego died.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak right now.

The sheriff watched me. “Doesn’t mean I regret it.”

Okay? Was that better or worse? Definitely better. Dangerously better. The sort of better that encouraged extremely poor decision-making and entirely too much smiling for no medically justifiable reason.

I laughed once. A tiny, disbelieving laugh. “You’re just not sure if you want to do it again.” There. Now let’s see what he says.

“No,” he shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

“See?” I gestured to his face. “How can I tell? You’ve got sheriff face all over again.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.” The sheriff smiled, a real one, and it transformed his face from handsome to uber hot. The man smiled like it was some sort of secret weapon he only took out under special circumstances.

“I should…” I pointed toward absolutely everything. “The festival.”

He nodded. “You should.”

With my face flaming, I took one step backward. Then another. Neither of us looked away. This was becoming increasingly difficult to exit with dignity. Honestly, nobody ever told you this part in romantic movies. They always fade to black after the kiss. They never show the awkward human shuffle where both people silently negotiate who leaves first without looking like they’re fleeing a crime scene.

“I’ll just…” I turned, walked exactly six steps, and stopped. Because my brain, determined to maximize the embarrassment, chose that exact moment to replay the kiss in perfect high-definition. It wasn’t even giving me the highlights. Oh no. It had clearly invested in the deluxe director’s cut with surround sound and bonus commentary.

His hand on my back. His mouth. The way he’d kissed me back. The fact that he’d wanted to.

Heat flooded my face all over again. I could practically feel my ears glowing. If someone had tried to toast a marshmallow beside my head, I genuinely think it might have worked.

But then he agreed that it wasn’t a good idea.

What the hell did that mean? And what did I do with that? Did he mean not now? Or not ever? Or terrible timing but excellent execution? There were so many possible interpretations.

Focus, Sophie.

I was still on the clock, so to speak. I didn’t have time to kiss handsome sheriffs and start imagining our wedding. Or our honeymoon.

Nope. Not going there.

The festival. Focus on the festival. I had vendors. Guests. Responsibilities. I did not have time to develop a schoolgirl crush on the sheriff. I especially did not have time to wonder whether he was a cuddler, what his morning coffee order was, or whether he’d always smelled that ridiculously good. Those were tomorrow problems. Or preferably next year’s problems.

“I can’t do this now.” I marched toward the information booth with considerably more determination than emotional stability. A volunteer smiled and waved as I passed. I smiled back with what I hoped looked reassuring and not like the expression of a woman who’d just accidentally derailed her own nervous system. If anyone asked whether I was okay, I was fully prepared to lie with impressive confidence.

I felt eyes on me and turned to see Lola still on the dance floor.

Judging by the grin stretching across her face, she’d seen everything. Every glorious, humiliating, life-altering second of it. She was swaying lazily between her two dance partners, somehow still dancing with both men at once without either appearing remotely concerned by the arrangement, but the second our eyes met, she pointed dramatically at me. Then at the sheriff. Then back at me. Then she clasped both hands beneath her cheek, closed her eyes, and mimed the world’s most exaggerated Awww… true love. She even sighed dramatically enough that I could practically hear it over the music.

My stomach dropped. “Don’t.”

Lola pointed at her lips and made an exaggerated kissing motion. Then she puckered dramatically, fluttered her eyelashes, and hugged herself.

Shoot me now.

“Oh my god… how old are you?” I muttered.

And then Lola blew me a kiss while making a little heart with her fingers.

Heat exploded across my face. I was going to kill her later. Good thing I knew where she lived.

I risked one tiny glance toward the sheriff.

Big mistake.

His gaze was on Lola. Oh, yeah. He’d seen all of it. All of it. Every ridiculous gesture. Every imaginary kiss. Every heart. Every second of her enthusiastically narrating my romantic life through interpretive dance.

“She is never going to let this go,” I growled under my breath. Not tomorrow. Not next week. I could already picture myself at eighty-three, peacefully knitting in a rocking chair, only for Lola to wander by and ask, “Remember when you attacked the sheriff at the festival?”

The sheriff’s head turned toward me, and I spun around.

Was I acting like a fool? Maybe. But I knew if I looked at him again, I’d start spiraling and overthink what had just happened between us. My heart still hadn’t settled down. My stomach was still doing whatever weird thing it had decided to do tonight, and my brain had already started asking about seventeen questions I definitely didn’t have answers to.

Tomorrow. I could have my complete nervous breakdown tomorrow. Just not right now.

I could dissect every look, every word, every microscopic facial expression, and probably build an entirely inaccurate psychological profile based on one kiss and half a smile. My anxiety would undoubtedly appreciate the project.

Because tonight.

I had a festival to finish.

17

ERIC

Istood exactly where I was, watching Hartwell move through the crowd. Her hips swayed as she hurried away, like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

But she kissed me.

And I kissed her back.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. The strange part wasn’t the kiss. It was how right it had felt. And how much I wanted more of that.

I hadn’t planned on kissing Hartwell. I’d thought about it more than once. Yet the second she’d reached up and touched my face, I’d stopped thinking.

That wasn’t like me. Not even a little.

I let out a slow breath. This wasn’t the time to get involved with anyone. I had a job to do, and I needed to stay focused on it. That had always been easier when my personal life stayed exactly that—personal.

Kissing Hartwell had blurred that line in about three seconds.

And I definitely shouldn’t be kissing women while I was still on the clock. The sheriff making out with the festival organizer in the middle of Main Road probably wasn’t covered in the employee handbook, but somehow I doubted it would’ve been encouraged.

The problem was... I wasn’t sorry it had happened.

When I finally looked around, I saw them. The faces.

An older couple walking past had slowed to glance my way before exchanging the kind of knowing smile that came from fifty years of marriage. Two teenage girls standing near the lemonade stand were pretending to study the festival map while very obviously whispering behind it. One volunteer paused halfway through stacking folding chairs, blinked twice, and then decided with remarkable professionalism to mind his own business. Another wasn’t nearly as disciplined, his grin stretching a little wider as he carried a box of supplies toward the storage trailer.

Hell. Small towns didn’t need newspapers. They had eyeballs. And excellent memories.

By tomorrow morning, this story would probably have evolved from Sophie kissed the sheriff into The sheriff proposed on the dance floor.

That’s how Maplewood Falls worked.

People noticed everything. A new truck parked outside someone’s house. A stranger walking down Main Road. A conversation that lasted thirty seconds longer than usual. Give them a kiss in the middle of the Summer Festival, and there wouldn’t be much left to the imagination.

Tomorrow morning, the coffee crowd at Murphy’s would be discussing it before I’d even had my first cup.

I rubbed the back of my neck and turned around, my gaze going toward the petting zoo. Sophie had already slipped through the temporary gate. The little goat lifted up its head at her and then bounded across the pen so enthusiastically all four feet seemed to leave the ground at once.

She laughed, the same laugh she’d tried so hard to hide earlier. And even through the music and the voices of the crowd, I could hear it.

I watched as she dropped into a crouch. The goat practically climbed into her lap demanding attention.

“There you are,” I heard her say. She scratched behind his ears.

Then the alpacas and a miniature donkey followed a moment later. Within thirty seconds every animal in the pen had gathered around her like she’d become the center of gravity.

I’d spent enough years around animals to know the difference. Trust couldn’t be faked. Dogs, horses, goats… they either liked someone or they didn’t.

Especially that goat. That little menace had chewed my card. I wondered if she kept it or tossed it.

She laughed again as one of the alpacas insisted on resting his head against her shoulder. She rubbed its head and kept talking to it like it had just shared something important.

She looked happy. Genuinely happy.

It suited her.

I stayed where I was a little longer, watching her. I’d spent the last few days seeing her stressed, exhausted, second-guessing every decision she made. This was different. The worry was gone, if only for a minute.

And I liked seeing her like that more than I probably should have.

When I realized I’d been standing there watching her for entirely too long, I pulled myself away.

I got back to work, walking the festival to make sure everything was running smoothly and everyone stayed safe.

I stopped at the main entrance to answer a tourist’s question about parking, helped an elderly man carry two folding chairs closer to the stage, and pointed three different families toward the public washrooms. One little girl proudly held up the oversized stuffed bear she’d won at one of the midway games and insisted I admire it before she’d let her parents continue walking.

A vendor selling homemade fudge asked whether he could start packing up early while another wanted to know where to leave tomorrow morning’s extra supplies. Near the information booth, I checked in with two of my deputies, who reported nothing more serious than a missing wallet that had already been returned and one teenager who’d climbed onto the gazebo roof for a better view of the band before being politely convinced that gravity wasn’t a suggestion. Exactly the sort of problems I liked. Ordinary ones. The kind that meant people were busy making memories instead of emergency calls.

By a little after ten, families began drifting toward their cars. Children clutched oversized cotton candy that had somehow survived the entire evening and stuffed animals tucked beneath sleepy arms while parents negotiated the familiar balancing act of carrying exhausted kids, leftover funnel cakes, and souvenir bags all at once.

Couples lingered around the stage for one last song before slowly making their way toward the parking lot. The whole festival settled into that contented rhythm that only came after a genuinely good day, when nobody seemed particularly eager to leave because everyone knew they’d be talking about it tomorrow anyway.

The Riverstone Ramblers finished their last song to loud applause, the lead singer tipping the brim of his cowboy hat as whistles and cheers echoed across the square. The fiddle player gave one last playful flourish before lowering his bow, and the drummer stood to wave at the crowd while children near the front enthusiastically clapped long after the music had ended. One by one, microphone stands disappeared, guitar cases snapped shut, and thick black cables were neatly coiled across the stage.

Food trucks closed their serving windows. Volunteers folded tables, stacked chairs in neat towers, rolled up extension cords, and gathered overflowing garbage bags. They removed temporary barricades as Main Road gradually transformed from festival grounds back into an ordinary small-town street.

I helped where I could, moving fencing, loading traffic cones into the back of a town pickup, and answering three last-minute questions about parking. I gave directions to a family looking for the quickest route back to the highway and helped one exhausted vendor wrestle a stubborn canopy back into its storage bag before it won the fight. One elderly couple insisted on thanking every deputy individually before they left. The husband shook each of our hands with both of his while his wife hugged anyone who stood still long enough. It took nearly ten minutes, but not one of us minded waiting.

I found myself looking over my shoulder, searching. I could try and lie to myself, saying I was just checking up on things. But I wasn’t. I was looking for Hartwell.

I spotted her. She was still here, helping volunteers clean the petting zoo while laughing with Dottie and Helen.

Two volunteers waved as they climbed into the back of an old pickup. A middle-aged man stretched his back with a groan while the woman beside him tucked a bag under her arm.

“We’ll pick up the rest tomorrow morning,” called out the man.

“See you tomorrow,” Hartwell said with a wave.

“Great job today,” said the woman. “Best festival we’ve had in years.”

Hartwell smiled, that little surprised smile I’d seen earlier, like she still wasn’t used to people saying nice things to her.

I turned away and walked over to my SUV. I couldn’t really do anything else, and hanging around like a fucking stalker wasn’t my style. I didn’t want to creep her out.

I climbed in, closed the door, and sat there for a moment. I should have started the engine. Instead, I replayed the kiss.

I couldn’t get it out of my head. The way she’d looked at me. The hesitation. The courage. The complete panic afterward.

I laughed quietly. “I definitely didn’t see that coming.”

No. That wasn’t true. The kiss itself surprised me. The fact that I’d kissed her back didn’t.

Somewhere within the last few days, without noticing, I’d started looking for her, watching for her, and wondering what she’d do next.

The truth was, I’d wanted to kiss Hartwell longer than I’d been willing to admit.

I sat there for another minute with both hands resting on the steering wheel. The dashboard glowed softly in the darkness. Around me, engines started one by one as vendors and volunteers headed home, headlights sweeping across the square before disappearing down Main Road.

That was my cue to leave as well.

My SUV’s engine rumbled to life, and I eased out of the parking space, rolling past the last few food trucks loading supplies. A volunteer carrying an armful of folding chairs raised a hand in farewell. Someone laughed somewhere behind me. The festival was over.

My job was done. So why did it feel like I’d left something behind?

I turned onto Main Road. The truck settled into its familiar rhythm, tires humming over the pavement as the last of the festival lights disappeared in the rearview mirror.

Don’t think about Hartwell. Think about tomorrow’s paperwork. Traffic reports. Cleanup. Volunteer schedules. The budget meeting with the mayor next week. Anything.

My brain listened carefully but then proceeded to replay the kiss. Her surprised little gasp. The way she’d looked at me afterward like she’d accidentally jumped out of an airplane before remembering she was afraid of heights.

I let out a breath. “I’m losing my damn mind.”

I drove another block and shook my head of thoughts of Hartwell. The stop sign on Harbor Road needed replacing. Mrs. Turner’s neighbor still hadn’t trimmed the hedge blocking the intersection. The marina permits needed renewing next month.

I needed to think about work. Instead, my brain reminded me how naturally she’d fit against me when we danced.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

“Damnit.”

I took the familiar route through town, passing dark storefronts and quiet houses where porch lights glowed warmly against the night. A teenager pedaled home on his bicycle with a fishing rod balanced across one shoulder. The diner was closing, chairs already upside down on half the tables while one exhausted waitress wiped down the counter with a practiced rhythm that said she’d done it a thousand times. Two kids raced each other down the sidewalk with melting ice cream cones despite the late hour, their parents calling after them without much conviction.

Ordinary. Predictable. Exactly the kind of evening Maplewood Falls usually offered. The kind I’d always appreciated. No emergencies or surprises. Just familiar streets, familiar faces, and the quiet comfort of knowing where everyone was probably headed before they got there.

But none of it managed to get Hartwell out of my head. Every stop sign seemed to remind me of the way she’d looked up at me after the kiss. Every quiet stretch of road gave my brain another opportunity to replay it from a slightly different angle, as though careful review might somehow produce new evidence. It didn’t. It just confirmed the same inconvenient conclusion every time.

A few minutes later I pulled up into my driveway, turned off the engine, and climbed out of the SUV. The cool night air carried the scent of cut grass and pine, and somewhere across the neighboring property a dog barked once before deciding whatever he’d heard wasn’t worth the effort after all.

I unlocked my front door and walked inside. The house was quiet—the sort of silence I’d spent years convincing myself I preferred. Tonight it somehow felt a little louder than usual.

I hung my keys by the door, kicked off my boots, and put together a sandwich without really tasting it. I stood at the kitchen counter because I couldn’t be bothered to sit down. Then I got a beer from the fridge and stepped out onto the back porch. The bottle was cold against my hand, condensation already gathering along the glass, but I was barely paying attention to it.

Moonlight stretched across the grounds. Tall firs and oaks cast long shadows over the grass. The sound of tree frogs and other night creatures’ voices filled the air while a light breeze stirred the tops of the trees enough to make them whisper. Peaceful. The way I’d always liked it. Nothing moved except the branches and the occasional flicker of fireflies drifting above the pasture. This kind of night usually cleared my head.

And then my thoughts drifted back to Hartwell.

I was a hopeless idiot, a grown man standing on his own porch, holding a beer he’d forgotten to drink, and replaying one kiss like it was evidence in a criminal investigation.

I caught myself wondering what she’d be doing tomorrow. Whether she’d sleep. Whether she’d spend the night overthinking the kiss, or maybe she’d regretted it and focused on her work. I didn’t know.

Women were complicated creatures. And I told myself I didn’t want to get involved again. Well, at least nothing serious. Serious came with expectations, compromise, and conversations as well as letting someone rearrange the carefully organized life I’d spent years putting back together. I’d already proven I wasn’t particularly interested in repeating that experiment.

I took a sip of my beer and smiled. Then the smile slowly faded. The festival was over, and tomorrow everyone would go back to their normal lives. Most of the food trucks would be gone by morning. Some had already left. The stage would come down. The banners would disappear. Main Road would look exactly like it always had, as though none of it had happened. By next week, tourists would be gone, traffic would settle, and the town would slip back into its familiar routine without missing a beat.

And Hartwell… she’d still be here. Still living at the Hartwell Inn, from what I was told. Not that I had spied on her or anything. Dottie had mentioned it.

Still, I had a feeling Hartwell would somehow find new ways to turn my orderly life upside down.

I stared out across the empty field. Getting involved with someone wasn’t simple. Not here, when everyone knew everyone. Not when I wore a badge. Not when people expected the sheriff to have good judgment. Small towns remembered everything. It didn’t matter how long ago it happened. Somebody always remembered.

One kiss would be enough. By tomorrow morning, people would have filled in the parts they hadn’t seen. By next week, there’d be a version of the story that barely resembled what had actually happened.

That’s how Maplewood Falls worked.

I’d spent years building a quiet life. A routine. Work. Home. Peace. Morning coffee on the porch. Patrol. Paperwork. Poker on Thursdays. The occasional fishing trip. It worked. It was safe. Predictable had never sounded boring to me. Predictable meant nobody was crying in my office. Predictable meant I slept through the night. Predictable meant my pulse usually stayed where medical professionals recommended.

It should still be enough. It should.

So why had Hartwell managed to make the life I’d always been satisfied with suddenly feel... quieter than it used to?

I looked up at the sky, at the twinkling stars and the full moon. A cool breeze rustled through the trees, and somewhere beyond the fence an owl called into the darkness. The night settled comfortably around the property, the way it always had.

Then I admitted something I couldn’t deny anymore.

I didn’t regret kissing her.

Not even a little.

18

SOPHIE

Another sleepless night. It didn’t help that I was plagued with dreams—or rather nightmares—of Captain Competent running after me naked, because why not, shouting, “Come and give me a kiss!” Somehow Dream Sheriff didn’t seem remotely embarrassed about the whole nudity situation either. Dream Me, on the other hand, was frantically trying to decide whether public indecency was technically still a crime if it happened entirely inside my subconscious.

Dream Me had actually considered it, which probably meant I should never be left alone with my own imagination again.

I’d woken up at least thirty times, sweaty with my heart trying to escape through my ribcage, convinced I’d somehow kissed him again.

But the worst thing? I was smiling. Grinning like a complete fool into my pillow. Every time I remembered, I’d tell myself to stop smiling… which, somehow, only made me smile harder. My own face had joined Team Sheriff without consulting the rest of me.

I was definitely in hell. Or the early stages of a hormonal breakdown. Possibly both. If there were circles of romantic embarrassment, I was fairly certain I’d skipped directly to Level Seven. Population: me.

So, at six fifteen, I swung my legs off the bed and dragged my tired ass to the shower. At this rate my body was moving on autopilot.

The hot water helped. But not nearly enough. Nothing short of selective amnesia was going to help. I washed my hair. Conditioned. Shaved one leg before realizing I’d already shaved that one and still had the other to go. I stood there for a full ten seconds trying to remember whether I’d actually used shampoo yet or had merely been thinking about using shampoo while mentally making out with the sheriff.

Excellent. My coordination was thriving. At this rate I’d eventually leave the bathroom wearing one shoe and toothpaste instead of deodorant.

By the time I pulled on black jeans, a pale blue T-shirt, and my favorite white sneakers, I looked… functional. Emotionally? Absolutely not. If emotions had warning labels, mine would’ve been flashing bright orange with a helpful note reading: Contents under pressure. Open carefully.

I cracked open my bedroom door and peeked into the hallway. Nothing. Good. The coast appeared clear. My mission was simple. Avoid Sarah. Avoid Dottie. Avoid Lola at all costs. Especially Lola. I felt like a secret agent whose only assignment was escaping breakfast without discussing my love life.

She’d practically organized a parade celebrating my kiss with the sheriff. I still wanted to fake my own death over that.

I slipped out of my room as quietly as possible, easing the door shut behind me without letting it click, and then tiptoed across the hallway. Why I was tiptoeing, I wasn’t entirely sure. Nobody tiptoed successfully in sneakers. Still, it felt appropriately sneaky.

Halfway to the front desk, I froze. Voices. Kitchen. A man’s voice and a woman’s. The woman laughed. I recognized that laugh.

Lola.

Abort. Abort.

I ducked behind the grandfather clock. Why? No idea. It was approximately six inches wide.

I was not.

If anyone walked into the lobby, they’d see two sneakers, one elbow, and most of my ponytail sticking out from behind two hundred pounds of antique furniture. I was essentially hiding the way toddlers hide by putting both hands over their own eyes and assuming invisibility naturally followed.

I darted across the lobby like a burglar with excellent intentions. The dining room sat empty. Thank heavens. Someone had already laid out breakfast.

“Thank you, Dottie,” I whispered. Sincerely. That woman deserved some sort of humanitarian award for keeping people alive via baked goods alone.

A basket of still-warm blueberry muffins rested in the center of one table beneath a clean linen napkin, and beside it sat a fresh pot of coffee, sending glorious curls of steam into the air. The smell alone nearly restored my faith in humanity. Nearly.

I could’ve cried. Instead, I poured myself a mug and drank as much as I could without burning my throat. I grabbed a muffin and then… after a brief internal debate lasting almost three full seconds, snatched up a second one.

Insurance muffin.

Every successful woman needed an emergency muffin. I stuffed it into my tote bag. Future Sophie would thank me around eleven thirty when panic inevitably burned through breakfast. Past Sophie was really trying to start looking out for Future Sophie. It was about time. Usually Past Sophie just left little surprises like overdue parking tickets and emotional crises.

With a last sip of coffee, I wandered over to the front desk. Sarah’s car keys sat exactly where they always did in the little ceramic bowl.

I glanced toward the kitchen. Still talking. Perfect.

“I’ll bring it back,” I whispered to absolutely nobody. Which, considering the previous twenty-four hours, was becoming a worrying habit. First livestock. Now decorative bowls.

I slipped the keys into my pocket, took one last glorious sip of coffee, and headed out the front door before Lola could emerge and start making kissing noises at me at sunrise.

The cool morning air hit my face. I breathed. Better. Marginally. Sarah’s old Jetta started on the second turn of the key. I backed out of the parking lot and headed toward downtown while the town slowly woke around me. The streets still had that quiet early-morning feeling, when everything seemed to stretch before beginning another day.

A bakery delivery truck rolled past. Mr. Patterson watered the flowers outside his hardware store. Someone walked a golden cocker spaniel who looked considerably more rested than I felt. The dog glanced at me with bright, happy eyes.

I broke off a piece of muffin and shoved it in my mouth at the stop sign. Blueberries exploded onto my shirt.

Fantastic.

Then, naturally, my brain replayed the kiss. Again.

“What were you thinking?” I muttered to myself.

I’d kissed the sheriff. Captain Competent. I’d just leaned in, grabbed his face, and planted a big one on his lips.

“Since when did I become this person? This isn’t me? I’m not brave. I’m not spontaneous. I don’t kiss sheriffs.”

But I had. I’d just done it. One minute we were dancing, and the next I’d become the sort of woman who launched herself at emotionally unavailable law enforcement officers.

Except, he’d kissed me back. Really kissed me. And then he’d admitted he’d wanted to.

That part refused to leave my head. Maybe I’d imagined the look on his face. Maybe I’d imagined the way he’d looked at me afterward. Maybe sleep deprivation had finally reached the hallucination stage. Except… no. He’d said it. I’d heard it. I wanted to kiss you. My stupid heart replayed those five words for what was probably the eight hundredth time while my equally stupid brain insisted on adding the next sentence. This was probably a bad idea. Honestly, the man had managed to hand me hope and confusion in the same conversation. That had to be some sort of sheriff training.

“No.” I shook my head. “He said it. Clear as day.”

I wanted to kiss you.

But then…

This was probably a bad idea.

I sighed. Men. Could they not issue one complete emotional statement before changing directions? What exactly was I supposed to do with that? Was there a secret manual somewhere? Chapter Four: Deliver Mixed Signals with Maximum Efficiency. They said one thing. Then qualified it. Then somehow expected women not to spend the next forty-eight hours conducting a full forensic investigation into every syllable.

Congratulations, Sophie. Here’s hope. Now here’s confusion. Enjoy. Complimentary emotional whiplash included at no extra charge. No refunds.

By the time I pulled into the festival parking lot, my muffin had mysteriously disappeared somewhere between the inn and the marina.

“It was a good muffin.” It really was. I’d practically inhaled it.

I climbed out of the car expecting another busy morning. Instead the petting zoo gates stood open and a livestock trailer was backed up beside the enclosure. The cheerful festival banners still fluttered lazily overhead, leftovers from yesterday’s excitement, but suddenly they looked strangely out of place. The square felt quieter than it should have, like the party had ended while nobody was paying attention.

An animal caretaker was gently guiding a goat up the ramp. My heart squeezed as Bandit protested loudly, planting all four tiny hooves with remarkable determination for someone whose legs were approximately the length of baguettes. Then, with one surprisingly nimble twist, he slipped free and bolted from the handler.

Theo spat in apparent confusion and fear. Daisy watched everyone with her usual quiet dignity, as though she’d expected humans to become disorganized eventually and had simply been waiting for us to prove her right. The miniature donkey just stood there, his eyes wide.

And standing right in the middle of it all was Dottie. And yup, she was barefoot. Because, why the hell not? At this point I was fairly convinced shoes and Dottie existed in entirely separate dimensions that occasionally acknowledged each other out of politeness.

My chest squeezed. I thought I’d have more time with the animals. Thought I’d sit with them for at least an hour before they went back to their homes. Maybe sneak Bandit one last scratch behind the ears. Let Theo lean against me until my shoulder went numb. Tell Daisy she was secretly my favorite, even though I wasn’t supposed to have favorites. And finally give the donkey a name. He deserved one before he went home.

I hurried across the grass. “Dottie?” My sneakers sank slightly into the damp morning ground.

She turned. She wasn’t smiling, and the look on her face, which could only be described as the someone has died look, had my guts twist. Like she’d already cried about this before I got here.

“What’s going on?” I asked her. My voice came out smaller than I’d intended, as though some part of me already knew I wasn’t going to like the answer.

Bandit spotted me, and his tiny ears perked straight up. He let out an enthusiastic little bleat before trotting toward me with complete confidence.

“Bandit.” I crouched automatically. He reached me in seconds, pushing his little head into my stomach like he’d done a hundred times before. I laughed softly, despite the strange feeling growing in my chest, and wrapped one arm around his neck. “Well… good morning to you too.”

His tail wagged so hard his whole backside bounced. If happiness were measured in tail velocity, this little goat would’ve powered half the town.

Dottie watched quietly. “He’s been waiting for you.” She folded her hands together in front of her apron, blinking suspiciously hard as though she was trying not to get emotional.

I looked up. “He was?” That did all kinds of things to my insides. And my head. And, annoyingly, my eyeballs, which suddenly seemed determined to become much shinier than necessary.

“Yes.” She smiled sadly. “He kept walking over to the gate. Looking.” She glanced toward the opening in the fence. “Every few minutes, like he thought you’d be coming back.”

A lump settled in my throat. “You’re a good boy, Bandit. And I’m really going to miss you.” My eyes burned, surprising me, and I blinked fast.

The handler cleared his throat politely. “I should probably get moving.” He was a stocky man in his late fifties. He climbed down from the livestock trailer, adjusting the brim of his faded ball cap. He had a sun-weathered face, wore work boots, and had the kind of hands that had spent a lifetime fixing fences and hauling feed. He looked like someone who’d delivered difficult news before and never particularly enjoyed doing it.

I looked toward the trailer. “Already?” The word came out sounding far more disappointed than I’d intended. “I thought,” I swallowed. “I thought I’d have more time with them.” A week would have been nice. A month would have been better.

He shook his head. “Festival’s over.”

Something about how simply he said it made my chest tighten. “Right.” I reached down and scratched Bandit behind one floppy ear. “So you’ll all be off somewhere else. To make others laugh and fall in love with you guys. Huh?” I smiled at Bandit, but it felt wobbly around the edges.

The man hesitated and shook his head. “Not exactly.” He shifted his weight, looking almost uncomfortable now, as though he knew what came next wasn’t going to land well.

I looked at him. “What do you mean?” Something cold settled in the pit of my stomach.

“They’re going to auction,” he said.

I frowned. “Auction?” The word didn’t make sense sitting beside Bandit. Auction belonged to old furniture and antique teapots. Not floppy ears and wagging tails.

He nodded. “They cost too much to keep feeding.”

For a second, I thought I’d misunderstood. “What? You can’t be serious.” Surely there had to be another trailer somewhere. Another farm. Another explanation that didn’t make my stomach feel like it had just fallen down an elevator shaft.

“The festival season’s finished.” He shrugged, not unkindly, just practical, like this was just part of his job. “After this, they go through the livestock auction.” He said it gently, but that somehow didn’t make the words hurt any less.

My eyes moved slowly from him… to Bandit. Who was currently trying to climb into my lap despite weighing considerably more than lap-sized animals should. He looked up at me with those ridiculous golden eyes, completely trusting, completely happy, and entirely unaware that everyone else seemed to be making plans for the rest of his life except him.

The man smiled faintly. “Goats sell.” He said it the way someone might say, “The sky’s blue.” Just another ordinary fact of life. Practical. Simple. Completely unaware that he’d just shattered my entire emotional stability before seven thirty in the morning.

My throat tightened. I looked toward Theo. “And the alpacas?” Theo had wandered over beside Daisy now, his long neck stretched curiously in our direction, looking for all the world like he expected this conversation to end with treats instead of existential despair.

“The alpacas too.”

My eyes found the little donkey. “What about him?” He’d ambled over at his own unhurried pace, his ears flicking lazily, looking blissfully unconcerned with the future.

“Him too.”

Silence. The sounds of the morning suddenly seemed strangely far away. Birds. Truck engines. The trailer door. Someone fastening a latch. Even the breeze seemed quieter somehow, like the whole world had politely stepped back to let my heart break in peace. Very considerate. Terrible timing.

“Where do they go?” I asked, a knot already forming in my stomach.

The man shrugged. “Depends who buys.” Another shrug. Not cold. Not careless. Just honest. He’d probably answered this question a hundred times before. Unfortunately, this happened to be my first.

I felt my body go still. “They could end up anywhere?”

“Could be hobby farms,” answered the man. “Could be breeders.” He glanced toward the trailer. “Could be meat.”

Meat.

The word hit me like someone had punched me square in the chest. “No…” My voice barely came out. “No,” I repeated, like somehow that would make a difference.

Dottie sniffed, looking like she was on the verge of a serious cry. She pressed her lips together so tightly they nearly disappeared, one hand rubbing absentmindedly across Theo’s neck as though she needed the comfort as much as he did.

Bandit nudged my hand. Completely unaware of what was happening. He flopped one soft ear against my wrist and looked up at me with complete trust. They had no idea. Not one of them. They weren’t worried about auctions or buyers or what tomorrow looked like. They were worried about breakfast and ear scratches.

I looked back at the handler. “They don’t stay together?” I heard the hope in my own voice before I could stop it—tiny, ridiculous, and clinging desperately to the idea that at least they’d have each other.

He shook his head. “No guarantee. They’re usually sold separately. Easier that way.” His expression softened a little. “Sometimes they end up together. Sometimes they don’t.” Somehow, the word sometimes managed to be even crueler than no.

I stared at Bandit. His little tail wagged happily while he leaned against my legs, completely trusting that everything was exactly as it should be. Theo wandered over and rested the side of his fluffy head against my shoulder with his usual shameless confidence while Daisy and the donkey stood just behind them, watching. They’d spent yesterday making children laugh, stealing hearts, causing minor property damage, and dramatically improving my mental health. It seemed profoundly unfair that none of them got a vote in what happened next.

Something inside of me broke and then changed. The same part of me had somehow looked at a complete stranger in a sheriff’s uniform and thought, Yes, let’s kiss him.

That part of my personality was awake again.

I couldn’t let this happen. Absolutely not. Not my Bandit. Not Theo or Daisy or the little donkey that still needed a name. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do yet. Which, admittedly, had never stopped me before. Most of my biggest decisions seemed to arrive several minutes before the accompanying common sense.

I reached down and wrapped one arm around Bandit’s neck. He leaned happily into the hug, as though he’d been expecting it. As though, in his tiny goat brain, everything was exactly as it should be because I’d shown up.

And somewhere deep inside of me, a very dangerous idea began to form.

19

SOPHIE

Did you ever get a crazy idea that you knew was one, dangerous, two, stupid, and three, would probably land you in jail… but decided to do it anyway?

I was having one of those.

I watched as the handler took Bandit, the last animal, and loaded him in the trailer. He closed the door and locked it, just as his phone rang. With the phone to his ear, he walked away. I caught the words “be there in two hours.”

“This is the worst day of my life,” Dottie was saying, big tears flowing down her face. “This is wrong.”

I couldn’t keep staring at her. If I did, I’d join her in the waterworks. But I couldn’t. Not when I had a plan.

“I have an idea,” I told her, rushing over to the front of the truck. I glanced back and saw the handler still on the phone, his back turned, completely oblivious. I opened the door and saw the keys in the ignition. “Perfect.” I looked over at Dottie. “You coming?”

Dottie’s mouth fell open. “What? You can’t. That’s stealing.”

“It’s called temporary stealing. Are you coming or not. Because I’m going with or without you.” Was I crazy to do this? I was just the right amount of crazy.

Because every time I thought of Bandit, Theo, Daisy, and even Mr. Still-Doesn’t-Have-a-Name, turn into meat? I’d do everything in my power to stop it.

You just watch me.

Dottie mumbled something as she ran around the truck’s other side and climbed into the front passenger seat.

I slid behind the steering wheel before my brain had an opportunity to file an official objection. The seat smelled faintly of hay, coffee, and diesel. I also caught an unmistakable hint of wet dog, even though I was fairly certain no dogs had actually been transported in here. Livestock trucks developed their own ecosystem.

Perfect.

Exactly the scent profile of several future felony charges.

I grabbed the wheel. “Okay…” My heart was beating somewhere around hummingbird speed. “I’ve never stolen a truck before.” Which felt like the sort of sentence that should automatically trigger an intervention. Or at least a strongly worded letter from my future self.

Dottie slammed her door. “I don’t think that’s something you should be saying out loud.” She fastened her seat belt with surprising efficiency for someone voluntarily participating in grand theft livestock.

“I’ve also never kidnapped livestock.” I looked toward the trailer in the side mirror. “But it’s more of a rescue. We’re animal activists. Temporary animal activists.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” said Dottie.

“Me too.” Because so far, I was just making it up as I went.

She nodded. “At least we’re self-aware.” She folded both hands in her lap.

I looked at the gearshift. “You know…” It suddenly seemed alarmingly large. Why did truck gearshifts always look like they belonged in heavy machinery instead of ordinary transportation?

“What?”

“I really hope driving a livestock truck isn’t that much different from driving Sarah’s Jetta.” Sarah’s Jetta had cup holders. This thing looked like it could tow a small moon.

Dottie’s eyes grew wider. “You’ve never driven a truck before?”

I snorted. “Me? Yes. Of course.” Total lie.

“This thing weighs about twelve elephants.” She glanced out the windshield. “Possibly thirteen if you count the trailer.”

“I know.”

“And there’s live cargo.”

“I know.” Which made me feel even more responsible. Great. Now I wasn’t just committing a crime. I was committing a crime with passengers.

“And neither of us has a plan,” added Dottie, red blotches spreading across her face.

“I…” I paused. “Have the beginning of one.” Very beginning. Like page one. Possibly just the title.

She looked at me. “What is it?”

I turned the key. The diesel engine roared to life. I looked at her and said, “We drive.”

Dottie stared at me. “That’s not a plan.”

I pursed my lips. “It’s Phase One.” Every excellent disaster started with a first step. I was choosing to believe this worked the same way.

I glanced through my window and saw the loud diesel rumble finally caught the handler’s attention as he turned around. His expression slowly transformed from mild confusion to absolute horror. You could practically watch the realization travel across his face one horrifying thought at a time.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, his face turning red. “Get the fuck out of my truck!” One hand flew into the air while the other still held his phone halfway to his ear. This wasn’t part of his usual morning.

“Well, that’s our cue.” I smiled weakly through the window. Then I waved. Why? I had absolutely no idea.

He shouted something I couldn’t hear and started sprinting toward us, phone still clutched in one hand and baseball cap bouncing on his head. The man moved surprisingly well for someone with such a generous middle.

Dottie squeaked. “He sees us!”

“No shit.”

“He definitely sees us! He looks upset!”

“I noticed that too.” I shoved the truck into gear. I also silently begged every mechanical component under the hood to please cooperate just this once.

Nothing happened.

“That’s not good.” I tried again. The truck lurched forward with all the grace of a confused rhinoceros. Then stalled. Silence. Absolute, soul-crushing silence. Even the birds seemed embarrassed for me.

Dottie slowly turned toward me. “You stalled the getaway vehicle.” She didn’t even sound angry. Just… disappointed in fate.

I frowned at her. “I can see that.” Believe me, if glaring at the transmission would’ve helped, we’d already be halfway to another state.

Dottie shook her head. “People are going to write books about this.” She stared straight ahead. “Very short books. But still.”

Behind us, the handler was getting closer. Very quickly. Arms pumping. Hat threatening to fall off. This was beginning to feel much less like an action movie and much more like one of those dreams where you try to run, but your legs refuse to cooperate.

I turned the key again. “Please… don’t do this. Come on.” I patted the dashboard, my hands trembling. “We’ve only just met. I’d really appreciate your support.”

The engine coughed. Growled. Then finally caught.

“Yes!”

The truck jerked forward. Hard enough that both Dottie and I bounced in our seats. Somewhere behind us something clanged loudly inside the trailer followed by what sounded suspiciously like an indignant alpaca.

The handler reached the driver’s door just as we rolled past him.

He slapped one hand against the side of the truck. “Hey! Get out of my truck!” His voice cracked somewhere between outrage and disbelief, which felt entirely reasonable under the circumstances.

The truck gathered speed. In the side mirror I watched him chase us for another twenty yards before common sense—or possibly a lack of cardiovascular enthusiasm—finally won. He became smaller and smaller in the mirror until he was just one very annoyed man standing in the middle of the parking lot waving both arms like he was directing aircraft.

He stopped and bent over, his hands on his knees but still yelling.

I couldn’t hear a word, which was probably for the best. I suspected none of it would’ve made me feel particularly encouraged about my current decision-making process.

Bandit let out an excited little bleat from inside the trailer. I knew it was him. Did he know what I was doing? Probably not. For all I knew, he thought this was the world’s most entertaining field trip.

“Do you think they know we’re rescuing them?” I asked. It seemed irrationally important somehow.

“I think they know we’re moving,” replied Dottie, her eyes wide.

“Close enough.”

We rolled onto Main Road. The giant livestock trailer bounced gently behind us as sleepy Maplewood Falls carried on with its ordinary morning. The absurdity of it all was almost impressive.

We passed Mrs. Henderson outside the pharmacy watering flowers.

She waved.

I waved back.

I felt proud. Stupid proud of myself for being brave enough to follow my gut. I hadn’t exactly thought this through. More specifically, I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there. Still, a month ago, that Sophie would have never taken charge.

This one did.

Still, I was driving a stolen truck full of farm animals. This was rapidly becoming one of those days that would require several disclaimers before telling the story. Possibly a lawyer present.

My hands tightened around the steering wheel. “So…”

Dottie said carefully. “So… where exactly are we going?”

I stared through the windshield, thought about it, thought a little harder, and then sighed. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope.” I shifted into the next gear. “But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

I glanced in the rearview mirror toward the trailer carrying Bandit, Theo, Daisy, and the donkey. “Anywhere is better than here.”

Neither of us said the obvious thing. Neither of us had the faintest idea what happened next.

But I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t let these animals, my friends, end up at some auction. They deserved better. They deserved grass. Ear scratches. Ridiculously affectionate alpaca hugs. They deserved people who thought of them as someone instead of something.

And then a thought occurred to me. I was having a lot of those today. Which, historically speaking, was rarely an encouraging sign. My best ideas generally arrived with the same energy as What if I cut my own bangs? They always sounded reasonable for the first seven seconds.

“Dr. Keller,” I said out loud. “Margot’s new boyfriend. The vet. Maybe he can take them?” It was a long shot, but I was going with it. Veterinarians liked animals. This seemed like a solid foundation for a plan. Better than my previous strategy of steal first, think later.

“I think you might be onto something,” said Dottie. She clutched the dashboard with one hand while the other still held a half-open bag of homemade grass cookies she’d somehow remembered to bring during the commission of a felony. “Even if he can’t, he might know of a farm nearby that can take them.”

I nodded. “Excellent. See? We have a plan.” It wasn’t a good plan. More of an enthusiastic collection of hopeful sentences duct-taped together. But technically it qualified as one.

And then that’s when I heard the sirens.

Ohhhh crap.

The sound bounced off the storefronts behind us, growing louder by the second. One siren. Then another quick burst.

My stomach dropped so fast it probably qualified as an unauthorized emergency descent.

Very, very slowly… I looked into the rearview mirror.

White SUV. Blue lights. SHERIFF.

“Double crap.” I gripped the wheel tighter. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dottie twisted around in her seat. “What?”

“The sheriff.”

She craned her neck toward the mirror. “Oh dear.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Oh, that’s definitely him.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I can read SHERIFF on the side.”

“So can I,” I hissed.

“And he’s coming toward us rather quickly.”

“That’s generally how law enforcement chases work.”

Dottie’s eyes grew wider by the second. “We’re going to jail.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

I shrugged. “I’ve never stolen a truck before. I’m not entirely familiar with the process.”

“And now the sheriff is chasing us!”

I sighed. “I know.”

“The same sheriff you kissed!”

I winced, knowing Lola had already told her. “Please don’t say it like that.”

“How should I say it?”

“I don’t know!”

Behind us, the siren gave another short burst.

I glanced into the mirror again. The sheriff’s SUV stayed a safe distance behind the trailer. Not trying to ram us. Not trying to force us off the road. Just following.

Captain Competent. Doing his job. Because that’s who he was.

Just yesterday he’d been holding me while we danced. Last night he’d kissed me. And this morning, he was trying to arrest me. Talk about emotional range.

“I think he’s trying to tell us to pull over,” said Dottie. “You should stop.”

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“I won’t.”

She stared at me. “Sophie… this won’t end well if we keep going.”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “If I stop…” My voice caught. I was high on emotions with a bit of stupid. I just had to get to the vet.

Behind us, the sheriff’s SUV matched our speed effortlessly.

I frowned. “I don’t think this qualifies as a chase.”

Dottie was shaking her head. “What does it qualify as?”

“I think…” I glanced into the mirror again. “He’s politely pursuing us.”

Dottie blinked. “Only you could turn grand theft livestock into a courteous sheriff escort.”

Damnit. Before things got worse—because let’s face it, they probably would—the local vet clinic came into view. I recognized the navy-blue siding with gray brick. The sign read MAPLEWOOD FALLS VETERINARY CLINIC in bold white letters.

“Hope he’s in,” I said, pulling the truck into the parking lot. Gravel crunched under the tires as I parked across half a dozen empty spaces. I didn’t exactly nail it. The trailer ended up slightly crooked. Frankly, considering the circumstances, I felt that counted as a victory.

I yanked the parking brake and killed the engine. Neither Dottie nor I moved. My heart hammered so hard I was fairly certain it qualified as attempted escape.

Dottie stared straight ahead. “If my life is about to end, at least I can say I made the most delicious zucchini relish in three counties.”

“Don’t say that. It’ll be fine.” God, I hoped so.

“So… what happens now?” asked Dottie.

I thought about it. “I’ll talk to the sheriff. He’ll understand. And then Dr. Keller can refer us to somewhere safe for the animals.”

Dottie nodded. “Okay. Good plan. I think.”

“It’s my only plan,” I told her, my blood pressure sky high. “And we already have them in the truck. We can take them ourselves.”

A loud knock on my window made me jump.

I spun around.

The sheriff.

He stood beside the driver’s door, his sunglasses gone and one hand resting on his duty belt. His jaw was tight, really tight, not Sheriff Face but Sheriff Face’s older, angrier brother. He looked mad as hell.

Oopsie.

Dottie swallowed. “He looks really mad.”

The tiny, ridiculous fantasy I’d secretly been nurturing over the last twelve hours packed its suitcase and walked straight out the front door. No more dancing. No more kissing. No more Captain Competent smiling at me. Just Sheriff Walker with a furious look on his face.

Did I regret stealing the truck? No. Did I regret the kiss? Definitely not. Did I regret the order in which those two events had occurred?

Immensely.

Another knock. This one firmer.

I swallowed hard and lowered the window.

The sheriff looked directly at me. “Get out of the truck, Hartwell.” His voice was low and controlled.

I plastered on a smile. “Sheriff, I can explain. The animals were going to auction. And they could’ve been separated.”

The sheriff’s face was still. “Get. Out. Of. The truck.”

Ouch. He’d used the sheriff voice. That wasn’t Captain Competent anymore. That was law enforcement.

I sighed. “Okay.”

Beside me, Dottie leaned closer. “I think he’s done flirting.”

I climbed out just as Dottie did the same. The morning air suddenly felt much colder.

The sheriff waited until both of us were standing beside the truck.

Dottie lifted both hands. “I just want the record to show this wasn’t my idea.”

I looked at her. “Seriously?”

Dottie gave a shrug. “What? I have brunch to prepare at the inn later.”

The sheriff didn’t smile. Not even a little.

I stepped toward him. Words started tumbling out. “Listen, before you say anything, they were taking Bandit and Theo and Daisy and the little donkey to auction, and the handler said they could end up anywhere, maybe for meat, and I know how this looks, but when you actually hear the whole story, it becomes slightly less criminal than it appears⁠—”

“Hartwell.”

“And Dr. Keller might know someone with a farm and I wasn’t keeping them forever because I don’t even own a farm and Sarah definitely doesn’t want a goat in the guest rooms although Bandit would probably be adorable at check-in⁠—”

“Hartwell.”

“And technically we were bringing them to a veterinarian, which feels like a medically responsible kidnapping.”

“Sophie Hartwell,” the sheriff’s voice rose.

His tone made my mouth clamp shut. “What?”

“Turn around.”

I blinked. “What?”

His expression didn’t change. “Turn around.”

I did what he instructed. “This feels excessive.” I heard him step closer. The familiar metallic click echoed behind me. Then cold steel closed gently around one wrist. Followed by the other.

Click.

For one completely surreal second all I could think was, This was significantly less romantic than the last time he put his hands on me.

20

SOPHIE

Iwas in jail.

Yes. Me. Sophie Hartwell the event planner (newish event planner) was sitting in a ten-by-fifteen cell block. Not exactly the career milestone I’d been hoping to add to my résumé. Skills include organizing festivals, emergency band replacement, goat wrangling, and felony-level decision-making. Somehow, I didn’t think LinkedIn had a category for that.

It smelled of old urine, beer, cigarettes and god knew what else. It was a concrete box without a window, just metal bars separating us from the rest of the world. Us, the law-breakers. A metal toilet was tucked into one corner, which I was making a very conscious effort not to acknowledge. If I didn’t look directly at it, perhaps it would remain more of an abstract concept than an actual piece of jail plumbing. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed constantly, like even they were annoyed to be here. Honestly, the place had all the warmth and charm of an abandoned meat locker designed by people who hated happiness.

Speaking of the law, just as Captain Competent cuffed me and, yes, put me in the back of his SUV with Dottie, he didn’t say a word after he said some law verbiage that I’d already forgotten. Something about my rights. I remembered approximately the first six words before my brain just shut off.

The ride to the station had been painfully quiet. Every few minutes I’d opened my mouth, intending to explain everything all over again, only to realize there wasn’t much left to add beyond, Yes, I knowingly stole a truck full of livestock, but I had excellent emotional reasons.

He wouldn’t even look at me when he had us processed and charged. The deputy—Jenna, from her badge—was a large blonde, who looked like she could take me and Dottie down with her pinky finger. She processed us, removed our handcuffs, and put us in the cell. She had one of those calm, efficient voices that somehow made being arrested sound like checking into a moderately disappointing hotel.

“Stand here.” Click. “Turn around.” Click. “Sign here.” Wonderful. Somewhere in a drawer at the Maplewood Falls Sheriff’s Office now existed a file containing my fingerprints. If my mother ever found out, she’d somehow blame my choice of moisturizer.

When I’d turned around, the sheriff had disappeared. Which, annoyingly, hurt more than the actual handcuffs had. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. A dramatic declaration? A secret wink? Him whispering, “Don’t worry. I’ll fix this?” I’d been watching entirely too many romantic movies. Reality, as usual, had arrived wielding paperwork and wearing sensible shoes.

“Sarah won’t be pleased I’m not there for brunch,” Dottie was saying as she sat next to me on the only bench in this place. Somehow, she’d managed to fold her hands neatly in her lap like we were waiting for a church service instead of arraignment. A streak of dirt was smeared across one bare foot, and a blade of hay stuck to the hem of her skirt. She looked exactly like a woman who’d accidentally wandered into jail while picking herbs from her garden, which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

“I’m sure she’ll understand when you tell her you were rescuing animals,” I told her. “Sarah is a good person. She’ll get it.”

Dottie looked down at her hands. “She’ll be all alone serving customers. I should be there.” She sighed deeply. “The pancakes will miss me.” Another sigh. “The bacon too.”

Did I feel guilty that I’d dragged Dottie with me into my new law-breaker career? Little bit. But if you’d asked me if I regretted what I did? Nope. I’d do it again in a second. Maybe with slightly better planning. And perhaps without stealing the actual truck. But the animals? I’d still choose them. Every single time.

“Do you think the sheriff talked to Dr. Keller about the animals?” I asked Dottie after a moment. The question had been bouncing around inside my head ever since we’d been arrested, ricocheting off every other anxious thought.

Had Eric taken them back to the handler? Had Dr. Keller come outside? Had anyone listened? Had Bandit been confused when I’d disappeared? The image of his little face pressed against the trailer gate wouldn’t leave me alone. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those floppy ears, that hopeful little face, completely convinced I’d somehow fix everything. It was deeply unfair that a goat had more faith in me than I currently had in myself.

“I don’t know. I was too busy trying to remove my handcuffs,” she said. “I could have. And I almost did.” She sounded faintly disappointed with herself, like escaping custody had simply been another item on her morning to-do list that she’d regrettably left unfinished.

I stared at her. “How?” I could only reasonably absorb so many surprises before lunch, and “Dottie might secretly be an escape artist” had not appeared on today’s bingo card.

She showed me her wrists. “I’m double jointed. See?” She started to bend her fingers in ways that had bile rising up in the back of my throat. One knuckle appeared to fold in a direction evolution had almost certainly not intended, and then her thumb somehow disappeared behind her palm.

I nodded. “Good to know.” Also deeply disturbing. Images now lived in my brain that would require years of therapy.

Silence settled over the cell again. Even Dottie stopped fidgeting. Somewhere down the hallway a phone rang. A copier hummed. A door opened and closed. Life carried on outside these bars with infuriating normalcy while mine had taken a sharp detour.

I stared at the concrete floor. Where were they? Where was Bandit now? And Theo? And Daisy. And the little donkey who deserved a name too, but I was too wired to think of one right now. Poor thing. I’d spent days assigning personalities to livestock yet somehow failed to give the donkey an actual name. That felt like a personal failure. If we all survived this, I was absolutely naming him, assuming he didn’t already have one. Which he almost certainly did. Details.

Had the handler simply driven away after we were hauled off? Or had Dr. Keller somehow stepped in? Maybe he’d convinced the owner to wait. Maybe he’d called someone. Maybe I was doing what I always did, inventing happy endings before reality had a chance to disappoint me. My imagination was annoyingly optimistic in moments like this, like having an internal Disney screenwriter constantly pitching alternative endings while reality replied, “That’s adorable. Anyway…”

I rubbed both hands over my face. The worst part wasn’t even being arrested. Okay… it was definitely in the top three. But the worst-worst part was Captain Competent. My mugshot would eventually become a funny family story. Possibly. Assuming Sarah didn’t frame it in the lobby.

Yesterday the sheriff held me while we danced. He’d smiled and even kissed me back. He’d admitted he’d wanted to kiss me. Today, well, he’d handcuffed me without so much as looking me in the eye. Not once. Not during the drive. Not during processing. Not even when Deputy Jenna locked us in here. Somewhere between the dance floor and the squad car, he’d built a wall so high I couldn’t even see over it. Which was fair. Professional. Entirely appropriate. Unfortunately, my feelings had neglected to become equally professional.

He’d been all sheriff. All badge. All duty. Captain Competent had disappeared somewhere between the vet clinic parking lot and the holding cell. The man who’d laughed at my terrible jokes, told me I was stronger than I thought, and kissed me like he’d meant it had been replaced by someone who spoke in short legal sentences and avoided eye contact like it carried a prison sentence of its own.

I understood it. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. The kiss suddenly felt like it had happened six months ago instead of last night. Amazing how quickly one pair of handcuffs could reclassify an almost-romance into what felt suspiciously like a cautionary tale. If anyone ever wrote a self-help book based on my life, chapter one would simply read: “Maybe Don’t Kiss the Person Who Might Eventually Arrest You.”

“Well…” A familiar voice drifted through the bars. “Now this is a surprisingly attractive setting.” Even before I looked up, I knew exactly who it was. Nobody else I knew could make county jail sound like the opening line to a cocktail party.

I looked up.

Lola.

She stood on the other side of the bars wearing oversized sunglasses, white linen pants, and a coral silk blouse tied dramatically at the waist like she’d wandered onto a yacht instead of the county jail. One hand rested on her designer handbag while the other slowly wrapped around one of the metal bars. She looked less like someone visiting inmates and more like she’d accidentally taken a wrong turn on the way to a wine tasting, decided the décor was charming, and planned to leave a five-star review.

She gave it an experimental little shake. “Hmm.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I’ve always wondered whether bars like these were as sexy in real life as they are in certain fantasies.” She peered through them at me as though evaluating the ambiance. “The lighting could use work. Very institutional. But with the right outfit…” She nodded to herself. “There’s potential.”

I groaned. “Please don’t.” I was already having the worst morning of my adult life. I didn’t need Lola mentally redecorating the county jail into a themed honeymoon suite.

“Oh, come on.” She smiled. “Handcuffs. Jail bars. Authority figures.” Her gaze drifted toward the booking desk where two deputies were filling out paperwork. “I’m beginning to understand why so many people role-play this.” She tapped one perfectly manicured fingernail against the bar. “Although I do think the fluorescent lighting kills the mood. Candlelight would’ve been a stronger choice.”

“I’m really not in the mood, Lola.” I sighed dramatically. “Can we maybe postpone your erotic jail redesign until after I’m no longer technically an inmate?” There had to be a more appropriate time for this conversation. Then again… this was Lola. She’d probably consider my arraignment an icebreaker.

Dottie blinked innocently. “People do that?” She genuinely sounded fascinated, like Lola had just revealed a surprising fact about migrating geese instead of humanity’s collective bedroom habits.

Lola looked at her. “Dottie.”

“Yes?” She leaned forward with complete sincerity.

Lola flashed her a smile. “They absolutely do.” She said it with the quiet confidence of a woman who had conducted extensive… field research. Frankly, I did not want to know how extensive.

Dottie frowned. “I’m not sure I wanted to know that.”

Lola laughed. “But now you do.”

I buried my face in my hands. There really weren’t enough hands available for the amount of embarrassment I was currently experiencing. Ideally, I’d have liked another two. Perhaps four. One set for my face and the others for my ears.

Lola leaned closer to the bars. Close enough that her sunglasses slipped slightly down her nose. “I have to admit, though…” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You move fast.” Her grin widened. “Even by my standards.”

“I do not.” I pointed at myself. “I had one brief emotional lapse. One. Let’s not turn this into a personality trait.”

“You kissed the sheriff.” She counted on one finger like she was presenting evidence to a jury that already knew the verdict. “You stole a truck.” A second finger.

“I know.” The list was developing an uncomfortable momentum.

“You kidnapped livestock.” Third finger. “Technically an entire mobile petting zoo.”

“I know.” Every time she said it out loud, it somehow sounded more criminal.

“And now you’re behind bars.”

“I know that too.” I sighed so deeply I was fairly certain it came from a previous lifetime. “When you say it all in order like that, it really does sound as though I’ve completely lost my mind.” I paused. “The worrying part is… I still think rescuing the animals was the right decision.”

“I don’t care about all that.” Lola smiled brightly. “Good news, ladies.” The smile alone should’ve made me suspicious. Lola rarely delivered good news without wrapping it in at least three layers of inappropriate commentary first.

I looked up. My optimism cautiously peeked around the corner, prepared to retreat if necessary.

She planted a hand on her hip, pushed out her chest and said, “I’ve come to rescue you.” She somehow managed to sound like both a superhero and a perfume advertisement at the same time.

I stared at her. “You have?”

“I’ve come to bail you out.” She lifted her chin proudly, as though she’d negotiated a peace treaty instead of driving to the sheriff’s office with a handbag big enough to smuggle a small pony.

My eyebrows lifted. “Really?” I had no idea how jail worked. My legal education came almost entirely from television, which probably wasn’t ideal. For all I knew there’d be paperwork. Or stamps. Government offices loved stamps.

“I have money.” She shrugged like that explained absolutely everything. Knowing Lola… it usually did.

“Ah.” Fair point. Money solved considerably more problems than emotional overthinking ever had. I’d been trying the second strategy for years with very limited success.

Before I could ask more questions, keys jingled nearby. The sound echoed down the hallway, oddly official. Funny how quickly a ring of keys could become intimidating once you were on the wrong side of the bars.

Deputy Jenna walked over. She still wore the same calm expression she’d had during processing, like locking us up ranked somewhere between answering emails and refilling the coffee pot on her morning schedule.

She slid a key into the old brass lock. It resisted for half a second before turning with a deep metallic clunk that echoed through the empty holding area. Then she wrapped her fingers around one of the cold steel bars and gave the door a firm pull. The hinges groaned in protest before the cell door swung open.

“You’re free to go.” She stepped aside, gesturing toward the hallway with quiet professionalism.

I blinked. “We are?” Huh. I had not expected that.

Jenna nodded. “The handler isn’t pressing charges.” She said it matter-of-factly, but one corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly, like even she realized how unusual this whole situation had become.

I stared at her, trying very hard to process that sentence without my imagination inventing twelve impossible explanations. “But…” My mouth kept starting sentences my brain wasn’t equipped to finish.

“You got lucky.” Jenna held my gaze for a second longer than before. That kind of look suggested she’d seen plenty of people who weren’t nearly as fortunate. There wasn’t any judgment in her voice anymore. Just simple honesty. Like she wanted to make absolutely certain I appreciated just how close I’d come to a considerably worse day. Her expression softened just a fraction. “This could’ve gone very differently.” She glanced briefly toward the booking desk. “People have ended up with criminal records for a whole lot less.”

Relief flooded through me so suddenly my knees almost gave out. It arrived in one enormous wave, washing away hours of panic, embarrassment, and catastrophic mental planning. For one glorious second I considered hugging Deputy Jenna. Then I remembered she’d fingerprinted me three hours earlier and decided perhaps we’d skip directly to gratitude from a respectful distance.

Then another thought crashed into it.

“The animals.” Of course. Freedom was wonderful, but it wasn’t the thing that had brought me here in the first place.

Jenna frowned. “What about them?” She genuinely looked puzzled, as though she’d expected me to ask about paperwork or my belongings instead of four extremely fluffy emotional support felons.

“Where are they?” My heart climbed back into my throat. Please don’t let the answer be gone. Anything but that.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“But…” The word escaped before I could think of a better one. It seemed to be doing a lot of heavy lifting today.

“If you want that answer.” She glanced toward the front office. “You’ll have to ask the sheriff.”

My heart sped up again. Because emotional stability had become optional. I stepped out of the cell with Dottie beside me. Lola followed at her own unhurried pace, taking in the sheriff’s office as though she were touring a boutique hotel instead of part of a jail.

We walked toward the front office. Every footstep echoed through the station, keeping time with the frantic pounding of my heart.

And there he was.

The sheriff stood with his back partly turned, one hand resting on the counter while he signed paperwork. His uniform was still perfectly pressed despite what had already been a very long morning, and the sleeves stretched across his forearms as he wrote. I hated that I noticed things like that. I especially hated that my brain still had room for appreciating his forearms while simultaneously worrying about my furry friends. Human beings were deeply confusing creatures.

He looked up as we approached. The movement was small, calm and controlled. He’d worn the same measured composure ever since we’d left the vet clinic parking lot. Not once had I seen even a crack in it.

Our eyes met. For one hopeful second, I thought maybe he’d say something. Maybe he’d explain. Maybe he’d tell me I’d been reckless, but he understood why I’d done it. Maybe he’d even call me Sophie instead of Hartwell again. My imagination, ever the optimist, managed to construct an entire conversation in approximately half a second. It had always been alarmingly efficient.

Anything.

“What happened to the animals?” The question burst out before I could stop it. Not Why did you ignore me? Not Are you angry? Not Did last night mean anything? Just the only thing that had mattered since this ridiculous day had started.

His eyes held mine for one long heartbeat, and I searched them desperately for something, anything—anger, frustration, understanding, any tiny hint that Captain Competent was still in there somewhere behind the badge.

His expression gave nothing away. It was like trying to read a locked door, solid, quiet, and completely impossible to see through. I’d seen him smile. I’d seen him laugh. I’d even seen him kiss me. Somehow this version of him felt like a stranger wearing the sheriff’s face.

Not anger or kindness. Nothing. Just professionalism. That sort of expression probably made people confess to parking violations without being asked. It also made my heart sink somewhere near my shoes.

Then, without answering, he turned and walked away.

And that hurt even more than the handcuffs had.

21

ERIC

Ishut the door to my office a little harder than I’d intended, walked over to my desk, and sat. The phone was ringing, but I didn’t pick it up. It could ring for another thirty seconds. The town probably wasn’t going to collapse because I let voicemail do its job for once.

Hartwell.

I let out a deep breath. She was killing me here. Which was impressive considering she’d only been the town’s event planner for approximately seventy-two hours. Most people took weeks before they complicated my life. Hartwell had decided to speed-run the process.

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed both hands over my face. The office suddenly felt a whole lot smaller than it usually did. My desk sat exactly where it always had. The filing cabinet. The framed certificate on the wall. The coffee mug someone had given me five Christmases ago that read WORLD’S OKAYEST SHERIFF. Somehow, today, it felt less like a joke and more like a performance review. The mug had always made me laugh before. Now it seemed to be asking whether “okayest” included arresting women you’d kissed less than twelve hours earlier.

What the hell had just happened? Yesterday I’d been explaining road closures to a chaotic event planner. Today I’d processed her through booking.

No. I knew exactly what had happened. She’d stolen a truck. With livestock. Then led me on what was probably the slowest law enforcement chase in Maplewood Falls history. I was fairly certain one cyclist had actually passed us.

Forty-eight miles an hour tops.

I almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, I thought about the look on her face when I’d told her to turn around. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t defiance. It was something much worse. The kind of look that made you question whether doing the right thing always felt this lousy.

The surprise. Then confusion. Then hurt.

Like she hadn’t expected me to arrest her. Like some part of her had believed the man she’d kissed last night would somehow magically override the sheriff wearing the badge this morning. It wasn’t fair that she’d looked at me that way. It also wasn’t fair that I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

What had she expected? That I’d smile, hand back the truck keys, and congratulate her on an emotionally motivated felony? “Excellent work, Hartwell. Next time perhaps steal two trucks.” The town would’ve loved that.

I frowned at my desk. The grain in the wood suddenly became fascinating. Mostly because it couldn’t look disappointed in me.

She broke the law. It wasn’t complicated. It couldn’t be complicated. I’d spent years making sure complicated never entered the equation. Facts. Evidence. Procedure. Those things kept everybody honest, including me.

I wore a badge.

She stole a truck.

That was the beginning and the end of it. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. The problem was my brain kept inserting several inconvenient chapters in the middle.

Except, it wasn’t.

Because she hadn’t stolen the truck for herself. There hadn’t been greed in her eyes. Or panic about getting caught. Just determination. Pure, reckless determination that somehow made perfect sense to her.

She hadn’t been trying to make money or hurt anyone. She’d done it because she’d believed those animals were in danger. Because somewhere along the way she’d decided that one little festival petting zoo wasn’t just another attraction anymore. It had become personal. Leave it to Hartwell to emotionally adopt an entire trailer full of livestock in under three days.

Because she’d looked at one little goat and somehow decided he was worth risking everything for.

It was reckless. Impulsive. Completely insane.

I let my head fall back against the chair. The ceiling suddenly seemed much easier to look at than the paperwork on my desk. Paperwork had a way of making everything official.

She’d looked so damned shocked when the handcuffs clicked around her wrists. Like I’d reached over and switched off something she’d believed was still there between us.

That image refused to leave me alone. It replayed with irritating clarity every time I blinked, as though my memory had decided this was the highlight reel worth preserving.

Her turning around and looking back over her shoulder.

“This feels excessive.” She’d even managed to sound more confused than offended. Only Hartwell could make being arrested sound like someone had accidentally overcooked her toast.

I closed my eyes. Maybe if I stopped replaying it, it’d finally leave me alone. It didn’t.

It hadn’t felt excessive. It had felt awful.

But I’d still done it. Because I had to.

What choice did I have? I’d asked myself that question at least twenty times since leaving the vet clinic, and the answer hadn’t changed once. None. Absolutely none. I just wished it didn’t feel so much like I’d lost something anyway.

Deputies were standing there. Clinic staff. Half a dozen witnesses. Enough people to fill a jury before lunch. Every one of them watched to see what the sheriff of Maplewood Falls was going to do next.

If I’d simply let her walk away because we’d kissed the night before… If I’d looked the other way because she smiled at me or because I’d wanted to kiss her again… then what exactly was the badge worth? It couldn’t only matter when the decisions were easy. Anybody could enforce the law when it was convenient.

Every decision I’d ever made wearing this badge would’ve meant nothing. Every late night. Every difficult conversation. Every person I’d treated fairly even when they hated me for it. I’d spent years earning the county’s trust one decision at a time. I wasn’t about to throw all of that away because Hartwell had somehow managed to become the most complicated woman I’d ever met in less than a week.

People trusted me because they believed I’d treat everyone the same. They waved at me on Main Road. They called when something went wrong. They handed me the keys to their homes when they went on vacation. That kind of trust wasn’t built on charm. It was built on consistency. Sometimes painfully boring consistency.

The sheriff couldn’t have favorites. The second he did, he stopped being the sheriff and started being just another guy making exceptions for people he liked. That wasn’t the job. It had never been the job, no matter how much I wished life occasionally came with an asterisk.

I pushed away from the desk and stood. Sitting wasn’t helping. Neither was thinking. Unfortunately, I seemed committed to doing both anyway.

I was restless, the kind that settled somewhere between my shoulders and refused to leave. Like my own conscience had decided to pace around inside my ribcage for a while.

I walked over to the window overlooking Main Road. People wandered in and out of the shops, going about their daily routines. A delivery truck rolled slowly past. Two teenagers laughed as they crossed the street without paying nearly enough attention to traffic. It was an ordinary morning, the kind Maplewood Falls had seen thousands of times. Funny how the whole town could keep moving while your own brain insisted on replaying the same five minutes on an endless loop.

I rubbed the back of my neck. A tension headache was assembling itself behind my eyes. Terrific. As if today hadn’t already been sufficiently memorable.

My job wasn’t just enforcing the law. That was the easy answer people gave when they didn’t understand what the badge actually meant. The harder part was making sure every decision could withstand people questioning it later.

It was making sure people believed I enforced it fairly, even when they didn’t like the outcome. Especially then. Fairness wasn’t measured by how happy people were afterward. If it was, nobody in law enforcement would’ve survived their first month.

The second they thought I made exceptions, everything became harder. One small crack at a time until the whole foundation started shifting beneath you. Every traffic ticket. Suddenly everyone knew someone who’d gotten a warning instead. Every dispute, every arrest. Every person asked why their circumstances weren’t unique enough. Every difficult decision. They all became arguments instead of answers. The badge stopped speaking for itself and started defending every choice that came before it.

Fairness only worked if people believed in it. That belief was fragile. It took years to build and about five minutes to lose. I’d seen it happen to others, and I had no interest in becoming one of them.

Hartwell hadn’t just stolen a truck. She’d somehow managed to drive straight into the exact intersection where my personal life and professional life were least compatible. If she’d planned it, I would’ve almost been impressed. Fortunately, planning had never seemed to be one of her stronger hobbies.

She’d accidentally put me in an impossible position.

If I’d arrested her, I looked heartless—the sheriff who handcuffed the woman trying to save a goat. That headline practically wrote itself. I could already hear Dottie defending her to every customer in town for the next decade.

If I hadn’t, I looked corrupt—the sheriff who let the woman he kissed steal a truck because feelings outranked the criminal code. Somehow that headline seemed even worse.

There hadn’t been a good option. I’d searched for one all the way from the vet clinic to the station. It hadn’t magically appeared.

Only the least bad one. Sometimes that was the job, choosing the option nobody liked because it was still the right one.

And I’d chosen it. The badge had made the decision before the man ever got the chance. Maybe that was what wearing it really meant, even knowing she’d probably hate me afterward.

I hadn’t admitted that part to myself until just now. My subconscious had been saving it for maximum impact.

The thought landed hard enough that I found myself staring at nothing for several long seconds, wondering why one woman’s opinion suddenly mattered this much.

Did she hate me now?

Probably. If I were in her shoes, I wasn’t sure I’d be sending myself Christmas cards either.

Could I blame her?

Not really. She’d looked at me with complete trust last night. This morning I’d asked her to turn around before putting handcuffs on her. Perspective mattered.

I stared out the window a little longer. The bakery door opened again. Someone wheeled a stroller past. Life continued with infuriating efficiency while my brain stubbornly refused to move on.

The kiss replayed itself anyway. My memory had become a terrible roommate, insisting on rewatching the same scene over and over despite repeated requests to change the channel.

Her hands on my face. Warm. Slightly trembling. Determined in that wonderfully reckless Hartwell way that somehow managed to ignore every logical reason not to do something.

The way she’d looked at me afterward, equal parts surprised and delighted, like she couldn’t quite believe she’d actually done it. Truthfully… neither could I.

Then the image shifted.

Handcuffs. Tears she refused to let fall. She’d blinked them back before anyone else could notice. She probably thought she was hiding them. She wasn’t.

Her asking about the animals instead of herself. Not once had she asked if she was going to jail. She’d only asked about the animals. Not her record. Not the charges. Not her job. Just one stubborn little goat and the rest of the trailer full of creatures she’d somehow decided were worth risking everything for. That was the part I couldn’t stop thinking about—not because it excused what she’d done but because it explained exactly who she was.

I shook my head slowly. “You’re impossible, Hartwell.”

The frustrating part was that I understood exactly why she’d done it. And that made doing my job a whole lot harder than it had been yesterday.

A knock sounded against my office door, jerking me away from my thoughts.

I turned around. “Come in.”

Jenna stepped inside carrying a manila file tucked under one arm. She shut the door behind her and then leaned against it instead of crossing the room. One boot hooked casually over the other, like she planned on being here for a minute. That was never a promising sign. Jenna only leaned when she intended to have a conversation instead of delivering paperwork.

She didn’t say anything, which was unusual. Jenna generally averaged at least one sarcastic remark every thirty seconds. The silence meant she’d already formed an opinion.

I sighed. I’d seen that expression before. “Why the look?” I figured I’d save us both some time.

“What look?” She managed to keep a perfectly straight face. She’d always been a terrible liar. Mostly because she enjoyed getting caught.

“The one that says you’re about to tell me I’m an idiot.”

She shrugged. “If the shoe fits.” Not even a hint of apology. Just quiet confidence. She’d arrived with conclusions already prepared.

I let out a tired breath. “I’ve had a long morning.”

“So has Sophie.” She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t soften it. Just dropped Hartwell’s name into the room like evidence marked Exhibit A.

I watched her. “Is that it?”

“You were an ass.” She said it with the same tone she’d use to tell me it’d probably rain later—calm, matter-of-fact, and completely convinced of the forecast.

I narrowed my eyes. “I was doing my job.” I heard the defensiveness in my own voice immediately. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t seem to stop it either.

“No.” She crossed her arms. “You did your job. And then you were an ass.”

“Those are two different things.” At least they were in my head. One involved legal procedure. The other involved… interpersonal skills, a category I’d never claimed mastery over. “I arrested someone who stole a truck.” Facts seemed like the safest place to stand.

“You arrested a woman trying to save some animals.” She didn’t blink. “The handler isn’t pressing charges.”

“I know.” I’d signed the paperwork myself. Three times. Bureaucracy loved duplicates.

“Dr. Keller offered to keep the animals until the handler figures something else out.”

“I know.” Keller had been surprisingly persuasive. Probably helped that half the clinic staff had already fallen in love with Bandit within ten minutes.

“And Sophie spent the entire time in that holding cell worrying about those animals.”

“I know.” Every time I answered those two words, they sounded a little less convincing. Like maybe I understood the facts without understanding why they bothered me so much.

Jenna pointed toward the bullpen outside. “She didn’t ask about herself once. Just the animals.” She studied me for another second. “So why couldn’t you answer her?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Because I couldn’t.” The answer sounded flimsy even to me.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I couldn’t.”

“There’s a difference?” She tilted her head slightly.

“There is to me.” Maybe not to anyone else. But once I’d decided to stay inside the role of sheriff, I couldn’t step halfway out of it because she looked at me with those eyes.

She let that sit for a moment, long enough that the silence became part of the conversation. Then she sighed. “I watched you two last night.”

My head snapped up. “What?”

“The festival.” She smiled faintly. “I saw the dance.” Her smile widened enough to tell me she knew exactly where this was going. “I saw the kiss too.” She delivered that one almost cheerfully.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” There were approximately seventeen other subjects I’d happily discuss first. Budget reports. Parking citations. Tax policy.

“Too bad.” She smiled. “I outrank you in nosiness.” She looked entirely pleased with herself.

“That’s not how rank works.”

“It does today.” Without missing a beat.

A tiny laugh escaped me, more out of surrender than amusement. I couldn’t help it.

Jenna pointed a finger at me. “There he is.” Her expression softened immediately.

“Who?”

“The guy who likes her.”

“I don’t.” Reflex. Automatic. Entirely unconvincing.

She waited—didn’t argue, didn’t interrupt, just waited me out with the patience of someone who already knew the ending.

I looked back at her. “Okay, fine. I do.” There. Out loud. Somehow saying it made it considerably more real than thinking it ever had.

“I know you do. It’s written all over your face.” Jenna smiled like she’d just finished a particularly satisfying crossword puzzle.

I sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” Feelings and practical decisions rarely occupied the same room for long.

“Why not?”

“Because it won’t work.” I’d already listed the reasons to myself a dozen times. They hadn’t become less logical.

Jenna raised an eyebrow. “Why?” She genuinely wanted to hear me say it.

“We’re total opposites.” I gestured vaguely into the hallway. “She steals livestock. I enforce laws. She jumps first. I think first. She creates chaos, and I spend my days cleaning it up.” It seemed like a fairly comprehensive list.

Jenna nodded thoughtfully. “So?” She looked genuinely puzzled, which made my own argument sound weaker.

I spread my hands. “How exactly is that supposed to work?” I wanted an answer. Because from where I stood, it looked like a recipe for professional disaster with a side order of emotional exhaustion.

A grin slowly spread across her face.

“Eric.”

“What?”

“Opposites attract.” She said it like she’d uncovered an ancient universal truth.

I rolled my eyes. “That’s a refrigerator magnet.”

“It’s also true.”

I shook my head. “No.” Mostly because admitting otherwise felt dangerous.

“No?”

“No.” I held the line with all the conviction of a man standing ankle-deep in rising water insisting everything was perfectly dry.

“You’re really going with denial?”

“I’m going with reality.” Or at least the version of reality that required significantly less emotional risk.

She laughed and walked toward the door. Her hand settled on the knob as she looked back one last time. “You did the right thing arresting her.”

I nodded once. “I know.” At least intellectually.

“But…” She smiled gently. “You handled everything after that like a sheriff.” She let the words hang there. “You forgot to be Eric.” She opened the door. “You should probably fix that.” Then she gave me one last knowing smile just as the door clicked shut behind her.

I stood there alone, staring at the empty doorway. Funny how one person could leave a room and still somehow occupy all of it.

Fix that.

The words echoed through my head.

Jenna was right.

I’d done my job. But somewhere between arresting Hartwell and putting her in that cell, I’d forgotten how to be myself.

It was time to fix that.

22

SOPHIE

Lola drove us back to the Hartwell Inn with Dottie in the front seat and me in the back. I sat behind them with my forehead resting against the cool glass, watching Maplewood Falls drift by in a blur of flower boxes, front porches, and perfectly respectable citizens who’d somehow managed to avoid committing livestock-related crimes before noon.

Lola had told Sarah about our situation and had dropped her off first to get her Jetta. Good thing I’d left the keys in the car. Bad thing that after this, Sarah might evict me from my room at the inn.

No one spoke for the first five minutes, not because we didn’t have anything to say but because there was simply too much. Between the kissing, the stealing, the handcuffs, the jail cell, and my blossoming criminal record, we’d somehow accumulated enough conversation for an entire weekend. My brain voted unanimously to postpone all discussions.

Eventually Lola glanced at me in the rearview mirror. I caught her eyes for half a second before pretending to become deeply fascinated by a mailbox as we drove past it. Excellent mailbox. Very… mailboxy.

“So…” Lola began.

“No.” I kept my focus out the window. A squirrel darted across somebody’s lawn, carrying what looked suspiciously like an entire hamburger bun.

“I haven’t even asked anything.”

“I know.” Which was exactly the problem. I knew Lola. Her opening questions were never actually questions. They were tiny conversational fishing lures designed to hook embarrassing confessions.

“Then how do you know your answer is no?”

“Because I know you.” I’d grown up with her. I’d seen her interrogate people at family dinners with nothing but one raised eyebrow and a strategically timed sip of wine. Resistance was largely theoretical.

She smiled. “Fair.” She accepted that answer with suspicious ease, which made me nervous. Lola agreeing too quickly was usually the conversational equivalent of watching someone light a fuse.

Another minute passed. Long enough that I briefly convinced myself I’d survived the interrogation.

“I will say one thing,” added Lola after a moment.

I groaned. Right on schedule. Hope really was a remarkably fragile little thing.

“I knew this romance was going to be exciting.”

“It isn’t a romance.” It barely qualified as emotional stability. At this point it was more of a public service announcement about making impulsive decisions.

“No?”

“No,” I repeated.

“Well, I’ll just say, that I’ve had less eventful first dates.” She said it with genuine admiration, which somehow made everything worse.

I dropped my forehead lightly against the cool window. “That wasn’t a date.” Although, admittedly, it did involve dancing, kissing, and emotional devastation. Which, now that I thought about it, covered a surprising number of first-date categories. “I would like to get out of this car now.”

“We’re still three blocks away,” said Dottie, turning around in the front passenger seat.

“I’ll walk.” I’d crawl if necessary. My dignity was already gone. Exercise couldn’t make things much worse.

“No.” Lola locked the doors, and they clicked with cheerful finality.

Wonderful. I’d survived jail only to become a hostage in Lola’s luxury sedan. Which, admittedly, was considerably more comfortable than the holding cell. Leather seats. Air conditioning. Subtle perfume that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill. Still technically captivity.

By the time we pulled into the inn’s parking lot, I was emotionally exhausted in that peculiar way where your body wanted a nap, your brain wanted answers, and your heart wanted to file a formal complaint with management.

I’d kissed the sheriff… voluntarily, enthusiastically, and with very questionable timing.

I’d been arrested by the sheriff… less enthusiastically and considerably more publicly.

I was then ignored by the sheriff, which somehow had managed to sting the most. Funny how silence could outperform handcuffs.

I was finally released by the sheriff. Or at least by his office. I still wasn’t entirely sure who deserved credit for that one anymore.

I climbed out before Lola could say anything else. If she opened her mouth again, there was at least a seventy-five percent chance the words Sheriff Sexy would appear somewhere in the sentence, and I simply didn’t have the emotional bandwidth.

I made a beeline for the inn’s front door and stepped inside. The lunchtime crowd had thinned. The cheerful clink of dishes drifted from the dining room, mixed with the smell of fresh bread and soup.

Sarah smiled the second she spotted us. “There you are.” She hurried over, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I heard there was some kind of misunderstanding at the sheriff’s office?” Her expression stayed reassuringly casual, the kind people used when they suspected something embarrassing had happened but hadn’t yet learned the details.

Misunderstanding.

I liked that word. It sounded soft around the edges. Forgiving. The sort of word that didn’t suggest fingerprints and holding cells.

It sounded considerably better than grand theft livestock. Which, admittedly, sounded less like a misunderstanding and more like the title of a low-budget action movie starring goats.

“Something like that,” I mumbled. Possibly the most accurate understatement I’d ever produced. I’d also once described food poisoning as “a long evening.”

Sarah looked from me to Dottie. Her eyes lingered just long enough to make sure neither of us appeared physically damaged. Emotionally was a separate inspection. “You two okay?”

“We’re fine,” Dottie said brightly. That sort of brightness was normally associated with people who were absolutely not fine but had recently decided optimism was easier than paperwork. “We’ve had quite the morning.”

“I’ll bet.” Sarah nodded slowly, wisely choosing not to ask follow-up questions. She studied my face for another second. “You look tired.”

“I’ve aged approximately twelve years since breakfast.” Possibly fifteen. I briefly wondered whether stress wrinkles qualified as tax deductions.

Sarah laughed. “I’ll make coffee.” She said it with complete confidence, like she’d just prescribed the only medically appropriate treatment.

Bless that woman. If kindness had a patron saint, Sarah Hartwell was making a compelling application.

Coffee couldn’t fix everything. It couldn’t undo a kiss, erase an arrest, rescue some animals, or explain the emotional operating system of one stubborn sheriff. But it had an admirable attendance record. Whenever life fell apart, coffee consistently showed up on time, didn’t ask difficult questions, and never once suggested I examine my feelings. Frankly, that made it the healthiest relationship I’d had all week.

Five minutes later I found myself sitting at one of the dining room tables with an enormous mug cupped between my hands. The ceramic was almost too hot to hold, which suited me perfectly. Physical discomfort was refreshingly straightforward compared to emotional confusion. Coffee simply burned you. Sheriffs, required interpretation.

Lola had somehow located fresh lemon squares. I had absolutely no idea where she’d found them. She possessed an almost supernatural ability to sniff out desserts within a five-mile radius. If civilization ever collapsed, I was reasonably confident she’d still emerge from the rubble carrying pastries and excellent lipstick.

Dottie was absentmindedly folding paper napkins into tiny rabbits with little ears and itty bitty folded noses. One even had what looked suspiciously like a fluffy tail. She smiled to herself every time she finished one before starting another, as though an invisible colony of paper woodland creatures urgently depended on her.

Twenty-four hours ago, I might’ve questioned it. Today it barely cracked the top ten strangest things I’d witnessed. After stealing a truck full of livestock, paper origami wildlife felt almost aggressively normal.

“You know…” Lola said carefully. Which was unusual. Lola generally approached conversations the way toddlers approached puddles, with enthusiasm and absolutely no concern for the consequences.

“No.” I took another sip of coffee without looking up. Preventative answers. I was evolving.

Lola made a pout. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I have a strong working theory.” Years of experience had taught me that approximately ninety percent of Lola’s advice involved men, flirting, or combinations of the two. The remaining ten percent involved shoes.

“You should talk to him.”

I looked at her. “No.” Immediate. Firm. Practically reflexive. My brain had installed an automatic emergency brake whenever the subject of the sheriff appeared.

“He likes you,” Lola pressed.

“No.” Because if I repeated it often enough, perhaps it’d eventually become emotionally true.

“He literally told you he wanted to kiss you,” continued Lola.

I glared at her. “How do you know that?”

She flashed me her teeth. “I heard everything. Saw everything.”

I sagged in my chair. “Yeah, well. Then he arrested me.”

Dottie looked up from rabbit number three. She held it at eye level for a second, gently straightened one paper ear, and then looked at me with complete sincerity. “I think he looked sad.”

“He looked like a sheriff.” Which was considerably less comforting than it sounded. Sheriffs specialized in expressions that gave away absolutely nothing. It was practically part of the uniform.

I stared into my coffee. The dark surface reflected a very tired-looking woman who really needed to stop falling for emotionally unavailable public servants. Unfortunately, coffee had yet to develop the ability to answer life’s important questions.

I’d read this chapter before. Different man. Same ending. My imagination always sprinted three miles ahead while reality casually tied its shoelaces.

He’d made his choice, whether I liked it or not. He’d walked away without so much as looking back. Funny how boots on a tile floor could sound so final.

Without one word. Without one explanation. Without even answering the only question I’d cared about.

Where are the animals?

The fact that I still didn’t know felt like a pebble in my shoe—small enough to ignore for a minute but impossible to ignore forever.

I wrapped both hands tighter around my mug. The warmth seeped into my fingers, and I wished emotional clarity worked the same way.

Maybe I’d imagined the kiss. Not the physical part. That would’ve been a genuinely fascinating medical condition.

Not literally. That would’ve been concerning. Probably worthy of professional evaluation.

But maybe I’d imagined what it meant. Maybe I’d assigned subtitles to a conversation that had never actually happened.

Maybe I’d mistaken attraction for possibility. They weren’t the same thing. I’d known that for years. Knowledge and application were distant cousins who rarely spoke.

Maybe I’d looked at one good moment and started building an entire future on top of it. Human brains were ridiculous that way. One meaningful glance, and suddenly you were mentally picking out throw pillows.

Again. Classic Sophie. Build the house before checking whether the foundation existed. I didn’t even build houses anymore. I practically skipped straight to choosing paint colors and arguing about where we’d put the Christmas tree.

Well, lesson learned. Painful. Embarrassing. Mildly humiliating. But learned.

Captain Competent had been exactly that.

Competent. Professional. The kiss had been a mistake, a very, very nice mistake. Possibly one of history’s better mistakes. Certainly more enjoyable than accidentally sending an email to the wrong person.

Still, a mistake. Some things could be both wonderful and wrong at exactly the same time. Life seemed annoyingly fond of those combinations.

I wasn’t going to waste another second trying to decode what Sheriff Walker thought. I’d spent enough mental energy translating one man’s facial expressions to qualify for a second language certificate.

I had more important things to do, like finding four animals who’d somehow become my responsibility despite absolutely nobody appointing me to the position. My brain had formed an unauthorized emotional committee devoted entirely to their welfare.

The dining room door swung open.

Helen hurried inside carrying an oversized cloth bag. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Slightly out of breath, her cheeks were pink, and her glasses were slipping down her nose. She looked exactly like a woman who’d spent the last twenty minutes power-walking around town fueled entirely by determination and caffeine.

I sat up straighter by instinct. The same way children instinctively sat up when teachers entered the classroom.

Uh-oh. The last time Helen had looked this determined, I’d accidentally become festival coordinator.

She marched over to the table. “Don’t you answer your phone?” She set her bag on the chair with a little huff, still catching her breath.

“My battery died,” I told her. Totally true.

Helen pushed her red glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I just heard the strangest rumor.” Her expression hovered somewhere between concern and complete disbelief.

Here we go. There it was. The small-town rumor mill. Faster than broadband. More efficient than emergency services.

“Sophie…” She lowered her voice, though not enough to prevent anyone nearby from hearing if they really wanted to. Fortunately, eavesdropping was practically Maplewood Falls’ unofficial municipal sport. “Did you steal a truck?”

I nearly inhaled my coffee, an impressive feat considering I’d momentarily forgotten how breathing worked. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Helen’s brow furrowed. “A misunderstanding involving a truck?”

“Yes?” It sounded less convincing every time I said it.

“With livestock?”

“Also yes.” I was beginning to appreciate how objectively ridiculous my morning sounded when arranged in chronological order.

Lola suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. The woman who’d happily discussed jail-roleplay ten minutes earlier had decided this was where discretion became appropriate.

Dottie became deeply invested in folding rabbit number four. She concentrated on that napkin with the focus of a heart surgeon performing emergency surgery. Neither of them had any intention of helping me. Traitors. Very lovable traitors. But traitors nonetheless.

I was receiving absolutely no support whatsoever.

Helen stared at me another moment. Then, to my complete surprise, she smiled. “That’s what Sheriff Walker said too.”

I frowned. “What?”

“He told me there’d been a misunderstanding, and everything had been sorted out.” She patted my shoulder. “I’m just glad you’re all right.” Then she headed toward the kitchen and disappeared through the doors.

I watched her go. My brain completely stalled.

Sheriff Walker covered for me? Why? If he’d been so determined to act like nothing had happened, why tell Helen it was a misunderstanding? Why not tell her exactly what I’d done?

Nothing about this man made any sense.

I frowned into my coffee. Enough. I wasn’t doing this anymore. No more trying to translate sheriff into something comprehensible. No more wondering what he meant. No more replaying the kiss. If Captain Competent wanted to be confusing, he could do it all by himself.

The only thing that mattered now was Bandit and Theo and Daisy and that little donkey.

I set my coffee down. “I’m going to find them.”

Lola looked up. “How?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

Dottie smiled. “That’s usually when your best ideas happen.”

She wasn’t wrong.

I stood. “I don’t need the sheriff.”

The words came out stronger than I felt.

But I’d keep saying them until I believed them.

Because one thing was absolutely certain. If nobody else was going to save those animals, I would.

23

SOPHIE

An hour later, after my phone had finally charged enough to rejoin modern civilization, I grabbed it off the charger so fast I nearly pulled the cord out of the wall.

Only one person might know where the animals were. Well, technically several people probably knew where they were. The handler. The sheriff. Dr. Keller. But I could only call one person without raising my blood pressure to medically fascinating levels.

I found the Maplewood Falls Veterinary Clinic number in my recent calls, took a steadying breath, and pressed dial. My foot started bouncing beneath the table. My entire body seemed physically incapable of waiting for anything anymore. I spent three rings mentally preparing myself for every possible answer. None of them were particularly encouraging. In one scenario they’d already left. In another they’d been split up. In a third, I’d somehow ended up crying into my coffee again before two o’clock. My imagination really did deserve an employee-of-the-month plaque for productivity.

“Maplewood Falls Veterinary Clinic. Can I help you?” said the receptionist in a bright, cheerful voice.

“Hi, Amy. It’s Sophie.” I tried to sound casual, normal, like people routinely phoned veterinary clinics because they’d become emotionally attached to borrowed goats over the course of one weekend. Totally ordinary behavior.

“Oh! Hi, Sophie!” she said immediately. “How are you?” Warm. Friendly. Completely unsuspecting. Clearly she hadn’t yet received the deluxe edition of this morning’s gossip.

It was a loaded question, possibly the most dangerous question anyone had asked me all day. There simply wasn’t a socially acceptable answer somewhere between fine and briefly incarcerated.

“I’ve… had an interesting morning.” Understatement of the century.

She laughed. “Around here, that usually means somebody escaped with a peacock.” She said it so naturally that I had absolutely no doubt this had happened at least once. Probably more than once. Maplewood Falls had an oddly high tolerance for poultry-related emergencies.

“Close.” Not species-wise. Or legally. But spiritually? Surprisingly close.

“Should I ask?” I could practically hear the smile in her voice. The kind that understood small towns produced wonderfully strange stories on a regular basis.

“Probably not.” Mostly because explaining my morning from the beginning would require diagrams, emotional support snacks, and at least forty-five uninterrupted minutes.

“Fair enough. So, how can I help?”

“I was wondering…” I twisted a strand of hair around my finger. “Did Dr. Keller end up with the festival animals? The goat and alpacas and the little donkey?” I held my breath without meaning to. Amazing how quickly four slightly ridiculous farm animals had become the center of my emotional universe. Two days ago, I couldn’t have picked Bandit out of a lineup. Now I was one unanswered phone call away from developing stress-induced gray hair.

“Oh, yes.” Amy’s voice brightened another three levels. “They were here for a little while. Oh my goodness, they were adorable. Especially that tiny donkey.” She sighed happily, like she’d clearly spent quality time being charmed. “I wanted to take him home. He has the sweetest little face. And the goat…” She laughed. “He escaped one of the exam rooms for about thirty seconds and wandered into reception like he owned the place. Dr. Keller said all their health checks looked good. Everyone got examined. Hooves, teeth, ears, the whole works. One of the alpacas sneezed on Tiffany from accounting.” She paused to laugh again. “Twice, actually. Poor Tiffany never even saw that coming. They certainly made the morning more entertaining.”

“So…” I said carefully. “Where are they now?”

“Oh. They’re not here anymore.”

“They’re not?” My fingers gripped the phone a little tighter. “I thought maybe Dr. Keller had decided to keep them.” It wasn’t a particularly logical plan. Veterinary clinics generally weren’t known for collecting goats the way people collected houseplants. Still, hope wasn’t especially interested in logistics.

“No. The handler had another delivery this morning and couldn’t take them right away, so they needed somewhere to stay for a day or two.” Papers rustled in the background as she searched for something. “It all happened pretty quickly.”

“A day or two?” I sat up straighter. Temporary. Temporary wasn’t permanent. Temporary meant there was still a window. Tiny. Possibly closing. But still a window.

“Uh-huh.”

“So… where are they?” I asked, trying very hard to sound like a calm, emotionally balanced adult instead of someone one sentence away from stealing another vehicle. Personal growth. I was aiming for at least twenty-four hours between transportation-related crimes.

“They’re staying at Hills Farm.”

“Hills Farm?” The name sounded vaguely familiar. Or maybe every farm sounded vaguely familiar. There were only so many combinations of hills, meadows, creeks, and maple trees available to rural communities.

“It’s a little hobby farm out on Route Twelve.” I could hear keyboard clicks in the background. “About forty-five minutes from town. The Petersons own it. They’re really sweet. They help out whenever somebody’s in a bind.”

Hope fluttered cautiously inside my chest. Small. Fragile. Wearing a tiny helmet because, frankly, it’d been through a lot today.

“So they’re keeping them?” Please say yes. Please let one nice family have unexpectedly fallen in love with four festival animals. Stranger things had happened. I’d kissed a sheriff yesterday and been arrested by him today. Reality had already abandoned conventional storytelling.

“No. This is just temporary.”

My shoulders sagged. I physically felt hope slide down another couple of inches.

“The Petersons don’t really have the room,” Amy continued apologetically. “They’re a small hobby farm. A couple of horses, some chickens, a few sheep. They offered to help, but once the handler finishes his other job, he’s supposed to pick everyone up again.” I could hear genuine disappointment in her voice, like she’d already imagined keeping them too. Bandit had left tiny emotional casualties all over town.

“And then…” I swallowed. My throat suddenly felt far too tight for such a simple question. “They go to auction?” I already knew the answer. I just needed to hear it out loud because sometimes hope insisted on demanding a second opinion.

“I think that’s still the plan.” Her voice softened. “Nobody’s said otherwise.”

Silence settled between us, the kind that seemed to stretch much longer than it actually lasted.

“Sophie?” Amy asked gently, the way people did when they thought you might’ve started crying without warning.

“I’m here.” Barely. Emotionally, I was somewhere out on Route Twelve already, standing in a pasture negotiating with complete strangers.

“I’m sorry it’s not what you wanted to hear,” said Amy. Nothing about it felt rehearsed, just genuine kindness from someone who understood that sometimes loving animals made life unnecessarily complicated.

I closed my eyes briefly, mostly because if I kept them open, I suspected I’d start arguing with reality. And reality was notoriously difficult to negotiate with.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “Thanks for telling me.” Better uncomfortable truth than comforting ignorance. Even if the truth currently felt like someone had dropped a cinder block directly onto my chest.

After we hung up, I stared at my phone for several seconds. The black screen reflected my face back at me.

Temporary.

That word echoed around my head. Temporary wasn’t forever. Temporary meant the story wasn’t finished yet. Temporary was good. Not ideal. Definitely not ideal. But I’d lowered my standards considerably over the course of the day.

Temporary meant there was still time. Time hadn’t run out. It was merely jogging a little faster than I’d like.

Time to convince someone.

Farmers were practical people. Practical people could sometimes be persuaded with practical solutions. I hoped. I had absolutely no evidence supporting this theory, but optimism had climbed back into the driver’s seat.

It was time to stop those animals from disappearing into an auction where Bandit could end up on one farm, Theo somewhere else, Daisy somewhere else again, and the little donkey… I couldn’t even finish that thought. My brain simply slammed on the brakes every time it reached that part of the sentence. Separating them suddenly felt wrong in a way I couldn’t properly explain. They belonged together. The same way families belonged together. The same way weird little groups somehow became exactly the right group.

The Petersons just needed convincing. Reasonable people could be reasoned with. I was choosing to believe that very aggressively until proven otherwise.

Maybe they thought they couldn’t afford it. Which, admittedly, was a perfectly sensible concern. Hay wasn’t free. Neither were vet bills. Or fences. Or whatever else animals required besides unlimited affection and occasional grass cookies.

I could help. I’d pay for the feed, the hay. I’d even learn the difference between good hay and bad hay if necessary. Until recently I’d assumed hay was just… hay. Apparently adulthood contained an alarming number of specialized hay categories.

I’d pay for veterinary bills if I had to. Dr. Keller already seemed fond of them. Maybe he’d even give them the occasional please stop stealing medical equipment discount.

I’d eaten instant noodles through most of my twenties. I could survive on peanut butter sandwiches for a few months if it meant keeping four ridiculously lovable animals together. I’d lived through ramen, discount macaroni, and whatever mysterious canned soup happened to be on sale that week. Compared to those years, voluntarily funding goat food almost sounded luxurious.

My plan was brilliant. It arrived in my head with such confidence, as though I’d already solved every problem despite possessing approximately twelve percent of the necessary information.

But compared to stealing a livestock truck, this actually represented measurable personal growth.

I jumped to my feet so quickly my chair nearly tipped backward. I caught it at the last second with one hand, earning myself several curious looks from the guests eating lunch. I couldn’t even stand up like a normal person anymore.

Sarah looked up from the front desk where she was checking in a guest. She smiled warmly, slid a registration card across the counter, answered a question about breakfast hours, and then handed over a brass room key attached to one of those oversized wooden keychains that looked heavy enough to anchor a small fishing boat.

Once the guest was headed toward their room, she walked toward me, one eyebrow already lifted. Sarah had developed an impressive ability to recognize the exact expression I wore whenever I was about to suggest something that sounded completely reasonable inside my own head.

“Everything okay?”

I smiled brightly, possibly a little too brightly. “Now, before you say no. I need a favor.”

She folded her arms. “Which is?”

I took a breath, deep enough to make this sound like a perfectly ordinary request instead of the beginning of another spectacularly questionable adventure.

“Can I borrow your car?”

24

ERIC

Ilasted exactly twelve minutes.

I’d once sat through a six-hour hostage negotiation without losing focus.

Hartwell had beaten that record by a considerable margin.

I pushed back from my desk, grabbed my truck keys, and headed for the door. There wasn’t any dramatic moment of decision. Just the quiet realization that sitting in my office pretending to work while thinking about Hartwell every thirty seconds wasn’t accomplishing much of anything. The paperwork would still be there when I got back. It always was. Paperwork provided remarkable job security.

Jenna looked up from her paperwork as I crossed the bullpen. She’d somehow managed to review reports, answer phones, drink coffee, and keep one eye on me the entire time. It was one of the reasons she was a good deputy. Also one of the reasons it was impossible to get away with anything around her.

“Everything okay, boss?”

“I’ve got to check on something.” Technically true. Just strategically incomplete. Sheriffs occasionally specialized in carefully edited versions of the truth.

“The animals?” She didn’t even look surprised. Just curious enough to confirm the answer she already seemed fairly certain of.

“Yeah.” Again. Technically true. Also not the entire story. I’d become remarkably skilled at half-truths over the last twenty-four hours.

The corner of her mouth lifted—not smug, just knowing—enough to tell me she knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Jenna had spent too many years reading suspects, witnesses, victims, and fellow deputies to miss something as obvious as me.

She was smart enough not to say it, which I appreciated. Mostly because I wasn’t entirely ready to admit it out loud myself.

“Dr. Keller called,” she added before I reached the front door. “Everyone checked out healthy. They were picked up about twenty minutes ago.” She glanced down at a note beside her keyboard.

I stopped. My hand tightened around the keys before I even realized I’d done it. “Where’d they take them?”

“They’re staying temporarily at Hills Farm. Route Twelve.” She paused before adding, “Dr. Keller said the Petersons agreed to help until the handler finishes another job.”

I nodded once. Hills Farm. Route Twelve. My brain filed away both pieces of information before the rest of me had caught up.

“Thanks.”

Outside, the afternoon sun hit me square in the face, bright enough that I had to squint for a second. The parking lot shimmered with summer heat while somebody across the street unloaded fertilizer bags from the back of a pickup truck.

I climbed into my SUV, shut the door, and sat there for a second with both hands resting on the steering wheel. The familiar black leather felt reassuring beneath my palms, unlike the conversation currently taking place inside my head.

The engine wasn’t even running yet. Somehow that felt appropriate. My truck seemed to be waiting for me to decide where I actually intended to go.

The silence felt louder than the jail had. Funny how quiet worked. Sometimes it settled around you peacefully. Other times it seemed to ask uncomfortable questions you weren’t ready to answer.

I started the truck. The dashboard lit up as the engine turned over smoothly. The familiar rumble settled around me, and I backed out of the parking space, turning toward Route Twelve. Muscle memory took over while my mind wandered somewhere several miles behind the vehicle.

This wasn’t necessary. I repeated it with enough conviction that it almost sounded believable.

That’s what I kept telling myself. Over and over. Like repetition alone could somehow transform avoidance into wisdom.

The animals were safe. That part mattered. It genuinely did. Dr. Keller had checked them over. They weren’t hurt. They weren’t sick. They had somewhere to stay for now.

The handler wasn’t pressing charges. Another problem solved before it had the chance to become something much worse. Hartwell wouldn’t have a record. Dottie wouldn’t either. That should’ve been enough to let everyone move on.

Everything had been handled. Reports completed. Statements taken. Property recovered. From a law enforcement perspective, the file practically closed itself.

That’s what it should’ve been. One unusual incident among hundreds of others I’d dealt with over the years. Strange. Memorable. Finished.

Except it didn’t feel closed, mostly because every time I mentally stamped the word closed across the situation, Hartwell’s face appeared underneath it looking hurt, confused, and stubborn enough to ignore the stamp entirely.

Not even close. In fact, if I was finally being honest with myself… it felt like something had only just begun.

The tires hummed against the pavement as Main Road slipped past my windows. The familiar rhythm usually helped clear my head, but today it simply gave my mind something steady to argue over.

Hartwell occupied every second thought. Sometimes every thought. She’d somehow wedged herself into the spaces between routine and responsibility with alarming efficiency. I’d catch myself looking at the road and somehow end up remembering the way she’d laughed with the goat or rolled her eyes at me or looked completely horrified after kissing me.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Not because the road required it. Because admitting that out loud—even if only to myself—felt dangerous.

This was exactly why I’d avoided getting involved for so long. Because eventually feelings stopped respecting schedules, common sense, or professional boundaries.

They became complicated. Nothing stayed neatly labeled once emotions got involved. Every simple answer suddenly acquired footnotes.

Things became messy. And unlike paperwork, there wasn’t a filing cabinet for messy.

I knew that better than most. Experience had a habit of teaching lessons you never particularly wanted.

I’d spent years putting this badge first because I’d chosen to, every single time. Long hours stole evenings before you realized they were gone. Then came missed dinners, meals eaten cold three hours later because somebody else’s emergency refused to wait politely until after dessert. Canceled weekends. Fishing trips that never happened. Barbecues cut short. Movie tickets wasted. The badge didn’t care what day it was.

Emergency calls came in at two in the morning. Phones never rang because somebody wanted to tell you everything was going wonderfully. They rang because somebody needed you right now. And right now usually won.

People liked saying they understood what came with dating a sheriff. They meant it too. At least in the beginning. Everybody imagined they’d be the understanding one.

Most of them believed it. Confidence was easy when interruptions were still hypothetical.

Until they actually lived it. Reality generally had much worse timing than imagination.

Then birthdays got interrupted with candles blown out after the cake had gone stale. Vacations got canceled, hotel reservations lost to domestic disputes and missing hikers. Somehow criminals never checked holiday calendars before causing trouble.

Date nights ended because somebody’s fence had been hit by a drunk driver or somebody’s teenager hadn’t come home. There was always a reason, usually a good one. Good reasons still had an unfortunate habit of disappointing people.

Eventually, they stopped asking, stopped waiting. Empty chairs eventually became easier than hopeful expectations. They stopped believing next time would be different. I couldn’t blame them. Eventually even optimism got tired.

I understood why. Hell, if our positions had been reversed, maybe I would’ve done the same. Loving somebody whose first promise always belonged to everyone else wasn’t exactly an easy sell.

The job always came first—not because I loved it more but because sometimes it involved people having the worst day of their lives. Those people deserved a sheriff who showed up. At least that’s what I’d always believed. If I started choosing when duty mattered based on convenience, the whole thing fell apart.

I’d convinced myself that was simply the cost. Some careers demanded sacrifices. I’d just decided relationships were one of mine.

Better to stay alone than disappoint someone. Things were cleaner and simpler with nobody waiting at home, wondering whether I’d make it back for dinner. Nobody was checking the clock every time my phone rang.

Better to keep my life quiet. Quiet didn’t ask difficult questions. It was predictable and controlled. I knew exactly what tomorrow would probably look like. Or at least I’d spent years pretending I did.

Things were safer that way for everyone involved, mostly because if I never let anyone get close enough to matter, I never had to watch them walk away disappointed.

At least, that’s what I’d been telling myself long enough that I’d almost started believing it. Funny how often the stories we repeated became the ones we trusted.

Then Hartwell showed up, like a tornado wearing white sneakers. She was loud without meaning to be, chaotic without malice. Somehow she left absolute disorder behind while making the place feel oddly brighter at the same time.

I’d spent years carefully organizing my life into neat little compartments, but she’d managed to scatter every single one of them in less than a week. And the frustrating part was, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to put them back.

She argued with me and teased me. Sheriff face. My carefully cultivated professional image had lasted all of twenty-four hours around her.

She made me laugh, usually when I was actively trying not to. She had an unfortunate talent for saying ridiculous things with complete sincerity. She also stole a truck. That one still felt surreal.

And she kissed me.

Without warning. Without hesitation. Like she’d simply reached the point where overthinking had finally lost the argument.

I huffed a quiet laugh despite myself. The sound surprised me. I’d spent the last hour trying to convince myself this situation wasn’t funny. Some part of my brain disagreed.

Hell.

I stared out the windshield. The truth was, this wasn’t about the stolen truck anymore. That had become obvious somewhere around mile three. Trucks could be returned. Reports could be filed. Insurance companies existed for exactly that sort of thing.

Or the arrest. I’d do it again if the circumstances were identical. I hated admitting that, but it was true. The badge didn’t come with exceptions for women who kissed you unexpectedly.

It was about how I’d looked at her standing outside the station, small and quiet, trying very hard not to let anyone see she’d been hurt. I’d seen victims wear that same expression after somebody they trusted let them down.

I’d seen the hurt in her face. She’d hidden it well enough that most people probably missed it. I didn’t. Maybe because I’d put it there.

And I’d walked away anyway. Every step had felt deliberate, professional, necessary. I’d convinced myself distance was the responsible choice because walking away had been easier than having the conversation. Easier than admitting I’d handled the situation badly. Easier than looking into her eyes and seeing disappointment I couldn’t arrest or write a report about.

Distance was safer. Feelings had a way of complicating judgment. Distance didn’t. I’d spent years believing control solved everything. Funny how often it only delayed it.

It also happened to be the wrong thing to do. Some mistakes weren’t about actions. Sometimes they were about silence.

I should’ve listened. Really listened. Not as the sheriff evaluating a suspect. As the man she’d kissed the night before.

I should’ve let her explain. Even if it changed nothing legally, it would’ve changed something between us. Instead I’d skipped straight to procedure.

I should’ve answered the one question she’d actually asked. She hadn’t begged me to let her go. Hadn’t argued about the handcuffs. Hadn’t demanded special treatment.

Where are the animals?

Instead, I’d hidden behind the badge. What a convenient place to hide, respectable too. The trouble with hiding behind something long enough was eventually forgetting where you ended and it began.

I reached toward the console and pressed the hands-free phone button. If I couldn’t say it in person yet, maybe I could at least start somewhere.

“Call Sophie Hartwell.”

The system chimed.

Calling…

Her phone rang through the speakers. Each ring seemed longer than the last.

Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

Then her voicemail answered. “Hi, you’ve reached Sophie. Leave a message and…”

The beep sounded.

I opened my mouth… and nothing.

Not a single useful sentence. Plenty of thoughts. None of them fit together in a way that sounded like something worth hearing.

What exactly was I supposed to say? Sorry I arrested you? Sorry I ignored you afterward? Good news about the animals?

None of it sounded right. Every sentence stopped halfway because the words that mattered most refused to line up in the correct order. None of it sounded like enough. Maybe because it wasn’t. Some conversations deserved eye contact instead of speakerphones.

After several seconds of silence, I reached over and ended the call. The screen went dark.

I let out a long breath. I just hoped it wasn’t too late. Because I wasn’t driving toward a problem I needed to solve. I was driving toward a woman I genuinely didn’t want to lose.

I drove another few miles as town slowly disappeared behind me. The last stop sign gave way to open country, and the familiar rhythm of civilization slowly surrendered to fields, trees, and long stretches of empty road.

The road narrowed. Fresh asphalt gave way to older pavement patched here and there from harsh winters and heavy farm equipment. I eased off the gas automatically as the center line faded and the shoulders became little more than packed gravel. I’d driven these roads a thousand times. Today they somehow felt different.

Fields replaced storefronts. Fresh-cut hay lay drying in neat rows while cattle grazed lazily behind weathered fences, completely unconcerned with human complications. A rusted tractor sat abandoned beside an old red barn, looking like it’d been there since before I became sheriff. Farm life had its own pace. Nobody seemed in much of a hurry except me.

The farther I drove, the clearer everything became.

Funny how distance worked. Sometimes getting away from a problem was exactly what you needed to finally see it properly. Somewhere between town limits and Route Twelve, I’d stopped trying to convince myself this drive was about livestock.

Jenna had been right. That realization sat there without much argument now. I’d spent the better part of the morning defending myself to her. Turns out she’d needed about three minutes to undo what had taken me several hours to convince myself of.

I’d handled the arrest like the sheriff with procedure and professionalism, every step by the book. I’d done exactly what people expected of me, exactly what the badge required, and exactly what I’d sworn to do years ago.

I’d forgotten to handle the aftermath like me. Eric. Somewhere between putting the handcuffs away and finishing the paperwork, I’d let the uniform answer every question. I’d forgotten there was a man underneath it who actually cared whether Hartwell walked away hurting.

Hartwell deserved better than silence. Silence had protected me. It hadn’t protected her. If anything, it’d probably convinced her I regretted the kiss. That thought sat about as comfortably as gravel in a boot.

She deserved honesty. Not polished explanations. Not carefully measured sheriff answers. Just the truth. Simple enough in theory. Considerably harder once feelings entered the conversation.

The truth.

I liked her. There wasn’t much point pretending otherwise anymore. Jenna had seen through it. Hell, I’d finally seen through it.

I more than liked her. That was the part I’d been avoiding. Liking someone was manageable. You could ignore that. More than liking someone… that tended to ignore you right back.

That kiss hadn’t surprised me because she’d kissed me. If anything, some part of me had been hoping she’d do exactly that. Maybe not in the middle of the festival. Maybe not within eyesight of half the town. Hartwell wasn’t exactly known for choosing conventional timing.

It had surprised me because it felt exactly like I’d imagined it would. I’d wondered more than once what it’d be like to kiss her. I’d never admitted that to another living soul, but the thought had crossed my mind often enough.

Only better. Reality had outperformed imagination by a comfortable margin, which was irritating because imagination had set a fairly high standard.

I’d wanted to pull her closer. The memory came back with uncomfortable clarity. Her hands against my face. The warmth of her standing so close. The surprised little sound she’d made that she’d probably hoped I hadn’t heard. I had.

I wanted to kiss her again, slower this time, longer. Without the entire population of Maplewood Falls serving as accidental witnesses.

The gravel road appeared ahead. Tires crackled beneath the SUV as I eased onto it, a light cloud of dust rising in the rearview mirror. The farm sat somewhere beyond the trees, hidden from the road like most places out here preferred to be.

A weathered wooden sign stood beside a white fence.

HILLS FARM

The paint had faded in places, but somebody had clearly taken the time to repaint the letters every few years. Flower boxes overflowed beneath the sign with purple petunias and yellow marigolds, giving the entrance an unexpectedly welcoming feel.

I slowed the SUV and turned into the long driveway. Ahead, I could just make out the roof of a farmhouse, several paddocks, and a large red barn sitting against a backdrop of green pasture.

Whatever happened next, running away from it wasn’t an option anymore. Not from the conversation. Not from the apology. And definitely not from the woman who’d somehow managed to steal a truck, rescue livestock, arrest my common sense, and make me hope—against every instinct I’d spent years cultivating—that maybe this time, doing the harder thing was worth it.

25

SOPHIE

Five minutes later I was heading out of Maplewood Falls again, Sarah’s little Jetta buzzing along Route Twelve while my phone cheerfully announced directions from the cup holder. The engine made its usual determined little humming noise every time I asked it to climb a hill, like it was encouraging itself with positive affirmations. I appreciated the effort. We were both operating on questionable emotional fuel at this point.

“In two miles, turn left.”

“I’m on it, Gerta,” I told the GPS. Yes, I named my GPS. And, yes, that was a tad crazy. But I didn’t care.

I tightened my hands around the steering wheel, mostly because it gave them something to do besides dramatically gesturing at empty passenger seats.

“He’s an asshole.” I said it firmly, like repetition alone might eventually convince the tiny optimistic part of my brain that kept filing formal objections.

“You hear that?” I told absolutely nobody. “An asshole.”

The word didn’t fit. Which was inconvenient. I’d really wanted it to fit. Life would’ve been considerably easier if he’d simply turned out to be awful.

I tried again.

“A… frustrating asshole.” Better. More nuanced. Slightly less satisfying.

Still not quite right. Ugh. Why did reality always insist on being complicated? Couldn’t people just neatly fall into categories? Villain. Hero. Person who leaves shopping carts in the middle of parking lots. Simple.

“An emotionally constipated asshole.” I nodded slowly. There it was. That felt medically plausible. Someone should probably prescribe him feelings twice daily with meals.

Closer. Not perfect. But definitely moving in the right direction. If nothing else, I’d created an entirely new psychological diagnosis.

“He kisses women one night, arrests them the next, and then refuses to answer basic questions about innocent farm animals.” I pointed one finger toward the windshield as if presenting evidence before a jury. “That is not normal behavior. I feel like we can all agree on that.”

I nodded to myself.

“Yes.” Convincing. Decisive. Almost presidential.

That felt accurate. At least from my admittedly biased perspective. Which was currently the only perspective available inside Sarah’s Jetta.

Mostly. There it was again. That irritating little crack of uncertainty.

Maybe.

“Okay, fine. He did have a very good reason to arrest me.” I sighed so dramatically the windshield probably fogged up a little. Stupid conscience. Always showing up uninvited.

I frowned. “No.” I wagged a finger at myself. “We’re not doing that.” I pointed at the windshield. “We’re not defending him.”

This conversation had become alarmingly democratic. Every opinion received a rebuttal from another part of my personality. At this rate I was going to need a moderator and a timer.

“I can still live here.” That part mattered. More than kissing sheriffs. More than embarrassing myself. More than whatever emotional tornado had swept through my life over the last forty-eight hours.

Maplewood Falls had always been home. Long before Captain Competent decided to start patrolling it with his unfairly attractive face and his deeply inconvenient sense of integrity.

Just because one ridiculously handsome sheriff happened to patrol it didn’t mean I had to move and change my identity. Witness protection seemed like a slight overreaction. Also, I’d probably miss Dottie’s muffins.

People survived awkward encounters every day. Grocery stores were practically built on former couples pretending to compare cereal prices while desperately avoiding eye contact.

I’d simply wave politely if I saw him, calm and mature. Then I’d walk in the opposite direction. Preferably with casual purpose. The kind that suggested I genuinely had somewhere else to be besides anywhere Captain Competent happened to exist.

“He doesn’t get to ruin this for me.” The words came easier now, firmer. Less like I was trying to convince myself and more like I was finally starting to believe them.

My voice sounded strong enough that even the GPS remained respectfully silent for several seconds.

More certain. Funny how saying something out loud sometimes made it feel more real. Or at least louder.

“For the first time in my life.” I smiled. “I found something I’m actually good at.” The realization still felt new enough to handle carefully, like discovering a hidden talent you’d somehow spent years walking past without noticing.

Festival planning. Who would’ve guessed? Certainly not me. I’d volunteered for the job expecting temporary employment. To wing it and see what happened. Instead I’d stumbled into something that made sense to me.

Organizing chaos. Which, in hindsight, might’ve been excellent preparation for managing my own brain.

Making impossible things somehow work. Replacement bands. Missing volunteers. Escaping animals. My professional specialty involved looking at disasters and saying, “Give me five minutes.”

I’d spent years bouncing from one terrible job to another, wondering what was wrong with me. Receptionist. Retail. Office assistant. Every position had felt like trying to wear somebody else’s shoes, technically possible but deeply uncomfortable.

Nothing. The answer had been so ridiculously simple it almost annoyed me.

I’d simply been standing in the wrong room, trying to become successful at things that had never fit me in the first place.

Turned out, I wasn’t bad at everything. My brain had spent years collecting evidence to the contrary. Nice to know it had been using incomplete data.

I’d just never found the right thing. Sometimes the problem wasn’t you. Sometimes it was the map.

And nobody—especially not Captain Competent—was taking that away from me.

“Not again.” The words came tumbling out. “No man gets to decide who I become.” I’d handed over too much of myself before until I barely recognized the person looking back in the mirror. Never again.

Not Henry. I’d spent far too long trying to become the version of myself someone else wanted.

Not anyone. That chapter of my life had officially closed for renovations.

Definitely not the sheriff. No matter how mesmerizing his eyes were. No matter how well he kissed. No matter how annoyingly decent he’d turned out to be underneath all that sheriffing.

I still had a job, a real one, one I actually woke up excited to do instead of calculating how many hours remained until I could leave.

I still had my family—slightly chaotic, frequently opinionated, occasionally humiliating, but unquestionably mine.

And right now, I had four animals to save. Everything else—including emotionally constipated sheriffs—could wait.

Gerta announced another turn. Her calm, pleasant voice suggested this was all perfectly ordinary. Turn left. Continue for three miles. Rescue emotionally significant livestock.

I followed it through winding country roads lined with old maples and white fences until a weathered sign marked HILLS FARM came into view. The road narrowed to gravel, and the Jetta bounced over a few potholes with enough enthusiasm to remind me Sarah was absolutely going to ask questions if I returned her car making suspicious new rattling noises.

“There you are.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Please let this work. Please let me be five minutes away from talking a lovely retired couple into adopting four animals with nothing more than determination and wildly optimistic financial planning.

I pulled into the gravel driveway. Dust swirled behind the car before slowly settling over rows of lavender planted beside the lane. Somewhere nearby a rooster crowed with the confidence of someone who clearly hadn’t checked what time it actually was.

The farmhouse was cozy, the sort of place where homemade pie probably appeared without warning, and everyone owned at least three pairs of rubber boots. It was a freshly painted white, judging by the neat trim and the absence of peeling boards. Somebody clearly took pride in the place. It had a beautiful wraparound porch with flower baskets swaying gently beneath the eaves. Bright pink petunias spilled over the sides while hummingbirds darted from bloom to bloom, completely unconcerned with my rapidly escalating blood pressure.

A middle-aged woman in muddy boots was watering tomato plants while a man repaired part of a fence nearby. He wore faded overalls and a ball cap advertising some brand of tractor I’d never heard of. She waved before I was even fully out of the car. They seemed like nice people, wonderful, hopefully also with a weakness for emotionally persuasive speeches involving miniature goats.

I climbed out before the engine had fully stopped. Technically not the safest procedure. Emotionally, however, I felt speed was justified.

“Hi!” I was slightly breathless, slightly desperate, and entirely committed.

The man rested one boot on the bottom fence rail while the woman shut off the hose and brushed her hands against her jeans.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked kindly. She had one of those warm faces that made you want to confess everything, including things you’d done in elementary school.

“I’m looking for the festival animals.” I took another step toward them. “The ones from the petting zoo. The goat. Two alpacas. Little donkey.” I counted them on my fingers in case additional visual aids somehow improved the situation.

Recognition crossed both their faces.

“Ah, yes,” said the man, Mr. Peterson most probably. He smiled a little. “That little goat sure had some personality.”

“Yes!” I practically shouted. “Exactly.” Bandit. Professional menace. Amateur escape artist. My favorite tiny criminal who somehow wasn’t currently under arrest. “I’ve come to talk to you about them. About an arrangement, maybe?”

The couple exchanged a look. Not a long one. Just long enough for every alarm bell inside my head to start ringing.

The hopeful little balloon inside my chest popped immediately. “What?”

“I’m sorry, dear,” said Mrs. Peterson. “They’re gone.”

I blinked. Once. Twice. My brain needed a reboot before processing those two words. “Gone?” Surely not. I’d only just gotten here. I hadn’t even delivered my passionate speech about friendship, second chances, and the emotional value of alpacas.

“The sheriff came,” said Mr. Peterson.

Everything inside me froze—every thought, every heartbeat, every remaining shred of optimism.

“The sheriff?” My voice came out more wounded than angry. I hated that.

Mr. Peterson nodded. “Nice fellow.” He leaned against the fence post. “Seemed to have everything under control.”

Mrs. Peterson smiled. “He arranged everything.”

I frowned. “Arranged… what?”

“He picked them up,” said Mr. Peterson.

My pulse doubled. Then considered tripling for dramatic effect. “Picked them up?” I repeated slowly, hoping maybe if I said the words differently, they’d suddenly mean something reassuring. “Where did he take them?” Please say another farm. Please say somewhere nearby. Please don’t say auction.

The couple looked genuinely apologetic. They weren’t hiding anything.

Then Mr. Peterson shook his head. “We don’t know.”

“He just said everything had been sorted out.” Mrs. Peterson shrugged. “Sounded like he’d worked something out with the owner.”

“Sorted out?” I repeated. “What does that even mean?” People kept saying those words as though they represented useful information. They did not. They represented the exact opposite of useful information.

“He seemed to know what he was doing,” replied Mr. Peterson.

Of course he did. Captain Competent always knew what he was doing. That now included making livestock disappear.

“Thank you.” The words came automatically. Manners survived even when common sense packed up and left.

I barely remembered getting back into Sarah’s car. One second I was standing beside the tomato plants. The next I was slamming the driver’s door hard enough that somewhere, Sarah probably experienced a mysterious disturbance in the force.

The second the door shut, I dug through my tote bag until I found the sheriff’s business card. Receipts. Lip balm. Two pens that probably didn’t work. Insurance muffin crumbs. Ah. There it was.

I’d been carrying it around like some lovesick idiot.

I stabbed the number on my phone with considerably more force than necessary. The poor screen had done nothing wrong, but unfortunately it was the closest available object.

The station answered on the second ring.

“Sheriff’s Office.”

“Jenna? It’s Sophie.” I skipped every socially acceptable greeting in favor of immediate panic.

“Sophie?” She sounded surprised. Which, considering my recent track record, seemed optimistic on her part.

“Can I speak to Sheriff Walker?”

A tiny pause. I could practically hear her raising one eyebrow.

“He’s not here. He took the rest of the afternoon off.”

“What?” I nearly dropped the phone. “He what?” Sheriffs weren’t supposed to disappear in the middle of my emotional crisis. There had to be rules.

“He left a while ago.” I heard papers rustling in the background. “Said he’d finished everything that needed finishing.”

“I need to talk to him.” Understatement. I needed answers. Preferably in complete sentences.

“Is it an emergency?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” Four innocent animals absolutely qualified as an emergency. So did emotionally constipated sheriffs making mysterious livestock decisions.

Another pause. “Okay. I can give you his cell.”

She read it out. I typed as fast as my thumbs could manage, nearly entering one digit twice because adrenaline reduced typing accuracy by at least forty percent.

I thanked her and disconnected before she could ask questions. If Jenna started sounding curious, she’d keep me on the phone another ten minutes. I didn’t have ten minutes.

One ring. Two. Three. Voicemail.

I hung up. Enough with phones. Clearly verbal communication had become unfashionable.

I tapped my Google app on my phone and wrote Eric Walker Maplewood Falls. Please let the internet continue doing what emotionally unavailable men refuse to.

The internet was far more helpful than law enforcement. An address popped up, complete with a little map pin cheerfully announcing exactly where Captain Competent had chosen to hide himself from difficult conversations.

I shoved the car into gear. “You are going to tell me where those animals are.” And if he attempted one more mysterious sheriff answer, I was fully prepared to commit the minor offense of being spectacularly annoying until he gave me what I wanted.

Forty-five minutes later I bounced down another gravel driveway, my tires throwing dust behind me. The Jetta protested every pothole with tiny squeaks.

The property opened before me. Trees gave way to a wide clearing, sunlight spilling across open fields in soft golden stripes. It wasn’t what I’d expected. Somehow I’d pictured something… sterner. More sheriff. Less peaceful.

Acres of trees. Tall pines mixed with old maples surrounded the property like quiet sentries, their branches swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. The whole place smelled faintly of cedar, fresh-cut grass, and warm earth.

A big craftsman house stood between the trees with massive timber beams and a covered porch. Very manly. Very Captain Competent.

My heart hammered so hard I could hear it. Or maybe that was just blood rushing through my ears. Either way, my body had officially entered full dramatic heroine mode.

I didn’t even bother closing Sarah’s car door—again. It remained hanging wide open behind me, the engine ticking as it cooled. Future Sophie could apologize to Sarah. Present Sophie had bigger priorities than automotive etiquette.

I climbed out and hurried toward the house. Gravel crunched beneath my sneakers while every terrible possibility marched through my head. Auction. Different farms. Somebody buying Bandit. Somebody separating them. My stomach twisted tighter with every step.

“Sheriff Walker!” My voice echoed across the clearing before disappearing into the trees. No answer. Just birds singing somewhere overhead and leaves rustling softly in the wind.

Then…

Bang.

A hammer. Sharp. Solid. Definitely nearby.

Another bang followed by the scrape of wood against wood. It was coming from somewhere behind the house, around the back, hidden from the driveway.

Good. At least he hadn’t escaped into the witness protection program.

I’d finally cornered him, assuming I didn’t lose my nerve in the next thirty seconds, which remained a very real possibility.

I marched around the side of the house rehearsing everything I intended to say, my hands fisted because, well, why the hell not.

This speech had been improving steadily for the last forty-five minutes. It had drafts now. Possibly appendices.

You had no right… Strong opening. Direct. Good energy.

Where are they… Also important. Possibly lead with that instead.

How could you… Nice emotional punch. Maybe point dramatically for emphasis. Not aggressively. Firmly. There was a difference.

I rounded the final corner and skidded to a halt.

My entire body forgot the basic concept of forward movement. Forgot how breathing worked. Inhale? Exhale? Those were advanced skills I’d temporarily misplaced.

Because… because I was staring at a brand-new wooden fence that enclosed part of the backyard.

What the…

New posts. Fresh rails. The wood still pale enough that it hadn’t yet weathered under the sun. Sawdust lay scattered across the ground, and a hammer rested beside an open toolbox. Lumber was stacked neatly in one corner beside extra fence boards and unopened bags of wood shavings.

There was a new gate with heavy-duty hinges. A water trough, full and clean. Sunlight sparkled across the surface while a garden hose still lay stretched across the grass beside it.

I spotted hay bales. Three of them. Maybe four. Stacked carefully beneath a tarp beside the fence. Somebody hadn’t exactly thrown this together in five minutes.

I saw a red shed, which looked like it had recently been converted into a little barn with clean straw spilling out the doorway. The windows had been propped open for fresh air. Feed buckets hung neatly from hooks. I could even make out a salt lick mounted inside.

My brain struggled to keep up. My eyes moved slowly across the pen, almost afraid to trust what they were seeing. Like the whole thing might disappear if I blinked too quickly.

Bandit. Standing proudly on top of what looked suspiciously like an overturned water bucket because even rescue situations couldn’t convince him to behave like a normal goat.

Theo. Lazily chewing grass while pretending not to notice Bandit attempting to headbutt absolutely everything within reach.

Daisy. Calm as ever. Regal. Looking faintly disappointed in everyone else’s energy levels.

The little donkey, his ears flicking back and forth while he wandered toward the fresh hay with complete confidence, as though he’d already decided this place suited him just fine.

All four of them. Together. Exactly the way they’d been at the festival. Nobody separated. Nobody missing.

And alive. More importantly, looking wonderfully, gloriously unconcerned. And safe.

My chest tightened for an entirely different reason.

Bandit looked up. His little ears shot straight into the air the second he spotted me. Recognition exploded across his tiny goat face. And then he let out one enthusiastic little bleat before sprinting straight toward the fence. His entire backside bounced with every step.

And then it hit me.

Captain Competent had taken the animals.

26

ERIC

Ibalanced another fence board against the post before driving one last nail into place. The wood settled flush against the support with a satisfying thud before the nail sank home.

Satisfied, I stepped back and wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm. My shoulders ached from hauling lumber most of the afternoon, but it was the good kind of tired. The kind where you could actually see what your work accomplished.

A flash of movement caught my attention. I looked up just as the goat ran across the pen, bouncing up and down as he went.

I frowned. That is a strange one. I didn’t feel like chasing him down if he hopped the fence. I turned around to see where he was going⁠—

And froze.

Hartwell stood twenty feet away, one hand still hanging uselessly at her side, the other clutching her car keys so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her chest rose and fell a little too quickly, like she’d run the last hundred yards. Her blue eyes slowly moved across the pasture, to the animals, the new shelter, the feeding bins, everything all at once.

I’d been so focused on my work, I hadn’t even heard her pull up my driveway.

And Hartwell now appeared completely speechless.

I wasn’t entirely sure that had ever happened before. I’d seen her talk through panic, embarrassment, excitement, and even exhaustion. Genuine surprise was the one thing capable of shutting her up.

The goat kept bounding toward the fence, his tail wagging furiously before he stuck his nose through the rails as far as physically possible.

Sophie just stood there, like her brain simply couldn’t catch up with what she was seeing. I watched as confusion spread across her face, and something inside my chest loosened.

I set down the hammer, and it landed in the grass beside the toolbox. “I figured…” I began carefully, “this was probably easier than letting them disappear.”

She didn’t answer. Just walked toward the fence, slowly, like she was afraid the whole thing might vanish if she moved too fast.

The goat stretched farther through the rails until she finally reached him.

The second her fingers disappeared into the white fur behind his ears, he practically melted against the fence. His eyes drifted shut in complete contentment.

A shaky breath escaped her.

I waited.

She still didn’t say anything.

I’d interviewed enough people over the years to recognize shock, a complete emotional overload. Sometimes people yelled. Sometimes they cried. And sometimes they simply ran out of words.

I cleared my throat. “I owe you an apology.”

Her hand stopped for half a second and then continued scratching behind the goat’s ears.

“I handled today badly,” I continued. The words felt strange coming out of my mouth. Sheriffs apologized all the time, usually on behalf of paperwork delays, road closures, power outages, and things outside our control.

This? This was different. This one belonged entirely to me.

“I had to arrest you.” My voice stayed calm. “I don’t regret doing my job.”

I looked out toward the pasture. The larger alpaca had already found the hay with the miniature donkey. The smaller female alpaca appeared to be supervising everyone from a respectful distance.

“But I regret everything after,” I added finally.

Her head snapped up, and our eyes met.

I sighed through my nose. “I should’ve listened.” I shoved both hands into my jeans pockets. “I should’ve let you explain.” My jaw tightened. “I’ve spent a lot of years putting this badge first.” Long enough that admitting it out loud felt strangely uncomfortable. Long enough that it had become habit instead of a decision. “Most days, it has to come first. But not every time.”

There were some people, some moments, when doing the job right also meant remembering a person was standing in front of the badge.

And I’d forgotten that.

My eyes found hers again. “Not when it costs the people that matter.”

I let the words sit between us for a second.

“They teach you in this job to stay objective. Don’t get too close. Don’t let emotions make your decisions for you.” I glanced down at the grass before looking back at her. “Most of the time, that’s good advice.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “But somewhere along the way…” I exhaled quietly. “I got too comfortable letting the badge make every decision.”

The admission didn’t come easily.

“It was simpler that way. Cleaner.” I shrugged once. “If I treated every situation exactly the same, I never had to wonder if I’d made the right call.” I looked out across the pasture, watching Theo lazily nose through a pile of hay. “The problem is... people aren’t all the same.” My jaw tightened. “I’ve made that mistake before. There’ve been people in my life who deserved more from me than a sheriff.” I stared toward the fence I’d spent the afternoon repairing. “People who needed me to put the badge down for five minutes and just listen.” I swallowed. “I didn’t.”

The breeze stirred through the trees, filling the silence again.

Sophie lifted the back of her hand and quickly brushed at one eye before returning her attention to Bandit.

“I told myself I was doing the right thing. That the job came first.” I shook my head once. “Maybe it did.” I looked back at her. “But not every single time. Sometimes the job isn’t what people remember. They remember whether you showed up for them.”

My eyes drifted to Bandit, who was leaning so hard into Sophie’s hand that he looked in danger of falling over.

“I’ve spent a lot of years trying to be a good sheriff.” I met her eyes. “But I don’t want that to come at the cost of being a good man.”

Silence settled between us again, stretching out in that strange way silence sometimes did when it wasn’t awkward anymore, just full of things neither person quite knew how to say.

Sophie sniffed, still petting the goat, her fingers absently scratching behind his ears like she’d forgotten anyone else was standing there.

But still saying nothing.

I smiled just a little. It happened before I could stop it. “Does he have a name?”

“Bandit,” she said finally. “He steals things.”

I glanced toward the goat, who looked suspiciously innocent for someone with an established criminal record. Bandit chose that exact second to steal the sleeve of Hartwell’s sweater, confirming the charges without even attempting a defense.

I cocked a brow. “Makes sense.”

A tiny laugh escaped her, almost like it surprised her as much as it did me. It was barely there, but it was something.

“And the alpacas?” I asked, hoping to keep her going. “Do they have names too?”

“Theo is the big male.”

“The other one?”

“Daisy.”

I looked around the pasture, mentally taking attendance like I was somehow responsible for the world’s most dysfunctional preschool.

“And the donkey?”

She smiled through suspiciously watery eyes. “I haven’t figured that one out yet.” She shrugged. “Names are important. I don’t want to rush these things.”

I laughed, the kind that showed up before I had a chance to decide whether I was supposed to be acting like the sheriff or just…me.

But then, Sophie laughed too.

The sound floated across the pasture, light and warm and completely different from the tears she’d been fighting only moments earlier. It carried on the breeze for a second before disappearing, leaving behind the kind of quiet that somehow felt brighter than before.

Bandit looked between us and bleated once, probably because he felt left out.

Sophie rubbed one hand across her eyes before looking back at me and taking a slow breath first. “Why?”

I knew exactly what she meant. I looked out across the pasture, giving myself a second before answering. The new fence. Fresh lumber. The little shelter. Four animals already making themselves at home like they’d been here for years instead of roughly twenty-four hours. “I had the space.”

She watched me carefully. “That’s not an answer.”

My eyes followed the donkey as it wandered into the little barn and investigated a pile of fresh straw with serious concentration, like conducting an official inspection. “I’ve always liked animals. My grandfather had a farm. I spent every summer there growing up, mucking stalls before breakfast, tossing hay, filling water troughs, fixing fences that somehow always needed fixing.” I chuckled. “My grandfather used to say farm animals were honest. They didn’t care what you did for a living or whether you’d had a bad day. Give them food, clean water, shelter, and respect, and they’d trust you.”

My eyes darted to the barn, checking it the way my grandfather had taught me decades ago. Plenty of fresh straw. Good ventilation. No sharp nails sticking out. Water bucket in the right place. It wasn’t something I had to think about anymore. It was just… there, buried somewhere in muscle memory. “And my place has been really quiet for too long. I guess I got used to it. Doesn’t mean I had to like it.” I looked back at her. “And after meeting this bunch…”

Bandit picked that exact moment to headbutt the water bucket hard enough to tip it over. Water splashed everywhere.

I smiled. “I had a feeling things weren’t going to stay quiet.”

Sophie laughed again, a little easier this time, the sound lingering longer. She looked at me and said, “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do,” she pressed.

Bandit had wandered over to Theo, nudging the alpaca’s leg until Theo finally acknowledged him with what looked like reluctant acceptance. Daisy stood nearby, pretending not to be part of the group while making absolutely no effort to walk away. Even the donkey had positioned himself close enough to keep an eye on everyone else.

“They’ve already sorted themselves out,” I said. “Animals do that. They decide who’s part of the herd.” I glanced at Bandit. “I figured it wasn’t my place to break that up.”

Sophie looked back toward the animals, her expression softening.

“I remembered what you said,” I told her. “You weren’t worried about yourself. You were worried about them.”

She looked down, a faint smile tugging at one corner of her mouth.

“I listened,” I said quietly. “Just a little later than I should’ve. I figured...” I looked back toward the pasture. “If I was going to do this, I should do it right.”

I stepped closer, close enough to see the tiny freckles across her nose and the way her eyes were still a little pink around the edges.

My fingers gently found hers where they rested against the fence, brushing against them first before threading between them.

She didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t just do it for them,” I said, keeping her close, my thumb brushing lightly across the back of her hand, almost without thinking.

Her eyes slowly lifted to meet mine.

I smiled and said, “I did it for you too.”

And for the first time since I’d snapped those handcuffs around her wrists, I didn’t want her walking away from me again.

27

SOPHIE

For a long moment, I couldn’t make my mouth work.

I just stood there, looking at him, at the animals, back at him again. My gaze kept bouncing between Eric and the pasture as though my brain refused to believe both things could exist at the same time. Kind sheriff. Gorgeous sheriff. Goat-rescuing sheriff. I’d stumbled into some alternate universe where emotionally available men built fences instead of excuses.

My heart felt too big for my chest. It felt like somebody had replaced all my internal organs with helium balloons and good intentions.

“You…” My voice caught. I swallowed hard and tried again. “You did all this for me?” My throat tightened around the words. I had about a thousand other questions lined up behind that one, all trying to squeeze through the same tiny opening at once.

He nodded once, like buying four animals, building them a home, and completely dismantling every defense mechanism I’d spent years carefully constructing was just another afternoon project.

I looked around the pasture again, to the new fence and shelter, the fresh hay, water, everything. Bandit happily chewed on a piece of straw like he’d already decided this was home. Theo had discovered the hay pile and appeared to be conducting an extremely thorough quality inspection. Daisy stood nearby with quiet confidence, clearly having accepted this entire arrangement far faster than any of the humans involved. Even the little donkey looked suspiciously pleased with himself.

Nobody had ever done anything like this for me.

Ever.

Not Henry, not anyone. And it wasn’t because they were trying to impress me before eventually disappointing me in increasingly creative ways.

Just because they cared. Because somewhere along the way this impossible man had looked at four animals and decided to solve the problem.

My emotions promptly dissolved into a complete and utter mess.

I had officially progressed from “angry enough to yell at the sheriff” to “might burst into tears because he built a goat enclosure.” There really ought to be road signs warning people about emotional whiplash. Mine had become severe enough to qualify for medical observation.

What a day.

I laughed once. Then sniffed. Then laughed again. Sniffed a couple of times more. Very sexy. My emotional range had become deeply concerning. Five hours ago I’d stolen a livestock truck. Then I’d gone to jail. Then I’d declared Captain Competent an emotionally constipated asshole. Now I was standing on his property contemplating whether it was socially acceptable to cry over properly installed fence posts.

Apparently yes.

The sheriff watched me quietly. “You okay?”

“No.” I laughed through another shaky breath. “I mean… yes.” I rubbed at one eye before another completely traitorous tear escaped anyway. “Maybe? Ask me again in ten minutes when my personality finishes rearranging itself.”

The sheriff let out a laugh.

I let out another sniff.

“I don’t know.” I pressed one hand against my forehead. “My brain has officially resigned.” It packed up its tiny desk plant, stole the good pens, and left me with absolutely no qualified replacement.

He shook his head, smiling. “You really do live in a different universe.”

I grinned. “It’s part of my charm.” I looked back toward the pasture one more time. “They’re safe.”

He nodded. “They are.”

“And they’re really staying here?” I asked, still feeling like this was too good to be true.

“They are.” There wasn’t a hint of hesitation in his voice. Just certainty. Somehow that made my chest squeeze even harder.

My eyes burned all over again. “You built all this today? You’ve got some kind of superpower hiding under that sheriff badge?”

He laughed. “I had some help getting supplies.” He shrugged. “The rest wasn’t complicated.”

I stared at him. “If you say so.” I shook my head slowly. “Maybe not the lumber part. Although, judging by those fence posts, I’m guessing you’re annoyingly good with power tools too.”

Our eyes met. For a long moment neither of us spoke. The silence no longer felt awkward. It was comfortable, like we’d somehow found our way back to each other after taking an unnecessarily scenic detour through felony charges.

Finally, he asked, “So…” A small smile touched his mouth. “Do you like it?”

I looked around once more. “I do. I really do.”

He let out a slow breath, almost like he’d been waiting for that answer. “Good.”

I looked back at him. “Good?”

His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“You built an entire home for four animals.”

“I built a fence.”

“You built a fence, a shelter, bought hay, water troughs, feed...” I pointed toward Bandit, who’d somehow found a stick twice his size. “And whatever he’s currently doing.”

Eric watched Bandit for a second. “I don’t think even he knows.”

I laughed. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know.”

My heart gave a little tug. “You could’ve called a rescue.”

Eric nodded. “I could’ve.”

“You could’ve dropped them off and walked away.”

“Yes. I could’ve.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You keep agreeing with me, but somehow you’re still standing here with four extra mouths to feed.”

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Didn’t seem right.”

“No,” I admitted. “I guess not.”

He glanced down for a second before meeting my eyes again. “If I was going to fix what I messed up, I figured I should fix the part that mattered most to you.”

I looked around once more. “Well. You did a great job. I love it.”

The word felt far too small for what was swelling inside my chest. Love wasn’t big enough. There should’ve been another word. One specifically reserved for impossible men who rescued animals and accidentally rescued stubborn women at the same time.

The words barely left my mouth before my body made another executive decision without consulting my brain.

I closed the space between us, reached up, and caught his face between both my hands—again. My thumb brushed lightly along his jaw, rough with the start of an afternoon beard. “You’re going to ruin me for every other man on the planet.”

Then I kissed him. Really kissed him.

And not like the impulsive, terrified kiss from the festival.

This one was different. It carried every thank you I couldn’t put into words. Every apology. Every ounce of relief. Every impossible, terrifying, wonderful feeling that had been steadily growing inside me from the moment Captain Competent had walked onto that dance floor and held out his hand.

For one heartbeat he seemed almost surprised. Then his hands found my waist, and he kissed me back.

Slowly at first. Then with a quiet certainty that stole every coherent thought I had left.

I leaned into him without even realizing it. He pulled me closer, and the scent of cedar, fresh-cut wood, and soap surrounded me. His thumb brushed lightly along my side.

I smiled against his mouth. Actually smiled. Because somehow, in the span of a few hours, this impossible man had arrested me, bought four farm animals, and completely turned my world upside down.

I laughed softly between kisses.

He pulled back to look at me. “What?”

I shook my head, tears threatening again. “You’re…” I laughed once more. “A really wonderful man.”

Something warm flickered across his face. The guarded sheriff disappeared.

There was only Eric.

He rested his forehead lightly against mine. Then he slipped his fingers through mine. “Come on.”

“Where?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got something to show you.”

I laughed. “That is either the most wholesome invitation ever or the smoothest.”

He chuckled. “I guess you’ll have to come inside and find out.”

Still holding hands, we walked toward the house together. He held the door for me, and I walked in.

“Nice,” I said, taking it all in, the brown leather sofas, the heavy wood furniture. “Very manly. A bit caveman-ish. But I like it.”

“It gets the job done.”

“Well, that’s certainly one way to sell it.”

He smiled.

I wandered a few steps farther inside, my eyes moving from one corner of the room to the next. It looked exactly the way I’d imagined Eric’s house would.

Nothing fancy. Nothing pretending to be something it wasn’t. Everything looked solid. Built to last. The leather sofa had clearly been sat on hundreds of times, but it was well cared for. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall, and neatly stacked firewood waited beside it even though summer hadn’t quite given up yet.

My gaze drifted to a pair of well-worn work boots sitting neatly beside the back door. Not kicked off. Placed there. Of course they were.

“You alphabetize your socks too?” I teased.

He frowned. “No.”

“Really?”

“They’re separated by color.”

I stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

His expression never changed.

It took me three full seconds to realize he was teasing me. “You almost had me.”

Eric chuckled. “I know.”

I laughed.

Books were scattered across a shelf beneath the television. Not decorative books people bought because the colors matched the curtains. Real books. Repair manuals. Local history. Wildlife guides. A thick volume about woodworking. A couple of crime novels with creased spines.

“You read?”

“I can.”

I rolled my eyes. “You know exactly what I meant.”

“I do.”

My attention wandered toward a row of framed photographs sitting on a side table. An older couple stood beside a red barn, smiling into the camera. Another picture showed a teenage Eric holding what looked like an enormous pumpkin, wearing an expression that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else.

I smiled as I glanced back at him. “You had hair.”

His face screwed up. “I still have hair.”

“A lot more hair. Like big.”

He gave me a look.

I laughed again. “You were cute.”

“I was fourteen.”

“That explains the haircut.”

I wandered toward the kitchen. Like the living room, it was simple. Everything had a place. The countertops were spotless. A fruit bowl sat in the middle of the island with exactly three bananas and two apples. Nothing else. No mail piled on the counter or a mysterious junk drawer exploding into neighboring cabinets.

All very neat and organized.

The exact opposite of me.

“You actually live like this?”

He looked around. “Like what?”

“So...” I gestured vaguely. “Functional.”

He shrugged. “It’s easier to find things.”

“Ah.” I leaned against the counter, looking back toward the living room.

For just a second... just one tiny second, I pictured myself curled up in that chair by the fireplace with a blanket and a book. Eric walking in through the back door after work. Eric looking at me like that. Then kissing me. Then carrying me over to the bedroom and ripping all my clothes off...

Yeah… gotta stop that. My brain was getting way ahead of itself again.

I’d known the man for all of five minutes. Okay... slightly more than five minutes. Still.

I cleared my throat and looked at him. “You know,” I said playfully, “for a caveman, you’ve made this place surprisingly cozy. Still sexy in that primeval drag-your-woman-by-the-hair-to-the-bedroom sort of way.”

“Come here.” He closed the distance between us, the warmth of his breath brushing across my skin. Heat flickered in his dark eyes before he tipped his head and brushed a lingering kiss against one corner of my mouth. My pulse stumbled as he repeated the gesture on the other side, catching my lower lip in a gentle tease.

I found myself responding excitedly, kissing him back with the same intensity. He slid his tongue between my lips, and I shuddered with pleasure, heat blooming over my skin.

I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had kissed me like that, with such passion and desire. It was setting my core on fire. I wanted to rip off his clothes and touch every inch of his hard body.

I pushed myself against him, feeling the heat between us. His hands moved under my shirt, sending delicious tingles over my skin.

He flashed a wicked grin and drew me against him. Warm breath ghosted over my skin before he captured my mouth in a kiss filled with urgency. His hands gripped my hips with a possessiveness that made me shiver.

I pulled away playfully. “Like I said. Very caveman-ish.”

Eric let out a growl and claimed my mouth again.

He was everything I wanted in that moment—steady, strong, and impossible to resist. Every slow stroke of his hands unraveled another layer of my resolve until I was leaning into him without a second thought. It was far more than a kiss. It was the kind of moment that made the rest of the world disappear.

I drew in a shaky breath, struggling to calm my racing heart. He eased back enough to look at me, his breathing uneven. The heat in his eyes stole what little composure I had left.

In one effortless movement, he swept me into his arms and carried me into the living room. He eased me down onto the leather sofa before leaning over me, the solid warmth of his body surrounding mine.

Every nerve ending seemed to come alive, my pulse racing until I could feel it everywhere. He finally broke the kiss, lingering only inches away as his gaze searched mine. The unmistakable longing in his eyes stole the breath from my lungs.

In a blur, he pulled off his shirt and jeans.

So, of course, I had to rip off my shirt too. Then my jeans until I sat there in only a bra and panties.

The next thing I knew, Eric was on top of me again, and then my panties disappeared. Yup. The sheriff definitely had superpowers.

As he settled over me, my legs slipped around his waist, drawing him closer. The solid strength of him surrounded me, warm and reassuring. We found each other without thinking, moving together with an easy rhythm until the rest of the world faded away.

I wasn’t disappearing into someone else’s life.

I was finally walking toward my own.

28

SOPHIE

By the time the sun began sinking behind the trees, painting the sky in streaks of pink, gold, and soft orange, I’d somehow found myself sitting on Eric’s back porch with an oversized glass of red wine in one hand and my sneakers kicked off beneath the chair. The porch creaked softly every now and then, the kind of comforting old-house sound that somehow made the whole place feel lived in instead of perfect. Somewhere nearby, pine needles whispered in the breeze, and the entire property smelled faintly of fresh-cut wood, hay, and summer.

Not exactly how I’d expected today to end. Honestly, I’d expected jail food.

Or at the very least community service involving fluorescent safety vests that announced to the entire town you’d made questionable life choices. Considering my track record over the last twenty-four hours, it could’ve gone either way.

Instead, I was watching a shirtless sheriff build a forever home for four rescued farm animals.

Life was weird. Wonderfully weird. Also wildly unpredictable, which was becoming my new normal. Somewhere along the way, my life had stopped making any logical sense whatsoever and started reading like someone had shuffled three different novels together. Oddly enough… I wasn’t entirely mad about it.

Eric was still out in the pasture making what he insisted were “a few final adjustments.”

There was no such thing as finished if you were Captain Competent. There was only almost finished, nearly finished, and I’ll-just-fix-one-more-thing-before-I-sit-down. The man probably alphabetized his toolbox and apologized to crooked picture frames before straightening them.

He crouched beside the fence, tightening one last hinge before carrying over another heavy rubber water trough and setting it carefully near the shelter. A second one already sat near the far fence line. Beside them, he’d mounted shiny automatic water bowls to the inside of the shelter where they could drink even if it rained. Feed buckets hung neatly from sturdy hooks, every one lined up with the kind of precision that suggested he’d probably folded fitted sheets for fun. He even stepped back every few minutes, his hands on his hips, studying everything from different angles like a contractor performing a final inspection. If one bucket had been half an inch crooked, I had absolutely no doubt he’d have fixed it.

Seriously. Was there anything this man couldn’t do?

It should’ve been illegal for a sheriff to own shoulders like that. Broad enough to split firewood, build fences, rescue animals, and probably carry stranded grandmothers across flooded streets if the opportunity presented itself.

There ought to be licensing.

Maybe annual inspections. Conducted by qualified professionals. I volunteered despite possessing absolutely no qualifications beyond enthusiastic appreciation.

At the very least a warning label.

CAUTION: May cause otherwise sensible women to forget how language works. Side effects may include excessive staring, poor decision-making, spontaneous kissing, and briefly believing handcuffs could somehow be romantic despite very recent evidence to the contrary.

Bandit, naturally, interpreted Eric’s hard work as a personal invitation to become involved. Or, more accurately, interfere in increasingly creative ways. The goat had appointed himself assistant project manager, despite having absolutely no practical construction experience.

By involved, I meant thoroughly unhelpful. Impressively, almost professionally unhelpful. There was genuine commitment behind the chaos.

Bandit wandered over and stole one of Eric’s work gloves before trotting triumphantly across the pasture with it dangling from his mouth. His little tail wagged so enthusiastically that his entire backside bounced with every step.

Eric sighed. “Bandit.”

The goat kept going without even a slight hesitation. If anything, his pace became just a little more confident, as though being specifically addressed by name confirmed he was on exactly the right path.

“I know you can hear me.”

Bandit looked over one shoulder, made direct eye contact, and then deliberately turned his head forward again, as though choosing crime despite fully understanding the consequences. Then he ran faster, tiny legs but maximum commitment.

I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my wine. I caught the glass just in time, which felt like my greatest physical achievement of the day, considering I’d recently attempted grand theft livestock.

Eric pointed after the goat. “You’re encouraging him.”

“I absolutely am.” I took another sip of wine. “I think he enjoys having hobbies.” Productive hobbies weren’t for everyone. Some people knitted. Some painted landscapes. Bandit’s passion involved accumulating stolen accessories one glove at a time.

Eric gave me a look. “Stealing isn’t a hobby.”

“For Bandit, I think it might actually qualify as a lifestyle.” At this point I was fairly certain he’d list “petty criminal” under special skills if goats had résumés.

Eric shook his head while walking after the goat with the patient resignation of a man who’d somehow accepted that this was simply how his evening was going to unfold. There wasn’t an ounce of real annoyance in the way he moved, just quiet acceptance that this tiny horned menace now lived on his property and had no intention whatsoever of respecting personal boundaries or workplace etiquette.

Halfway there, the little donkey wandered over. Ears twitching curiously, he watched Eric for a long thoughtful moment as though carefully evaluating the situation before deciding whether further involvement was required.

He sniffed Eric’s back, conducting a complete donkey-approved assessment.

Then, without the slightest warning, he headbutted him squarely in the backside.

Eric stumbled forward one step. He caught himself immediately, turned slowly toward the donkey, and stared at him in complete disbelief while the donkey blinked back with such spectacular innocence that, if I’d been on a jury, I’d have acquitted him on the spot. Even I almost believed it hadn’t happened. Almost.

I burst into another fit of laughter, the kind that started somewhere deep in my stomach and refused to leave, bubbling out before I had any chance of pretending to be a dignified adult.

Eric straightened with the resigned patience of a man who already knew exactly which four-legged suspect was responsible before he’d even completed the turn. “You stop that. You don’t headbutt the guy who just saved you.”

The donkey looked back, his ears forward and eyes wide. His expression remained utterly angelic.

Then, Bandit came wandering back. He snatched up the other glove and trotted proudly away with his newest prize swinging from his mouth.

I laughed even harder. Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes, and I had to set my wineglass down on the little table beside me before I accidentally watered the porch instead of the flowers.

“I’m being overthrown by livestock.” Eric looked around the pasture as though trying to identify which member of the rebellion he’d lost control of first. Frankly, I thought he’d already lost the entire organization.

“You kind of deserve it.” I shrugged innocently. “You can’t just move in and expect to become management overnight. Trust has to be earned.”

“Oh?”

“You arrested their lawyer.” I hooked a thumb at myself. “They’re still processing the betrayal.”

He looked over at me, and the corner of his mouth twitched despite his obvious attempt to remain serious. “You were representing them?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

“I must’ve missed that during processing,” commented Eric.

“I think Deputy Jenna did too.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck before reaching down to scratch the donkey between his ears. His big hand disappeared into the shaggy fur, and the entire movement looked so natural it was obvious he’d been around animals long before today.

The little guy leaned happily into it. His eyes drifted half closed, and he let out a tiny contented sigh.

“You know…” I said, studying him for another second. The more I watched him, the more certain I became. Some names just belonged to certain faces. Like meeting someone named Steve who clearly looked like a Steve. This little donkey absolutely had Douglas energy.

“What?”

“I think I’ve finally figured out his name.” The realization settled over me with ridiculous confidence. There would be no committee meeting. No further discussion. My brain had already filed the paperwork.

Eric looked over. “And? What is it?”

I nodded slowly with the absolute certainty of a woman making an extremely important life decision that had somehow become my responsibility despite absolutely nobody asking me to name someone else’s donkey.

“Douglas.”

The donkey lifted his head almost immediately, which I chose to interpret as active participation in the naming ceremony. He brayed once, long, loud, and ridiculously dramatic.

I pointed triumphantly. “See? He likes it.” Frankly, I considered the matter legally binding now.

Eric raised an eyebrow. The skeptical one. He possessed separate eyebrows with entirely different personalities. “That’s your scientific evidence?”

“It was an enthusiastic acceptance.” I nodded with complete confidence despite possessing absolutely none of the credentials required to make donkey-related behavioral assessments.

“It sounded more like a complaint.”

“You clearly don’t speak donkey.” Which was unfortunate for him because I was becoming increasingly fluent through absolutely no training whatsoever.

Eric let out a laugh. “No. No, I don’t.”

“I do.” Apparently. Another unexpected skill I’d discovered this week. Festival planning. Emotional catastrophes. Advanced donkey interpretation. My résumé was becoming wonderfully confusing.

Another bray.

“There.” I smiled and folded my arms. Case closed. “Douglas has spoken.” The jury had reached its verdict, and I was delighted to announce unanimous approval from the defendant himself.

Eric chuckled. “I’m not arguing with Douglas.” Wise decision. Douglas struck me as someone who held grudges and remembered faces.

“Smart man.” Nobody wanted to start a neighborhood dispute with a donkey on the first day.

Douglas wandered off looking deeply satisfied with himself. His ears bounced gently with every step. Bandit tried chewing on his tail. Naturally. Because respecting personal space remained an optional concept in goat society.

Douglas ignored him. Didn’t even turn around. He simply continued walking with patient dignity, like he’d already accepted that this tiny horned nuisance wasn’t going away anytime soon.

I grabbed my wine glass and leaned farther back in the Adirondack chair while the evening settled gently around us. As the chair creaked softly, I realized my shoulders had finally relaxed. My neck wasn’t stiff, and I could finally let myself just… breathe.

Crickets had started singing. Their steady chorus drifted across the property, blending with the occasional rustle of leaves and the soft sounds of happy animals settling into their new home.

A breeze stirred the trees, carrying the scent of pine, fresh hay, warm earth, and sawdust from Eric’s latest project. It was clean, simple, and peaceful—the kind of evening people wrote country songs about.

Somewhere farther down the property, a bird called once before everything became wonderfully quiet again—not empty quiet, just comfortable quiet. The kind that didn’t demand filling with conversation because somehow everything important had already been said.

Forty-eight hours ago, I’d been convinced I’d ruined my life. Spectacularly. With commitment. If there had been a medal for impulsive decision-making followed by catastrophic overthinking, I’d have been standing proudly on the podium wearing the gold.

I’d kissed the sheriff. Been arrested by the sheriff. Stolen a truck. Gone to jail.

Yet somehow, everything important had fallen into place. Not because I’d planned it. Heaven forbid I receive credit for organization outside of festivals. It had simply… happened. Like the universe had finally decided to stop laughing at me for five consecutive minutes.

The festival had worked, against all reasonable expectations, including several of my own. It hadn’t been perfect, but I’d figured it out. Somehow I’d kept everything moving forward with equal parts determination, caffeine, panic, and what I now suspected was blind optimism disguised as leadership.

I actually did know what I was doing.

Which came as something of a surprise considering I’d spent a solid portion of my adult life convinced I was professionally unemployable outside of accidentally creating minor disasters. Competence had been hiding underneath the panic all along.

Not because I’d read a book. Heaven knew I’d bought enough self-help books over the years. They mostly ended up on shelves making me feel guilty every time I walked past them. Or because somebody trained me. No wise mentor had appeared with a clipboard and inspirational speeches. No magical event-planning fairy had tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “You’ve got this, kid.”

Because chaos made sense to me. While everyone else seemed to freeze the minute three things went wrong at once, my brain somehow shifted into higher gear. It was like the more plates started wobbling, the faster I ran around catching them before they hit the floor. Admittedly, I occasionally dropped one on my own foot first, but eventually everything ended up spinning again.

I’d spent years apologizing for being the woman who bounced from one disaster to another. Every new job had come with another promise that this one would be different followed shortly afterward by another spectacular misunderstanding, another boss who didn’t quite know what to do with me, and another uncomfortable exit involving cardboard boxes and forced optimism.

Turned out, I’d simply been practicing. Life had been one very long unpaid internship in crisis management. Who knew?

Event planning was basically organized panic with better decorations. You smiled while internally calculating seventeen backup plans, answered questions you absolutely didn’t know the answer to with suspicious confidence, and prayed nobody noticed you were making half of it up as you went along. I’d been preparing for that my entire life without realizing it.

I was oddly qualified. Which felt strange after all the years I’d spent assuming my greatest skill was accidentally making situations more complicated before eventually fixing them. Turned out that was practically listed under the job description.

Henry was wrong.

I wasn’t too much.

I was just enough.

My phone buzzed beside my chair. The sound made me jump just enough to slosh my wine dangerously close to the rim of the glass.

I picked it up, wiping one hand on my jeans.

Helen.

I smiled before I even opened the message. Helen never texted unless it was important, hectic, or involved assigning unsuspecting volunteers to things they hadn’t technically agreed to yet. I was becoming alarmingly familiar with her management style.

Helen: Tomorrow. 9:00 a.m. Town Hall. We need to go over Harvest Festival, Founder’s Day, the Christmas Parade, and Winter Carnival. Bring coffee. You’re officially too valuable to lose.

I stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over the message as though reading it one more time might somehow make the words disappear or reveal a tiny footnote explaining she’d texted the wrong Sophie.

Then I read it again. Slower this time, making sure my emotionally overloaded brain hadn’t replaced you’re fired with you’re too valuable to lose through wishful thinking.

And a third time. Just for quality control. Scientific verification required multiple observations, and I was nothing if not committed to proper research when my future employment depended on it.

A slow smile spread across my face. It started somewhere deep inside me before I even realized it was happening, warming everything in its path until my cheeks hurt from smiling.

I’d done it. Against all available evidence and despite myself.

I had a real job that wasn’t temporary, wasn’t something I was pretending to understand, and wasn’t waiting for me to inevitably mess it up before someone politely escorted me toward the exit.

I loved it, even with the disasters, especially with the disasters. Maybe because of the disasters.

You’re officially too valuable to lose.

Those words felt wonderfully strange inside my head. Nobody had offered it out of pity. Nobody had looked at me with that heartbreaking expression people reserved for women who were trying their best but somehow kept ending up in spectacularly awkward situations.

I’d earned it. Every stressful minute. Every last-second solution. Every runaway goat. Every sleepless night. Every moment I’d doubted myself and kept going anyway.

I took another sip of wine. It tasted even better now. Victory paired nicely with a fruity red and the distant sounds of livestock attempting to reorganize someone else’s backyard.

No more screwups. I nodded firmly to myself, realizing I probably shouldn’t make promises to the universe while holding alcohol.

Well, probably fewer screwups. Let’s aim for realistic personal growth instead of complete personality replacement. Baby steps seemed wiser.

I was still Sophie Hartwell, which meant there would almost certainly be future mishaps. Hopefully fewer of them would involve law enforcement. Ideally none involving handcuffs. That felt like a reasonable long-term goal.

There was every chance I’d accidentally organize another minor felony before Christmas. Not intentionally, of course. It would almost certainly begin with me trying to help someone and end with Deputy Jenna pinching the bridge of her nose while asking me to please stop improving the situation.

Across the pasture, Eric looked up from closing the gate. He paused for just a second, resting one forearm across the top rail as though making sure everything was exactly the way he wanted it before finally calling it a day.

Our eyes met across the fresh-cut grass, the fence, the animals, and everything that had happened over the last two days.

He smiled. And it wasn’t the polite sheriff smile. It was Eric’s smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes enough to make him look younger and softer. Like the man behind the badge instead of the sheriff wearing it. That kind of smile didn’t ask anything from me. It didn’t expect me to be anybody except exactly who I already was.

Somehow that made everything inside me settle. The overthinking, the second-guessing, the wondering whether I was too much or not enough seemed to loosen their grip just a little.

I smiled back without thinking about it or worrying what came next.

With my phone still in my hand, I tapped the diary app and typed:

Day 4:

Got the job.

Got the guy.

Didn’t die.

I dropped my phone back on the chair next to me.

I wasn’t lying awake wondering what I was supposed to do with my life or who I was supposed to become to make somebody else happy.

I already knew. Amazingly, beautifully knew.

I wasn’t wondering where I was headed anymore.

I was already on my way.

BOOKS BY LILY BENNET

MAPLEWOOD FALLS

The Accidental Innkeeper

The Realtor Disaster

The Unexpected Companion

The Worst Possible Plan

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lily Bennet writes romantic comedies about small towns, second chances, and falling for someone you absolutely did not plan on. She loves sharp banter, cozy settings, and love stories where things go a little sideways before they work themselves out. When she isn’t writing, she’s usually overthinking something, coffee in hand.

To learn more about the author, please visit:

https://www.lilybennet.com/