Page 51 of Anchor Point

“Thanks for the deflection, Chief. The mayor’s office has been pushing me on this case.”

“Why?” Bloom, who’d remained silent and out of the attention zone while the mayor had been busting my balls, asked.

“No idea, other than Smith’s push to be in the media spotlight. Small-town paper is one thing. But a story like this will bring the Atlanta news stations down and give him some camera time.”

I scoffed. “Why in the world does he want our crime in the spotlight?” More ridiculous posturing and grandstanding.

Bloom sighed. “I don’t understand why he thinks he’s the face of the city anyway. We have a media relations person for that.”

Harrison raised a brow. “Sounds like the mayor needs to take a step back and let people do their jobs.”

Bloom gave a half snort. “He’s just mad because he got out voted in hiring the chief. He wanted to give the job to someone else.”

Clarity was a beautiful thing. “Let me guess. His choice was a buddy of his.”

Bloom gave a singular nod. And just like that, I had my answers. I was fighting a losing battle with Smith because I wasn’t one of his good old boys.

From the courthouse, I dropped Bloom at city hall, and Harrison at headquarters. Finally alone, I rolled my shoulders, trying to shrug off the aggravation that was dealing with the mayor. I just had to keep my head down, keep working for the good of my department. With that in mind, I pointed the car toward Mac’s and planned for a girls’ night with my daughter.

Mac

I pulled up to the house on Saturday morning after running calls all night to find Olivia had parked in my normal spot, forcing me to pull into the yard or take a chance on blocking her in.

Why this irritated me, I couldn’t tell.

I expected Buster to run and greet me, then remembered he was probably holed up in bed with Rosie.

Damn traitor.

All I wanted was to go inside, grab a shower, and kick back on my couch with a good book for a little while. Then maybe I’d go work in the shop. I didn’t want to face Olivia and her sexy body. Or Rosie and her perky, sometimes-pesky teenage attitude. I didn’t want to talk about Taylor Swift or boys or fishing. I wanted some damn sleep.

I opened the truck door and landed in a puddle, mud kicking up my pants legs and seeping through my shoes.

Dammit.

I trudged up the porch, stomping my feet to shake off some of the mud.

The screen door squeaked as I pulled it open. I needed to fix that today.

I juggled my work bag and travel coffee cup to pull my keys free. They slipped out of my hand, and when I stooped to pick them up, coffee poured all over me.

“Son of a bitch.” My voice blasted the quiet of the morning.

Fuck, I was tired.

I managed to get inside without dropping or stepping in anything else and left everything by the front door.

From there, I headed straight to the couch. To hell with the shower. My joints gave a sigh of relief as I stretched out and pulled the blanket over me.

Somewhere in the swirl of a deep dream came quiet feminine voices, the jangle of Buster’s dog collar. I rolled over, pulling the blanket over my head to block out the light. The screen door squeaked, and then blessed silence. I sank into blissful sleep again.

The mouthwatering smell of bacon pulled me back from the depths of a dream where a certain curvy brunette lay spread on the deck of my boat, sunning herself.

The clink of utensils, followed by the sizzle of something hitting the pan sounded from my kitchen.

I stretched with a groan and got a nose full of doggy kisses in the process. I wiped my face with a hand and then gave my best boy a head scratch. “Hey, buddy.” God, my voice was scratchy.

I cleared my throat and sat up, blinking away sleep.

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