Page 2 of Eternally Devoted

I know who’s here, and Dash is a man. Those two things are theentireequation. Doesn’t matter who he voted for, what he likes in bed, how he takes his coffee or what his favorite movie is. He’s a man with eyes and a cock.

And she’s…her.

He pulls open the door, and from my spot at the table, I swear I can smell her. Ripened berries and simmering sugar, Juniper Ellington beams at Dash, a tray of jam filling her arms.

“Oh hi! Dash! It’s so good to finally meet you!” She beams, making my heart race at the glimpse of her ten feet back. I get to my feet and to the door, easing the tray of jam from her arms.

Dash stands frozen in the doorway, a statue. “Hi.”

“Hi, I’m Juniper, I own Juni’s Jams.” She outstretches her hand and I give them space, putting the jars on the counter. Dash shakes her hand. “Sterling told me all about you, that’show I knew you’re Dash. Plus,” she says, leaning in slightly, gripping the doorframe as she does. Her nails are painted blue, my favorite. “It’s Bluebell. We all know the name Dash Foster. Chief Greenly printed your name in the newspaper when you signed on.”

Standing behind them, I notice their hands are still linked when Juni’s emerald eyes veer to mine. “Hey, Sterl,” she greets, her toothy, crooked grin sending a sharp twist of desire through my chest. She always does that to me. “We still bowling tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Juniper paces back, taking her hand out of Dash’s. “Yay! Okay, I’ll meet you there around 7, if that still works.” Nodding, I lift my hand, waving her off with a controlled smile. I’m always controlling myself around Juniper.

Dash closes the door, and turns to face me, wearing an expression I’m familiar with. One I’ve worn.

Instant adoration shines in his eyes. Standing there, he glances back at the closed door before he finally turns to face me. “Juniper,” he draws out.

Clapping a hand on his shoulder, I give him a knowing smile. “Why do you think I eat so much jam?”

CHAPTER

ONE

WITH MY OWN HALFIE.

Dash

Present.

I’m so glad that Sterling let me use one side of his garage. If he’d said no, I would’ve had to work out at the on-site gym at the police station. A rusted set of dumbbells, an elliptical missing a handle, two stationary bikes that look like they may have beenrecovered from the Titanic, and a bench press machine with seven total plates.

That’s what Bluebell Police Department uses.

That won’t do for me.

My time lifting weights in the morning is less for my body than it is for my mind. Sort out my thoughts, work through my goals, and plan my day. Without that hour and a half each morning, I’m grouchy.

Ihatebeing grouchy.

Approaching my last set, I rerack, get to my feet, and slide the extra weight onto the bar. My eyes veer to Sterling’s truck, tucked neatly in the first stall. The peanut butter leather catches my attention. White exterior, wood trim inside, all the upgrades, his pickup oozes class and style. It’s so fitting for him. As I slide the last plate on the bar, I imagine how he looks behind the wheel, eating up all that cab space with his expansive frame and booming chest.

In the last month, I’ve come to realize that I appreciate a handsome man. Well, I never got a hard-on for one until Sterling. At first, it freaked me out. But now I see it for what it is: a reaction to something good.And is he ever.Sterling isn’t just sweet and funny but he’s generous, kind, hardworking and smart. He not only owns the sanitation company but also drives the main refuse truck in Bluebell. If Chief Greenly hadn’t told me Sterlingownsit, I wouldn’t know.

The man is humble as hell, which I’ve learned isarousing.

Lying on the bench, I position my hands along the threading on the bar and prepare for my set, waiting for my halfie to go away. After finally pressing the last five reps, I get up, grab my water and head into the house.

It’s still and dark, with only the digital green clock faintly glowing from the stove in the kitchen. Quietly, I gather items from the fridge then wash my hands. Sometime later, amidstcrackling bacon and percolating coffee, the main bedroom door at the end of the hall cracks, and a moment later, a sleepy-looking Sterling appears. Bare feet and chest, he trudges down the hall in boxer shorts, his strawberry blond locks mussed from sleep.

“Morning,” he greets, catching a yawn with his hand as he passes by the kitchen, toward the front door.

“Already on the table,” I tell him, knowing he’s going for the paper. I bring it in almost every morning, still, he hasn’t adjusted to the fact that it’s done.

“Thanks,” Sterling smiles, sinking into his chair at the table.

---