Page 21 of Sweet and Salty

Still, five o’clock inevitably arrives, and I drag my weary feet to the front door to switch the sign to Closed. Out front, the sheriff’s truck pulls into the first parking spot, and RoryMarshall steps out in his full uniform. He holds up a hand in greeting. Not wanting to make more of an asshole of myself than I already have, I wave in return.

This is entirely the wrong thing to do, as Rory smiles a great shaggy collie of a grin and heads straight for me.

I am all talked—er, listened—out by this point. If I was at home in Florida, all I would want would be to talk only to dogs or horses for the rest of the night. Though since Esme required a clean house, I had to visit the animals at the barn.

Maybe I should get a dog.

“Hey, Jesse.” Rory pulls open the door and lets himself in. “Busy Saturday, huh?”

“You betcha.” It sounds forced and somehow exaggerates my Southern accent. “How was your Saturday?”

Rory laughs and puts his hands on his belt, right above the holster for his service weapon. “You know, if people want to make fools of themselves, they always wait for the weekend. And it’s worse this time of year, with all the tourists coming up through the county.”

This I still can’t fathom, but of all the people I’ve met here, Rory seems the least likely to take offense. “Tourists? People come up here voluntarily?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s lots to do here. Fishing, biking, hiking, sailing. There are a bunch of great farm-to-table restaurants and breweries. We’ve even got some great local wineries. They make a killer cranberry or cherry wine.”

That sounds like cough syrup.

Rory arches a brow. He has dark brown hair like his sister, but his eyes are browner, more hazel than Laura’s emerald green. “You haven’t been to any of these places?”

“I don’t go out much.”

Rory sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “We’ll solve that soon enough. Look, I just stopped in to give you my mom’saddress for dinner tomorrow. Plan on at least three hours, unless Frannie wants game night. In which case, you should bring a sleeping bag.”

This is appalling on many levels. “I don’t own a sleeping bag.” I’ve been thinking a lot about Rory’s invitation to their family dinner, and the longer I think about it, the more I realize there’s absolutely no way I can go. I can’t even fully figure out why I want to in the first place. I’ve always been better with animals than people. It’s why I’m forty-two and my longest relationship ended not just in a rain of fire, but a full-on nuclear apocalypse. I’m in no way a people person. There is no reason for me to want to get to know the Marshall family, particularly not Laura. Thoughts of her invade almost every moment of my day, but there lies danger. Dragon-level danger.

I can never be what a woman like Laura wants and needs. I can’t make her a single promise I’ll be able to keep. I’m not going to accompany her to Saturday polka or the ham thing or even fucking bingo. Her other guys didn’t stick around? Hell, the moment my trial is over and Johnny Mack and his band of assholes is behind bars, I’m out of here faster than Secretariat winning the Kentucky Derby.

And the longer I spend with her, the more time I want to spend, which is, to put it mildly, exceedingly problematic.

I run a hand over my scruff of beard. I’ve barely looked in a mirror over the last few months, but I caught a glimpse of myself this morning. What would my grandma say if she saw me with this degree of beard growth? She’d probably call me a ruffian and hand me a new razor.

“Look, Rory, I really appreciate the invitation—”

“No.” Rory holds up a hand, his jaw tightening. “Look, I know you’re going to turn me down. But don’t.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “That’s my mom’s address.I’ll come over tomorrow for an hour or two to help you with that shit hole you’re living in. We can drive together.”

He has the withering gaze that’s necessary for the role of sheriff. “Thanks. I have a lot to do tomorrow, but I’ll be there.”

“Great.” Rory’s grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, and Mom hates flowers. Long story. See you tomorrow.”

I follow him to the door of the hardware store and lock it behind him, waving through the glass. Time to drive myself home to stare at the crumbling walls and reflect, yet again, on how the hell I got here.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jesse

In this twistedworld of St. Olaf, where people actually keep their word, Rory shows up on time that Sunday afternoon. I sit on my porch, nursing a bottle of soda since I stopped drinking after moving to St. Olaf. Technically, I stopped drinking about a month later once I realized that I needed my reaction time to be faster than dear-god-it’s-already-two-in-the-afternoon-and-my muscles-feel-like week-old-Jell-O. Being over forty sucks.

Rory’s truck rolls down the dirt driveway and parks next to the beater I bought once I figured out there’s nothing passing for public transportation out here. Per Opal Larson, who I’ve now gotten to know, the town’s one ride share driver has apparently gone the way of Moe, permanently out fishing.

“Hey, man,” Rory says, stepping from his truck. He looks different and yet somehow still sheriff in plainclothes, with a loose flannel button-down hanging over a black T-shirt and jeans. He pulls a work belt from the back seat of his truck. “I’ve got a babysitter for two hours. This is gold.”

“I don’t want you to waste your babysitting time on me. You’ve probably got better things to do.”

Rory rolls his eyes skyward. “Don’t make it so hard to help you, Jesse. You’re worse than my sister.”

“Laura?” I try to sound casual and fail miserably. No, not just miserably. Crashed-and-burned-after-rolling-my-car-into-a-wayward-oil-tanker level of failure.

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