Page 1 of Falling for the Sheriff
1
Alice
The alarm shrieks at my side, a merciless sound that yanks me from a world of heat and shadow. I’m awake instantly, my heart drumming against my ribs as I attempt to steady my breathing. The sheets are in a desperate knot around my ankles from what must’ve been from jerking around.
A low groan escapes me as I shift and feel the warmth collecting between my thighs.
I don’t need to think too deeply to know what scene was occupying my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to claw my way back into the silence of the dream, to steal just one more minute under that heavy-lidded gaze of the man who has haunted me for months now.
But then, the second alarm blares, a final verdict. The dream is gone. He is gone. Right out of my reach, just as he always has been.
The man without a name.
Outside, the birds are chirping with obnoxious, sunny cheer. My teeth dig into my tongue to stop me from yanking open my bedroom window and yelling at them, from ruining my neighbors’ peaceful morning with the sounds of my sleepless night.
Hepicked the worst possible time to haunt me. I’m furious that it was a good haunting. A breathtaking one. It wasn’t a memory; it was a relapse.
The Hollow Oak was a terrible, perfect place to choose a stranger. And he was just that. Terribly perfect. He gave me exactly what I asked for and then gave me something I had never experienced before. A single, toe-curling, world-ending orgasm that has become the benchmark for every lonely moment since.
Maybe it was because I was a hopeful virgin who had no previous experience, but the bar was set impossibly high for my fingers to compete with ever since.
Was it worth it?
With another sigh, I push myself out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom. The cool tiles are a shock under my feet. Peeling off my sleep shirt, my eyes drift unwillingly to the mirror.
It’s not the purple bruises of sleeplessness under my eyes that make me grimace. It’s my stomach. Softly rounded, like I’ve just finished a big meal. I try to suck it in, a futile gesture. Nothing happens. It just is.
Pursing my lips, I lay a hand on the curve, my fingers splayed. A part of me still expects something—a kick, a flutter, some proof of the life that’s rewriting mine. I guess in a few more weeks, something will.
It was one night. One incredible, impulsive night. Why would I have stopped to get a name? A number? I was there to shed a title, not collect new contacts. I didn’t know that the one and only time in my entire life would be the time that counted.
Now, there’s a man out there who doesn’t know that our rushed, passionate failure to use protection has a consequence. A permanent, life-altering consequence.
I really shot myself in the foot. Then again, the gun was his, too. He was just like me—a willing conspirator in a night of addictive passion. He didn’t ask for more.
Sighing for the last time, I step out of my pajama pants and into the shower, hoping the water is hot enough to scald his memory away once again.
* * *
The bell above the door of Daisy’s Blossom Boutique jingles a cheerful welcome that feels like a personal attack. I step inside and a wall of natural perfume hits me—a cloying, suffocating symphony of lilies, roses, and freesia.
My stomach lurches, a violent, rolling tide that has me slapping a hand over my mouth and the other splayed across the swell of my belly, a silent, desperate plea to the tiny tenant within.
Not now. Please, not already.
I swallow back the acrid taste of bile, forcing a deep breath that only makes it worse.
Reassuring myself that I can handle this, that today is just a bad day, I push a smile to my lips and clock in to start my shift of assorting flowers and packaging vases for whatever celebration is in order.
It takes exactly thirty minutes before I hit my limit. I barely make it to the employee bathroom, my knees hitting the cool tile as I abandon this morning’s breakfast.
Thanks, pal.
“I’m so sorry, Daisy.” The apology is a ragged groan into the countertop once I make it back. I’m hunched over the register, willing the cool laminate to leech the nausea from my skin. “It’s never been this bad before.”
My boss, a woman with a heart as soft as peony petals, smiles and rubs circles on my back. Her touch is calm and steady. “Would you like to take the delivery route today? You can get off your feet and hang your head out the window if you need to.”
She’s joking about the last part, but the image is dangerously appealing. Fresh air. Open space. Anything to get out from under this fragrant, heavy air.
