Page 2 of Falling for the Sheriff
“I’m sure Jonah will be thrilled to take a break from the van. He’s been asking to work alongside Maya for weeks now.” Her voice dips into a playful whisper, her gaze drifting toward the back where the red-haired woman is crafting an arrangement, her laughter a soft melody against the rustle of cellophane. “Unless you need his help carrying things? He wouldn’t mind.”
The thought is a swift, sharp panic. No. The last thing I need is a witness to my misery, a poor, awkward guy watching me heave on the shoulder of some suburban street. And worse, the idea of being trapped in the small space of the van with anyone makes my skin prickle. I need to be alone with this sickness.
“I’ll be fine,” I insist, squeezing her hand in gratitude. My voice is stronger now, firmer. “Thank you. I swear, I’ll stop being such a pain eventually.”
She swats my hand away with a fond eye-roll, already reciting her familiar mantra about how she’d be lost without me, before drifting off to print the list of delivery addresses.
Ever since Daisy expanded, the business has rocketed. From funeral homes to weddings to nursing homes, our arrangements are all over the town. I don’t care if the list is a mile long. I’m happy to take on each stop.
When she returns, I thank her again, more than happy to accept her keys.
Jonah’s happy to help load up the back, giving me a quick rundown on what goes to whom. He makes it easy, leaving little confusion. Before he slips back into the shop, he makes sure to ask once more if I’m sure I want to go alone. From the way he rubs the back of his neck, I know he’s doing it out of obligation.
The poor guy really wants to work with the woman he’s crushing on.
“Trust me, you’ll be better off in there.” Thanking him for the help, I’m off.
The first stop is the hospital. The sterile air is a blessed relief after the van’s floral confinement. I deliver a massive, exuberant “Get Well Soon” bouquet to the reception desk for a poor fellow with a broken leg.
Next, the nursing home. Mrs. Williams is waiting by the door of her room, her face lighting up at the sight of the simple daisy arrangement her son sends every week.
She pulls me aside, her papery hand on my arm. “Let me tell you about Katie’s ballet recital,” she insists, and I stand captive as she details every plié and pirouette, her pride a tangible thing. Talking to me like I’m another one of her grandchildren, she’s happy to ask about my pregnancy.
Perks of living in a small town, I suppose.
Another stop is the local grocery store. I’m supposed to leave the cheerful sunflower basket for a woman named Joey to celebrate her anniversary.
Since I’m already here, I grab a small bag of chips to snack on. While I’m ringing out, it’s the sound of an excited giggle that has me pausing as I dig around in my wallet.
Something strikes at my chest as I watch the woman I assume is Joey throw herself at one of her coworkers with a beaming smile.
It’s easier to assort flowers or run the register. Watching the kind of love I’ve longed for is hard.
Well, at least I can drown this emptiness in salty, oily chips.
My next stop is a little less romantic.
The Willowbrook Ridge Police Department is a stark, utilitarian block of concrete and glass.
I’m grateful for its unfamiliarity; my own life has never intersected with this kind of place. Yet, a strange, low-grade anxiety hums under my skin as I park the van. It’s not like I’ve done anything illegal or caused any trouble. They’re not going to just throw handcuffs on me.
I’ll treat it like any other stop. Get in, drop off, get out.
I lift the arrangement—a sophisticated burst of color with a core of deep red carnations, my favorite, their spiced, clove-like scent usually a comfort. Now, it feels overwhelming.
A small card is nestled among the blooms, the name Atlas drawn in Maya’s pretty handwriting. “To seventeen years on the force.”Not a romantic gesture, but a professional tribute. Someone must really love this job to stick it out for so long.
The plastic wrap crinkles in my sweaty grip as I push through the heavy glass doors. The air inside is stale, smelling of old coffee and industrial cleaner.
A woman with a kind face is behind the front desk, her attention locked on a computer that looks like a relic from my childhood with a blocky phone pressed to her ear.
I shift my weight from heel to heel, the seconds stretching.
Finally, she hangs up and turns to me, her smile a genuine beam of warmth that momentarily cuts through my unease.
“Hello! I’m just here to deliver these,” I say, my voice a little too bright, ready to hand them off and escape.
“Those are gorgeous!” she exclaims, standing. “Hang on one second, let me grab him. He hates gifts from us, but he can’trefuse a pretty delivery girl.” She winks, her compliment making heat flicker against my cheeks.
