Page 8 of Falling for the Sheriff
A sharp rap at the door slices through my thoughts. I jolt, my heart performing a frantic somersault against my ribs.
He’s here. Already? Ridgeway Court is central, but he must have flown here. The thought sends a reckless, giddy thrill through me.
I drag a deep, shuddering breath into my lungs—a futile attempt to anchor myself—and cross over to the door. The handle is cool under my suddenly clammy palm.
And there he is. The same man from the shop, but transformed. Gone is the uniform, replaced by a soft-looking shirt under a worn leather jacket and jeans with artful tears at the knees.
He looks effortlessly, heart-stoppingly cool. But then I catch it—the clean, sharp scent of pine clinging to him, and the way his dark hair is still damp, curling slightly at the ends. He’d rushed, but he’d also prepared.
The contradiction makes my breath catch. He wasn’t worried about his appearance, but he’d clearly cared enough to make an effort. Forme.
For a moment, he does some taking in as well. There’s something shifting in his eyes, and I’m sure it’s not curiosity. Taking in my appearance, drinking me in, his eyes linger on my stomach.
What I’d do to know what he’s thinking.
Finally, he clears his throat. “Ready to go?”
My heart says yes, but my body is hesitant. When he offers his hand, I swallow down the worries that come with all thewhat-ifsof this situation and slide my fingers into his.
“More than ready.”
4
Atlas
Having Kelly and Fergus in my ear, shooting out ideas of where to take my future wife through the rest of my shift had me feeling more clueless than before.
Kelly demanded a romantic candle dinner. She knows where we live, right? Or does she not realize a woman who hardly knows me may not be excited to leave town without leaving with any worries?
Fergus said to drag her straight to my cabin and woo her as I had the first time.
Both fools are single and don’t have a clue what they’re talking about.
So, I do what feels right. I take her to The Hollow Oak, the same place we met. Not to say I don’t want to see if sparks can fly twice, but it’s a joint we’re both familiar with.
Once we’re parked, my boots hit the gravel, and I’m around the front of the truck before she can even unbuckle her seatbelt.I pull the heavy door open, and she looks down at me, a little surprised, a little amused. A soft, breathy laugh escapes her, and the sound goes straight to my head.
This is much better than the awkward faces she’s been making since we’ve crossed paths again.
“Let me help you out,” I say, offering my hand.
She hesitates for just a second, then slides her palm against mine. Her fingers are cool, but the second they touch my skin, it’s like striking a match. I don’t just help her down; I curl my fingers tight around hers, locking them in place. I have no intention of letting go.
The Hollow Oak is in full swing tonight, the rumble of talk and laughter spilling out into the parking lot. A couple of guys are arguing good-naturedly about a football play by the door, and they nod at me as we pass.
Inside, it’s warm and loud, filled with the chatter of young adults and the twang of some country song on the jukebox.
I keep her hand firmly in mine, my thumb brushing over her knuckles as I lead her through the crowd. I spot an empty table tucked in the back corner, one with a high-backed cushioned booth on one side and a stool on the other. Perfect.
I guide her toward the plush seat. “You take the throne,” I say, my voice low near her ear so she can hear me over the noise. She slides in, looking small and almost regal against the dark leather.
I drag the wooden stool around to face her, its legs scraping against the floor. I sit, leaning forward with my elbows on the table, closing the space between us. The noise of the bar fades into a dull roar, just a background hum to the woman in front of me.
She’s looking around, taking in the scene, her eyes wide and bright. She’s nervous, I can tell, but there’s a spark of excitementthere, too. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and the gesture is so unguarded it makes my chest tight.
I wait for her to look back at me. When she does, I hold her gaze, letting her see the absolute truth in my words.
“For the record,” I say, my voice rough but earnest. “You look gorgeous.”
