Page 29 of Seducing the Sheriff
Greg blinked and turned to me. “That’s awkward. I’ve given away my nefarious plan.”
I waved a hand. “People do it all the time. They forget who they’re talking to.”
“They do?” He looked dubious.
“No,” I confessed. “They shut the heck up when I join the conversation, just in case they drop something that might be vaguely, kinda, walking on the dark side.”
Greg snorted. “I guess chit chat can be difficult.”
“You have no idea,” I said ruefully.
“I promise not to censor myself around you.”
I inclined my head. “That would be appreciated.”
Then we grinned like loons at each other.
“Let’s see if the museum is open,” Greg suggested, already heading for the steps like this was a normal thing people did on a Wednesday.
I beat him to the door and held it open. I figured it was polite. Also, it gave me something to do other than run my hand down that mighty fine back and butt.
He hesitated at the threshold and muttered, “I’m still not used to that.”
“Used to what?” I asked, squinting at him. He didn’t elaborate, which meant I’d obsess about it for the rest of the day because that was the way my brain worked.
I blinked as my eyes readjusted to the low light inside the building after the bright sunshine outside.
Before I could ask again, a woman popped up like a jack-in-the-box from behind the visitor’s desk. She looked to be about seventy, give or take a decade with a snowy white perm that could have come straight out of the eighties. I’ve seen the movies. Her smile was the kind of enthusiastic that usually came with a tray of lemon bars. She reminded me of an old neighbor, who supplied me with cakes like I was junkie and needing a post-school fix.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” she chirped, hands clasped like she was announcing bingo night. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“This is our first time,” Greg said warmly.
I wish it was.
And that was it. That was the moment my brain did a full somersault into the gutter, rolled around a bit, and set up camp, complete with an X-rated reel running through my head.
I stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on a faded poster about nineteenth century sheep shearing techniques, because if I caught Greg’s eye right then, I would’ve burst out laughing—or worse, said something like, “It’s not the first time I’ve imagined you in a museum, but usually you’re shirtless, sculpted out of marble, and my hands are all over you.”
Nope. We were not doing that. I was the sheriff. I could maintain my composure. And not with the woman smiling at us like she might try to adopt us both before we left.
Completely unaware of my freakout, Greg dived into a discussion about the history of the museum. For an introvert, Greg was nerding out like a champ as she spewed dates and times and history. I did my level best to focus on their conversation and not spend my time gazing at Greg like a boy with his first crush.
“Cash?” Greg turned to me, then smiled at the woman. “This is Marisa, her husband set up the museum. Marisa has worked here since its inception. If we have any questions, she’s the person to ask.”
Marisa fluttered under his praise, but she didn’t deny she was indeed, the gal to ask about all things in the museum.
“I trained as an archivist,” she said. “I know everything that’s in the museum. Don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions.”
“We won’t,” he assured her. “Ready, Cash?”
Marisa furrowed her brow. “Cash,” she said slowly. “Sheriff Cash Lawson?”
“That’s me.” I leaned forward, pretending to whisper. I grinned as they both leaned toward me as if it were an automatic response. “But don’t tell anyone. I’m playing hooky today with Greg.”
“I won’t, I promise.” She eyed me speculatively. “It’s good to see you here, sheriff. It’s rare we get a visit from your office.”
“This is a day out for me,” I confessed. “I didn’t know about the museum. Where should we start?”
