Page 10 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“You know,” Riley says, eyes glinting, “if youdidever kiss the sheriff, we could call it bridging the divide between law and pastry.”
“I will throw you and your ice cream into the street,” I say, laughing despite myself.
“Just saying. Hatfields and McCoys. Montagues and Capulets. Sheriff and baker.”
“Please do not Romeo-and-Juliet my love life.”
“Who said anything about love?” she teases.
I aim a couch cushion at her head. It ricochets off Ms. Rainbow, who does not care.
Silence settles, warm and ordinary. The tiny house smells like lemon cleaner, vanilla, and dog; my shoulders let go of the day notch by notch. Somewhere under all the irritation, a truth I don’t like keeps tapping: for someone I supposedly can’t stand, Sheriff Asher Vaughn is occupying an alarming number of my brain cells.
It’s annoying.
It’s inconvenient.
It’s also… not entirely unpleasant.
I shove that thought in a mental drawer and slam it shut.
“Okay,” I say, bopping Ms. Rainbow’s nose. “Strategy meeting, part two. We draft the flyer headline now, before I start overthinking fonts.”
Riley grins wickedly. “How about, ‘Keep Golden Heights Golden—Say No to Oil.’”
I grin back. “Add a pie emoji and we’re unstoppable.”
She groans. “Absolutely not.”
We’re still bickering about fonts and emojis when the credits of some feel-good movie roll we didn’t watch. Outside, the desert breathes. Inside, we let the day soften into ordinary. And even with a certain stubborn sheriff’s name hovering like static, I feel it: the small, steady thrum of home.
Chapter five
Asher
My office isn’t fancy—just a door with my name painted on the glass and a desk that’s seen better decades—but it’s quieter than the bullpen. Most mornings I hide here long enough to attack paperwork before the day decides what it wants to be.
Out in the squad room, my deputies are trading stories over coffee that tastes like scorched earth. I sign one last line on an incident report, set my pen down, and lean into the doorway.
“Little quiet today, huh?” I say.
Chairs freeze. Mugs hover midair.
Deputy David Joel slaps a palm to his forehead. “Boss, you didnotjust say the Q word.”
Across the room, Deputy Gary Quick starts packing his bag. “Nope. I’m going home. Grab me if the frogs start raining.”
I blink. “It’s an observation, not a summon.”
David points his coffee at me. “You never say it’s quiet, Sheriff. You’re begging the universe to throw a pie.”
“Pretty sure the universe is indifferent to our pie.”
“Tell that to the raccoon-in-the-bathtub call last week,” Gary mutters. “And the monitor lizard in the basement. I still have nightmares.”
I’m about to make a crack about them being dramatic when the phone on my desk rings. All three of us look at it like it bears the mark of doom.
I sigh, retreat, and pick up. “Sheriff’s office, Vaughn.”
