Jesse smiles over at me—reserved, but friendly.
I smile back, unexpected shyness making me glance away the second our eyes meet.
Get it together, Alex. You’re on the clock.
I straighten my face, cadet-style—a posture I learned in the academy.
“Great!” Chief says, clapping his hands together. “Chemistry’s important on patrol.”
He briefs us on his expectations. Jesse nods at all the right times, adding the occasional “Yes, sir,” before we’re dismissed to start patrol.
“Get out there and make us proud,” Chief says from his desk as Jesse waits for me to exit the office ahead of him. “Oh, andpop in on Jed White. His tractor won’t start and he needs some help moving that old feed bin before the next snow.”
I glance at Jesse. He shrugs.
Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore—or, actually, you are!
We head out to the patrol car together.
“Sorry about the circus back there,” he says.
“It was sweet,” I say, meaning it.
I may not be in a high-crime setting, but I’m on a force—and they want me here.
“I usually drive—alone,” he says, swirling his key ring and popping the station door open. “Do you mind riding shotgun?”
It takes me a moment to answer. After Marco’s total rejection of my dream of pursuing law enforcement, Jesse asking my preference catches me off guard.
“You could drive half the shift,” he offers. “I just know the town a little better.”
“You drive,” I say.
He nods, ducking into the car and waiting for me to buckle before he starts the engine.
The air in the cab is filled with unspoken thoughts. I can tell Jesse’s trying to act like Saturday didn’t happen. I can’t decide if I should ignore it or needle him just a little to pop the tension.
We ride through town, crawling below the speed limit, Jesse’s watchful eyes taking in every detail. I spend half the time admiring the postcard-perfect streets and the other half pretending not to study his profile. Even when he’s obviously feeling awkward, he carries himself with a professionalism that’s apparently my kryptonite.
About a half-hour in, Jeanie’s voice crackles through the radio. “Hey, Jesse! Hey, Alex! I know you’re heading to the Whites’, but we’ve got a complaint. One of the Hendersons’ goats keeps breaking through the fence and eating Sarah’s wintercabbage. She was yelling so loudly I only made out every other word. But I definitely heard the threat of goat stew in there. Can you check it out as soon as you’re finished out at Jed’s?”
She gives us the address.
“That was not a typical dispatch call,” I muse.
“Yeah. Not much crime, but plenty of that.” Jesse tips his head toward the radio. His face is serious and detached. “Around here, we take turns manning the desk—or Jeanie or Mabel volunteer. After hours we outsource to the county.”
He’s too serious.
I turn to face him. “Next time, maybe run the plate before whipping out the handcuffs.”
“What?” My comment hit the intended mark, throwing him off balance.
“Run the …”
“I heard you,” he grouses.
“Look, I’m kidding, Jesse. It’s a memory now. I’ve already laughed about it—more than once. Can we move past it?”
