Measured.
“I’m here to report an illegal water diversion tied to a development site outside Bell River,” I say. “I’m the co-owner of the affected property.”
Her brows lift a fraction. “Bell River,” she repeats, like the words taste sour.
I don’t miss it.
I walk her through the documentation—maps, timestamps, photos. I explain how the secondary line was installed without updated permits, how the draw exceeded the approved allotment. I stick to facts. Dates. Evidence.
No accusations. No emotional appeals.
There’s a pause as she flips through the pages. Then she leaves the room.
I wait again.
When she returns, she’s brought someone else with her—older, sharper eyes, suit jacket draped over one arm. He asks questions. I answer them. When he presses, I don’t fold. I don’t posture either.
I hear Sloane’s voice in my head: *Let the paper do the talking.*
After what feels like an hour, the paperwork is filed, stamped, and flagged for review.
“An investigator will be assigned,” the man says. “You’ll be contacted.”
I nod. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
When I step back outside, sunlight hits my face like a reward I didn’t know I needed.
Sloane is still in the truck, music low, one knee pulled up on the seat as she scrolls her phone. She’s wearing Daisy Dukes, cowboy boots, a tank top that shows just enoughskin to be distracting without trying. My flannel is knotted around her waist like it belongs there.
She doesn’t notice me at first.
I stop a few feet away and just… look.
The way her hair curls at her shoulders.
The concentration on her face.
The ease of her presence.
I clear my throat.
She jumps, then laughs when she sees me. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to admire you,” I say.
Color blooms across her cheeks, and something warm settles in my chest. “I liked you better when you trash-talked me.”
“I can multitask,” I reply, leaning my arms on the open window. “You’re beautiful.”
She leans across the console and kisses me—soft, unhurried. Not desperate. Not rushed. Just… there.
When she pulls back, her fingers brush the scruff along my jaw, her smile slow and knowing. I catch the dimples then, really see them, and wonder how the hell I missed them for so long.
“I wanna take you somewhere,” I say.
She doesn’t ask where. Just nods. “Okay.”
The drive back to Bell River is quiet in the good way. When I turn off the main road and cut the engine near the old clearing, she looks around, curiosity lighting her eyes.
