Page 13 of The Worst Possible Plan

I pointed to the animals. “You brought me livestock. Emphasis on the word live. They’re not stuffed animals. They are living and breathing creatures.”

Earl shook his head. “Technically, I delivered livestock. It’s up to you now.”

I clenched my jaw. “Where am I supposed to put them?”

He pointed vaguely toward the square. “Somewhere. Not my problem.”

Then he climbed into his truck, turned on the engine and pulled away.

Motherfracker.

I watched the trailer disappear down Main Road, feeling my blood pressure rise to an all new level of high.

The petting zoo area wasn’t ready. The fencing hadn’t been delivered. The tents weren’t up. Nothing was ready.

Something tugged at my shirt. I looked down as an alpaca nibbled the hem of my shirt.

“Stop that,” I said, pulling away and walking off. I needed to think. Panicking wasn’t going to catch a goat. This was my job. Okay, yes, I’d exaggerated my experience. Fine. A lot. But I’d figure it out. I had to.

The alpaca followed me again across the square, past the decorations, and around a folding table. It always remained exactly two feet behind me like a fluffy stalker. If I wasn’t so stressed, I might have thought it cute.

“The donkey’s in the road!” yelled a voice.

I whirled around.

The donkey was, in fact, in the road. Standing directly in the center of Main Road.

I sighed. “You guys are killing me.”

A car stopped. Another car stopped behind it. Then another. Within thirty seconds, I’d somehow created another traffic jam, this time using livestock.

That had to be a record.

A large white SUV rolled up beside the growing line of cars, its tires crunching over the edge of the gravel shoulder. The late afternoon sun flashed off the windshield, and a bold gold-and-black sheriff’s star stretched across the front door. MAPLEWOOD FALLS SHERIFF was printed in large letters along the side, impossible to miss even from halfway across the square.

My stomach dropped so fast it practically left my body.

Captain Competent was back.

Damnit. Not him. Anybody but him. A state inspector? Fine. The mayor? Manageable. A television news crew? Honestly, at this point, why not?

But not Sheriff Eric Walker.

I had spent the entire afternoon trying to convince myself that our first meeting had been a temporary humiliation. A brief professional setback. A minor bump in the road.

The road had looped back around and hit me in the ass again.

The driver’s door opened, and the sheriff climbed out. He was all steady and capable, the exact opposite of the woman currently supervising a traffic jam caused by a donkey.

My gaze snagged on his shoulders for a second too long. Then his jaw. Then his hands. Those big, manly hands would feel delicious on my skin…

I shook my head from those thoughts. Literally. There was actual shaking.

My life was actively falling apart, and I was fantasizing about a man’s hands.

I really needed higher standards.

I needed a bottle of wine.