Page 59 of The Worst Possible Plan

“It’s community,” Dottie said with complete conviction, like she’d just settled a constitutional debate instead of defending what sounded suspiciously like organized neighborhood espionage.

I pointed my fork between them. “You two need hobbies.”

“We have hobbies,” said Lola. “We’re discussing yours.” She raised her brows suggestively. “The sheriff.”

I groaned. “He’s not my hobby.” The fact that I’d thought about him approximately seventy-three times since yesterday was completely beside the point. Seventy-four if you counted right now. Which I refused to do.

Lola rested both elbows on the table. “So… when did he give you his number?”

I shook my head. “He didn’t give me his number.”

She looked pointedly at the card. “You understand how evidence works. Yes?” She tapped the table beside it. “Because Exhibit A is sitting right there looking slightly damp.”

“It’s his business card.”

“With his direct line.”

“Because he’s the sheriff.”

“And?”

“And…” I searched desperately for a logical explanation that didn’t somehow make me sound guilty. “Sheriffs have business cards.”

Lola smiled patiently. “So do dentists. I don’t carry my dentist’s card around.” She tilted her head. “And if a goat chewed on it, I’d throw it away instead of carefully preserving it.”

She had a point. I looked down at the slightly chewed card still sitting beside my coffee. I could have thrown it away. Instead, I’d kept it.

What did that say about me?

Dottie chuckled. “So why do you still have it?” She wasn’t teasing anymore. She sounded genuinely curious, like she’d already guessed the answer and simply wanted to hear me say it out loud.

“Because he told me to call if I needed help with road closures or permits or safety questions.” I shrugged. “It’s practical.” I slipped the card carefully back inside Helen’s binder before they asked me more questions. “He’s just being nice.”

Dottie nodded. “He is nice.”

“Exactly,” I said, giving her a short smile.

“And handsome,” she continued.

I gave her a look, though I felt warmth pool in my middle. “He came around to help out a few times. That’s what sheriffs do. They help people.”

Lola poured herself some coffee. “He didn’t have to.”

“No, he didn’t,” I answered. “He was just making sure the festival didn’t become a public safety hazard.” And maybe making sure I didn’t accidentally become one too. The line between those two possibilities had gotten a little blurry.

Lola grinned. “Sure he was.” She smiled slowly, like she’d just spotted the final missing puzzle piece sliding into place.

Heat crept up my neck. “He was.” And then I got tangled and fell into his arms like an idiot.

But it had felt nice. Really nice.

The sort of nice that kept replaying in my head at two thirty in the morning while I should’ve been worrying about generators instead of wondering whether he’d noticed how fast my heart had been beating.

Lola leaned back with the satisfied smile of a woman who’d spotted blood in the water. Sharks had nothing on her. At least sharks finished the job quickly. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“What?”

Her smile widened. “You’ve already started defending him.”