Page 62 of The Worst Possible Plan

What the hell was wrong with me? Hormones? Maybe. A sexy sheriff—a single, sexy sheriff—who’d happened to glance at my lips? Possibly. Very possibly.

Yes, I might have been a complete mess for the past few months. But I was still a warm-blooded female. And I had eyes.

But he wasn’t here.

Too bad since I’d memorized the way one corner of his mouth lifted when he almost smiled.

Yup. Total stalker.

And just when I’d finally convinced myself he probably hadn’t come by yet and my brain could kindly move on to something productive… like ketchup inventories, emergency exit routes, or literally any thought that didn’t involve Captain Competent…

I spotted him.

He stood near the information booth talking to one of his deputies, his dark sheriff’s uniform crisp despite the growing warmth of the morning. His sunglasses rested on top of his head, pushing back a few strands of dark hair the breeze had already managed to undo.

One hand rested casually on his duty belt while the other moved as he spoke, calm and unhurried, with the kind of quiet confidence that somehow made everyone around him relax without realizing why.

And I was still staring at him.

People drifted toward him naturally. A volunteer stopped to ask him something. An elderly couple smiled as they passed. A little girl proudly showed him the blue ribbon she’d won at one of the games, and he crouched just enough to admire it like it was the most important thing he’d see all day.

That made my heart squeeze a little.

I kept staring.

He had this irritating habit of making whoever he was talking to feel like they were the only person in the crowd, which was both incredibly admirable and spectacularly inconvenient for my ability to remain emotionally uninvolved.

Could the man be any more… sheriff?

Then, as though he could actually feel someone staring at him, he turned his head.

Our eyes met.

“Shit!”

I ducked behind the pretzel booth.

Smooth, Sophie. Very subtle.

Nothing says I wasn’t staring at you quite like hiding behind carbohydrates.

Then, because I had learned absolutely nothing from the previous five seconds, and my self-preservation instincts had gone home for the day, I risked another quick glance.

He was still looking at me.

And unless my sleep deprivation had reached full hallucination territory, one corner of his mouth lifted. Just a little.

Oh, yeah. Sheriff face. With the tiniest crack in it.

Heat rushed to my cheeks and up into my head until I swear even my scalp was sweating. And now my stomach was doing gymnastics. Super.

“Sophie!”

I winced and turned in time to see Helen weaving through the crowd faster than I’d seen anyone move without technically running. She apologized to three people without actually slowing down, sidestepped a stroller with surprising agility, and nearly collided with a man carrying three lemonades. One somehow survived in his cup. The other two, less so. She walked like her brain had already sprinted five minutes ahead of her body.

The clipboard she’d been carrying was tucked under one arm, her red reading glasses were perched crookedly on top of her head, and she looked… panicked. Really panicked. Her usual neat silver hair had escaped its clip in several places, and her brow was drawn so low it nearly shadowed her eyes.

Oh crap.