Page 99 of The Worst Possible Plan

I’d spent years putting this badge first because I’d chosen to, every single time. Long hours stole evenings before you realized they were gone. Then came missed dinners, meals eaten cold three hours later because somebody else’s emergency refused to wait politely until after dessert. Canceled weekends. Fishing trips that never happened. Barbecues cut short. Movie tickets wasted. The badge didn’t care what day it was.

Emergency calls came in at two in the morning. Phones never rang because somebody wanted to tell you everything was going wonderfully. They rang because somebody needed you right now. And right now usually won.

People liked saying they understood what came with dating a sheriff. They meant it too. At least in the beginning. Everybody imagined they’d be the understanding one.

Most of them believed it. Confidence was easy when interruptions were still hypothetical.

Until they actually lived it. Reality generally had much worse timing than imagination.

Then birthdays got interrupted with candles blown out after the cake had gone stale. Vacations got canceled, hotel reservations lost to domestic disputes and missing hikers. Somehow criminals never checked holiday calendars before causing trouble.

Date nights ended because somebody’s fence had been hit by a drunk driver or somebody’s teenager hadn’t come home. There was always a reason, usually a good one. Good reasons still had an unfortunate habit of disappointing people.

Eventually, they stopped asking, stopped waiting. Empty chairs eventually became easier than hopeful expectations. They stopped believing next time would be different. I couldn’t blame them. Eventually even optimism got tired.

I understood why. Hell, if our positions had been reversed, maybe I would’ve done the same. Loving somebody whose first promise always belonged to everyone else wasn’t exactly an easy sell.

The job always came first—not because I loved it more but because sometimes it involved people having the worst day of their lives. Those people deserved a sheriff who showed up. At least that’s what I’d always believed. If I started choosing when duty mattered based on convenience, the whole thing fell apart.

I’d convinced myself that was simply the cost. Some careers demanded sacrifices. I’d just decided relationships were one of mine.

Better to stay alone than disappoint someone. Things were cleaner and simpler with nobody waiting at home, wondering whether I’d make it back for dinner. Nobody was checking the clock every time my phone rang.

Better to keep my life quiet. Quiet didn’t ask difficult questions. It was predictable and controlled. I knew exactly what tomorrow would probably look like. Or at least I’d spent years pretending I did.

Things were safer that way for everyone involved, mostly because if I never let anyone get close enough to matter, I never had to watch them walk away disappointed.

At least, that’s what I’d been telling myself long enough that I’d almost started believing it. Funny how often the stories we repeated became the ones we trusted.

Then Hartwell showed up, like a tornado wearing white sneakers. She was loud without meaning to be, chaotic without malice. Somehow she left absolute disorder behind while making the place feel oddly brighter at the same time.

I’d spent years carefully organizing my life into neat little compartments, but she’d managed to scatter every single one of them in less than a week. And the frustrating part was, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to put them back.

She argued with me and teased me. Sheriff face. My carefully cultivated professional image had lasted all of twenty-four hours around her.

She made me laugh, usually when I was actively trying not to. She had an unfortunate talent for saying ridiculous things with complete sincerity. She also stole a truck. That one still felt surreal.

And she kissed me.

Without warning. Without hesitation. Like she’d simply reached the point where overthinking had finally lost the argument.

I huffed a quiet laugh despite myself. The sound surprised me. I’d spent the last hour trying to convince myself this situation wasn’t funny. Some part of my brain disagreed.

Hell.

I stared out the windshield. The truth was, this wasn’t about the stolen truck anymore. That had become obvious somewhere around mile three. Trucks could be returned. Reports could be filed. Insurance companies existed for exactly that sort of thing.

Or the arrest. I’d do it again if the circumstances were identical. I hated admitting that, but it was true. The badge didn’t come with exceptions for women who kissed you unexpectedly.

It was about how I’d looked at her standing outside the station, small and quiet, trying very hard not to let anyone see she’d been hurt. I’d seen victims wear that same expression after somebody they trusted let them down.

I’d seen the hurt in her face. She’d hidden it well enough that most people probably missed it. I didn’t. Maybe because I’d put it there.

And I’d walked away anyway. Every step had felt deliberate, professional, necessary. I’d convinced myself distance was the responsible choice because walking away had been easier than having the conversation. Easier than admitting I’d handled the situation badly. Easier than looking into her eyes and seeing disappointment I couldn’t arrest or write a report about.

Distance was safer. Feelings had a way of complicating judgment. Distance didn’t. I’d spent years believing control solved everything. Funny how often it only delayed it.

It also happened to be the wrong thing to do. Some mistakes weren’t about actions. Sometimes they were about silence.