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“I’m so sorry,” I try. I’m also trying not to laugh which doesn’t help. I mean, come on. That was funny now that I know he’s still alive.
“Get in the truck,” he growls, cutting me off.
Holy shit, he’s going to arrest me for attempted murder. I’m sure a good attorney can get it knocked down to assault with a deadly weapon, but still, I’m going to rot in jail for a very long time. All because he can’t take a joke. Not because I’m a little too old to be shooting rockets in the middle of the street.
Opening the back door of his SUV, he glares at me until I climb inside. The bar patrons boo him, which makes his scowl deepen. I sit inside like a common criminal while he picks up the spent fireworks.
His mouth moves. I assume he’s grumbling to himself as he hauls the old fireworks to the curb so no one runs over them. I was going to do that. My mid-life rebellion doesn’t include endangering any of the local motorists.
When he has all the fireworks out of the street, he pulls my purse and keys out of my car before locking it. At least he’s thoughtful. I’ll remember that when I’m wasting away in a cell tonight. I wonder if I’ll be the first person arrested in Dansboro Crossing for shooting a sheriff with a Roman candle.
He jerks open the driver’s door, slides inside, and slams it shut again. Turning around, he glares at me sitting in the back seat.
“I really am?—”
He holds up his hand and turns back around. So, a thoughtful dick. Okay. A sexy, thoughtful dick. I’m so dead.
We drive to the sheriff’s office in silence. A myriad of thoughts flies through my brain on the way. Will I make friends in the big house? Which one of the characters inOrange is the New Blackwill I be? Does there need to be rope on my bath soap? Where do you still find that?
I hope my family finds me a good attorney. Someone under the age of eighty. Not that I have a problem with Mr. Truman, but I’m not sure he’ll see the humor in this. He’s never forgiven Austen for barfing in his mailbox. He dislikes all of us Caraways now because of association. Long story for another time.
I don’t notice we’re at the sheriff’s office until the back door opens. He helps me out and, taking my upper arm, leads me inside. He sets me in a chair next to a desk. I won’t point out that there’s a big burn hole on the side of his uniform shirt. It’s not lost on him. He inspects it before turning his glare back on me.
He has the most beautiful eyes. They’re a deep brown like the color of dark chocolate as it melts or garden soil after a rain or even the café extreme at the Coffinated coffee shop near the courthouse. I might need to switch back over to straight westerns instead of the steamy cowboy romances I’ve been reading lately.
“Hey!” he says, making me jump. “I asked for your identification.” He pushes my wallet to me.
Okay, so my assessment was right. He’s a gorgeous dick. I pull my driver’s license out from where it’s tucked neatly in its designated slot. Maybe I should change that up too. Just throw it in my purse all willy-nilly. No, there’s no reason to go completely around the bend. I hand it over and lean back in my chair waiting for the comments to begin.
“Your name’s George?”
“Eliot! What are you doing here? I see you’ve met our new deputy, Owen.” Sheriff Rogers walks out of his office to stand next to the desk. “Good Lord, Owen, what happened to your shirt?”
“Just an accident, sir,” the new deputy says.
So his name is Owen. Not at all what I would have guessed. I was leaning more toward… Alejandro. Now that’s a sexy name.
“I see. Well, get that shirt changed, officer. We don’t want our local citizens to think we don’t take pride in our office. Right, Eliot?” He winks at me and starts down the hallway. “Oh, and tell your folks I said hello. I look forward to seeing y’all on Sunday. Hey, Owen, why don’t you plan on coming to church with us too.”
Officer Owen looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “You’re just the gift that keeps on giving, aren’t you?”
He’s right. Sheriff Rogers left no room in his statement for him to get out of the invitation to church. Standing with a derisive snort, he rips the uniform shirt off, slamming it down on the desk. The Kevlar follows, and then the T-shirt. Good Lord, I’m going to need church based on the thoughts racing through my head.
“Sweet Jesus!” I exclaim. The corners of his lips twitch. Is it possible he can smile? “I was talking about the giant burn mark on your side. Why wear Kevlar if it doesn’t stop anything?”
I lower to my knees to inspect the burn etched into the skin at his waist. He lets out a small hiss when I tentatively run my fingertips over the skin surrounding the burn.
“Do you have any aloe vera?” I ask, looking up at him. It will at least take the burn out of it until he can have it looked at. He blinks once, looking down at me, then blinks again.
“It’ll be fine.” His voice seems deeper than it was.
“No, it won’t. Oh, hang on, Cherylynn has one of the plants on her desk. I’ll be right back.” Hopping back up, I rush off down the hall to the dispatcher’s office.
Cherylynn and I graduated together. We’ve been friends long enough to know exactly where she keeps the plant.
“Wait, Miss… Caraway,” he calls after me.
“I’ll be right back. Hold your horses.”
