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I snort, but it's not without affection for this place that's slowly seeping into my bones. "Just what I need. Trade in my mic for an apron and rolling pin."
He nudges me with his elbow. "I bet you'd rock the hell out of a pie crust."
I'm about to retort when we're interrupted by a voice as commanding as it is warm.
"You two must be new around here." The woman stepping forward has a no-nonsense vibe about her, like she could wrestle a bear but would rather offer it tea first.
Axel straightens slightly, always the protector, but there's respect in his stance. "Sheriff Thompson, I presume?"
She nods, extending her hand. "Grace Thompson. And you're Axel Creed." Her gaze shifts to me, appraising but not unkind. "And you must be Sasha Cruz."
I take her hand, firm and sure in mine. "Guilty as charged," I say with a smile that feels surprisingly genuine.
Sheriff Thompson’s eyes hold mine for an extra beat before she nods. "Heard you might be coming our way. Anything we can do to help while you're here?"
Axel answers before I can. "Just keeping an eye out would be great, Sheriff."
She tips her hat back slightly, looking up at the sky as if she's reading it like a newspaper. "Well then, consider it done." Then her eyes are back on me, sharp but kind. "And Sasha," she says with a conspiratorial lean that has me intrigued, "if you ever get tired of Axel's cooking, come on by the station. We do a mean potluck every Thursday."
My laughter bursts out of me like it hasn't in too long—a sound that feels like sunshine breaking through clouds.
"Potluck? Shit, Sheriff," I tease back, winking at Axel whose eyebrows are now somewhere near his hairline from surprise at my language or my sudden camaraderie with Grace Thompson—hard to tell which. "I'll bring the... uh... What doesn't require actual cooking?"
She chuckles, deep and hearty. "We've got plates and forks covered—but how about your company?"
My smile sticks as she walks away because damn if this town isn't doing weird things to my heart.
Axel watches me closely; there's something like wonder in his eyes now.
"What?" I ask self-consciously.
He shakes his head slightly as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing. "Nothing," he says softly before motioning down the street. "Come on, Sunshine—let’s see what other kinds of trouble we can get into."
I'm sprawled on a chaise longue, one of those fancy pieces of furniture that's a pain in the ass to pronounce. "Enjoying yourself?" Axel asks, a smirk on his face as he catches me trying to pronounce 'chaise longue' under my breath.
"It's like a museum in here. If I sneeze, I feel like I'll blow over a thousand-dollar vase or something," I reply, letting my gaze wander over the impeccably tidy space.
He chuckles and takes a seat across from me, all casual grace and easy power. "You won't find any vases here. And it's pronounced 'shayz long,' by the way."
"Show-off," I shoot back, but my heart isn't in it. Instead, it's busy doing somersaults because of the man sitting across from me—Axel Creed, with his military-grade biceps and eyes you could drown in.
I wrap my arms around myself, not from the cold but from the realization that I'm contemplating letting Axel Creed into my life again—not just as my bodyguard. The thought terrifies me as much as it thrills me.
I've always been Miss Independent. Sasha Cruz doesn't need anyone... Except maybe now I do. And that pisses me off more than any stalker ever could.
Axel's watching me; I can feel his gaze heavy on my skin. "What's going on in that head of yours?" he asks softly.
I meet his eyes and it’s like looking into a mirror reflecting all my fears and wants. "Just wondering how many times you can get your heart stomped on before it just... stops working," I say with more honesty than I intend.
His brow furrows with concern. "You think that's what this is? Me stomping on your heart?"
"No," I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "It's just... Axel, I've worked so hard to build this life where I don't have to rely on anyone else. And here you are, making me want to give up that control.”
He leans forward now, elbows on his knees, all earnestness and intensity. “Sasha,” he says quietly but firmly, “wanting someone to have your back doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. Isn’t that what you told me?"
My throat tightens. Damn him for making sense. It's not just about needing protection from some psycho stalker; it’s about wanting to feel safe in someone’s arms—to share burdens that have been mine alone for too long.
I stand abruptly, restless energy coursing through me as I pace before the vast windows looking out into the dark forest beyond.
