Page 113 of The Worst Possible Plan

Eric let out a growl and claimed my mouth again.

He was everything I wanted in that moment—steady, strong, and impossible to resist. Every slow stroke of his hands unraveled another layer of my resolve until I was leaning into him without a second thought. It was far more than a kiss. It was the kind of moment that made the rest of the world disappear.

I drew in a shaky breath, struggling to calm my racing heart. He eased back enough to look at me, his breathing uneven. The heat in his eyes stole what little composure I had left.

In one effortless movement, he swept me into his arms and carried me into the living room. He eased me down onto the leather sofa before leaning over me, the solid warmth of his body surrounding mine.

Every nerve ending seemed to come alive, my pulse racing until I could feel it everywhere. He finally broke the kiss, lingering only inches away as his gaze searched mine. The unmistakable longing in his eyes stole the breath from my lungs.

In a blur, he pulled off his shirt and jeans.

So, of course, I had to rip off my shirt too. Then my jeans until I sat there in only a bra and panties.

The next thing I knew, Eric was on top of me again, and then my panties disappeared. Yup. The sheriff definitely had superpowers.

As he settled over me, my legs slipped around his waist, drawing him closer. The solid strength of him surrounded me, warm and reassuring. We found each other without thinking, moving together with an easy rhythm until the rest of the world faded away.

I wasn’t disappearing into someone else’s life.

I was finally walking toward my own.

28

SOPHIE

By the time the sun began sinking behind the trees, painting the sky in streaks of pink, gold, and soft orange, I’d somehow found myself sitting on Eric’s back porch with an oversized glass of red wine in one hand and my sneakers kicked off beneath the chair. The porch creaked softly every now and then, the kind of comforting old-house sound that somehow made the whole place feel lived in instead of perfect. Somewhere nearby, pine needles whispered in the breeze, and the entire property smelled faintly of fresh-cut wood, hay, and summer.

Not exactly how I’d expected today to end. Honestly, I’d expected jail food.

Or at the very least community service involving fluorescent safety vests that announced to the entire town you’d made questionable life choices. Considering my track record over the last twenty-four hours, it could’ve gone either way.

Instead, I was watching a shirtless sheriff build a forever home for four rescued farm animals.

Life was weird. Wonderfully weird. Also wildly unpredictable, which was becoming my new normal. Somewhere along the way, my life had stopped making any logical sense whatsoever and started reading like someone had shuffled three different novels together. Oddly enough… I wasn’t entirely mad about it.

Eric was still out in the pasture making what he insisted were “a few final adjustments.”

There was no such thing as finished if you were Captain Competent. There was only almost finished, nearly finished, and I’ll-just-fix-one-more-thing-before-I-sit-down. The man probably alphabetized his toolbox and apologized to crooked picture frames before straightening them.

He crouched beside the fence, tightening one last hinge before carrying over another heavy rubber water trough and setting it carefully near the shelter. A second one already sat near the far fence line. Beside them, he’d mounted shiny automatic water bowls to the inside of the shelter where they could drink even if it rained. Feed buckets hung neatly from sturdy hooks, every one lined up with the kind of precision that suggested he’d probably folded fitted sheets for fun. He even stepped back every few minutes, his hands on his hips, studying everything from different angles like a contractor performing a final inspection. If one bucket had been half an inch crooked, I had absolutely no doubt he’d have fixed it.

Seriously. Was there anything this man couldn’t do?

It should’ve been illegal for a sheriff to own shoulders like that. Broad enough to split firewood, build fences, rescue animals, and probably carry stranded grandmothers across flooded streets if the opportunity presented itself.

There ought to be licensing.

Maybe annual inspections. Conducted by qualified professionals. I volunteered despite possessing absolutely no qualifications beyond enthusiastic appreciation.

At the very least a warning label.

CAUTION: May cause otherwise sensible women to forget how language works. Side effects may include excessive staring, poor decision-making, spontaneous kissing, and briefly believing handcuffs could somehow be romantic despite very recent evidence to the contrary.

Bandit, naturally, interpreted Eric’s hard work as a personal invitation to become involved. Or, more accurately, interfere in increasingly creative ways. The goat had appointed himself assistant project manager, despite having absolutely no practical construction experience.

By involved, I meant thoroughly unhelpful. Impressively, almost professionally unhelpful. There was genuine commitment behind the chaos.

Bandit wandered over and stole one of Eric’s work gloves before trotting triumphantly across the pasture with it dangling from his mouth. His little tail wagged so enthusiastically that his entire backside bounced with every step.