Page 17 of The Worst Possible Plan

Thirty seconds later the park was empty.

I gave a satisfied nod and drove on. Sometimes being sheriff meant solving major crimes. Sometimes it meant giving a bunch of dumb teenagers the opportunity to avoid becoming paperwork.

Those were usually my favorite days.

My smile faded a second later when my brain betrayed me yet again.

An image of Hartwell trying to reason with a goat flared in my mind’s eye. Those soft curves, her blue eyes, and that smile that could trick you into doing things you didn’t want to do. Like volunteer for something. Or agree to help. Or spend an hour chasing livestock through the town square when you had absolutely no intention of doing any of those things. The woman smiled like she genuinely expected the universe to cooperate with her. The strange thing was that sometimes it almost did.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

I wasn’t doing that. I had enough problems without adding Hartwell to the list. The woman was madness in human form. She created a traffic jam with a miniature donkey and somehow looked surprised afterward. Sensible men avoided women like that. Unfortunately, I was beginning to suspect she made it difficult to remain sensible.

I could always spot a liar. She was good. I’d give her that. Most people probably would’ve bought it. The confidence. The quick answers. The way she said things without hesitation. She never paused long enough to sound uncertain. Everything came out smoothly and immediately, like she’d already convinced herself it was true before anybody else had a chance to question it. For a few seconds, you almost believed her.

But I’d spent too many years listening to people tell me stories. Listening was half the job. Most people thought being sheriff was about laws and arrests. Mostly it was about people. And people spent an amazing amount of time trying to convince you of things that weren’t true.

People lied when they got caught speeding. People lied when they got arrested. People lied when they cheated on their spouses. People lied when they got into fights. Hell, people lied about things that didn’t even matter.

I’d had grown men swear they hadn’t eaten the last donut in the break room while powdered sugar sat on their shirt. I’d listened to teenagers explain why somebody else’s beer had somehow ended up in their backpack. I’d heard husbands insist they were “just helping” their ex-wife move furniture at midnight.

And Hartwell? She’d answered my questions exactly the way somebody answered when they were trying very hard to sound like they belonged somewhere they didn’t.

After enough years, you stopped listening to the words. You watched everything else. The pause before the answer. The slight shift in posture. The eyes looking away a second too long. The overconfidence. The way someone tried just a little too hard.

Hartwell had all of it.

When I’d asked how long she’d been event planning, the answer had come too fast. Three years. Like she’d already rehearsed it. Then I’d watched her hold a binder upside down for five minutes.

There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d been planning festivals for three years.

She knew I didn’t believe her too. That was the interesting part. Most liars doubled down. Hartwell just got embarrassed. Then she kept going anyway.

I laughed. I should’ve been annoyed. Truthfully, I was annoyed. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I understood exactly what I should do next.

Nothing.

Nothing was the answer.

The festival wasn’t my responsibility. Hartwell wasn’t my responsibility. I’d already helped more than I needed to. The sensible thing was to let her figure it out herself. People learned fastest when nobody rescued them. I knew that better than most.

I turned onto the road leading toward my place and lowered the window slightly.

The air smelled like leaves and petrichor. Thunder rumbled somewhere out over the ocean.

My mouth twitched despite myself. Hartwell had looked exhausted by the time we’d finally gotten the animals secured. She was covered in dirt. Her ponytail was coming apart, and she had mud on one cheek as well as something that was probably animal spit on her sleeve.

Still beautiful.

And she’d still been trying to pretend she knew what she was doing.

That stubborn streak was going to get her into trouble. Or save her. Maybe both.

I pulled into my driveway and shut off the truck. The house sat exactly where I’d left it, quiet and peaceful with no animals and no event planners.

Exactly the way I liked it.

For a moment, I stayed behind the wheel, listening to the engine tick as it cooled.