Page 37 of The Worst Possible Plan

Naturally.

I stared at it. One tiny motivational speech to myself about becoming a capable adult and the universe responded with, That’s adorable. Here’s some electrical spaghetti.

“I saw none of that.”

Captain Competent’s voice floated up from somewhere below.

I flinched, and then I turned.

Sheriff Eric Walker stood on the opposite side of the ladder with both hands tucked casually into the front pockets of his jeans, looking infuriatingly relaxed. His uniform shirt was gone now, replaced by a dark charcoal T-shirt that fit his shoulders far better than any piece of fabric had a right to. The badge was gone too, but somehow he still looked every bit the sheriff.

“Good,” I said, trying to reel the strand back onto the ladder with as much dignity as someone who’d just lost a wrestling match to decorative lighting possibly could. “Because I almost had them.” Which, technically, wasn’t a lie. Another five seconds and I absolutely could’ve… continued making the knot significantly worse. Progress comes in many forms.

“You were winning,” he said, looking up at me.

“I was. I totally was.” And then I wasn’t. “They lulled me into a false sense of security. I got cocky. Rookie mistake.”

“They surrendered,” he added.

“They staged a tactical retreat.” I glanced down at the tangled pile wrapped around one of my ankles. “They’re regrouping. You watch. They’ll be back.”

One corner of his mouth moved, like his face had briefly considered trying to smile before deciding it might set a dangerous precedent.

I squinted at him, imagining what his face would look like with a genuine, full smile. It had to be spectacular. Like stop-traffic spectacular. Like rip-off-your-clothes-and-jump-him⁠—

The ladder shifted, jolting me back to reality. I hadn’t even realized I’d been leaning toward him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked quickly, trying to cover it up. Weird. Shouldn’t he be at home resting with his wife or girlfriend? Or fiancée? Surely a man who looked like that didn’t just spend Thursday nights wandering around festival grounds checking extension cords. Maybe he was here to make sure I wasn’t about to screw up again. Honestly, statistically speaking, that was a reasonable assumption.

He glanced around the square. “Checking on the festival.”

Ah. I looked at the empty streets, the volunteers hanging banners, and Dottie several yards away enthusiastically arguing with someone about flower pots. She was waving a geranium around like it was compelling evidence in a court case. “At eight thirty at night?”

“I told you.” He looked back at me. “I’m always the sheriff.”

I hated how attractive I found that sentence.

That’s right. Words were making me horny.

Not abs. Not forearms. Not the whole rugged-lawman thing. A sentence.

I clearly needed more sleep.

But in my defense, those words were responsible. Dependable. Solid. Exactly the kind of thing that made sensible women fall in love.

I had never once accused myself of being sensible. My dating history alone should qualify as supporting documentation.

I climbed down another rung, reminding myself to focus on the ladder instead of the sheriff standing beneath it.

My face heated.

Was he staring at my ass? Oh, god. I bet he was. It was practically at eye level. Did he like it? Why did I care if he liked it? Why was this even a thought I was having?

The ladder wobbled dangerously, and I righted myself.

“So…” I said, trying not to think of him staring at my butt. “Did any of the animals escape tonight?”

“Not yet.”