Page 75 of The Worst Possible Plan

Still, I had a feeling Hartwell would somehow find new ways to turn my orderly life upside down.

I stared out across the empty field. Getting involved with someone wasn’t simple. Not here, when everyone knew everyone. Not when I wore a badge. Not when people expected the sheriff to have good judgment. Small towns remembered everything. It didn’t matter how long ago it happened. Somebody always remembered.

One kiss would be enough. By tomorrow morning, people would have filled in the parts they hadn’t seen. By next week, there’d be a version of the story that barely resembled what had actually happened.

That’s how Maplewood Falls worked.

I’d spent years building a quiet life. A routine. Work. Home. Peace. Morning coffee on the porch. Patrol. Paperwork. Poker on Thursdays. The occasional fishing trip. It worked. It was safe. Predictable had never sounded boring to me. Predictable meant nobody was crying in my office. Predictable meant I slept through the night. Predictable meant my pulse usually stayed where medical professionals recommended.

It should still be enough. It should.

So why had Hartwell managed to make the life I’d always been satisfied with suddenly feel... quieter than it used to?

I looked up at the sky, at the twinkling stars and the full moon. A cool breeze rustled through the trees, and somewhere beyond the fence an owl called into the darkness. The night settled comfortably around the property, the way it always had.

Then I admitted something I couldn’t deny anymore.

I didn’t regret kissing her.

Not even a little.

18

SOPHIE

Another sleepless night. It didn’t help that I was plagued with dreams—or rather nightmares—of Captain Competent running after me naked, because why not, shouting, “Come and give me a kiss!” Somehow Dream Sheriff didn’t seem remotely embarrassed about the whole nudity situation either. Dream Me, on the other hand, was frantically trying to decide whether public indecency was technically still a crime if it happened entirely inside my subconscious.

Dream Me had actually considered it, which probably meant I should never be left alone with my own imagination again.

I’d woken up at least thirty times, sweaty with my heart trying to escape through my ribcage, convinced I’d somehow kissed him again.

But the worst thing? I was smiling. Grinning like a complete fool into my pillow. Every time I remembered, I’d tell myself to stop smiling… which, somehow, only made me smile harder. My own face had joined Team Sheriff without consulting the rest of me.

I was definitely in hell. Or the early stages of a hormonal breakdown. Possibly both. If there were circles of romantic embarrassment, I was fairly certain I’d skipped directly to Level Seven. Population: me.

So, at six fifteen, I swung my legs off the bed and dragged my tired ass to the shower. At this rate my body was moving on autopilot.

The hot water helped. But not nearly enough. Nothing short of selective amnesia was going to help. I washed my hair. Conditioned. Shaved one leg before realizing I’d already shaved that one and still had the other to go. I stood there for a full ten seconds trying to remember whether I’d actually used shampoo yet or had merely been thinking about using shampoo while mentally making out with the sheriff.

Excellent. My coordination was thriving. At this rate I’d eventually leave the bathroom wearing one shoe and toothpaste instead of deodorant.

By the time I pulled on black jeans, a pale blue T-shirt, and my favorite white sneakers, I looked… functional. Emotionally? Absolutely not. If emotions had warning labels, mine would’ve been flashing bright orange with a helpful note reading: Contents under pressure. Open carefully.

I cracked open my bedroom door and peeked into the hallway. Nothing. Good. The coast appeared clear. My mission was simple. Avoid Sarah. Avoid Dottie. Avoid Lola at all costs. Especially Lola. I felt like a secret agent whose only assignment was escaping breakfast without discussing my love life.

She’d practically organized a parade celebrating my kiss with the sheriff. I still wanted to fake my own death over that.

I slipped out of my room as quietly as possible, easing the door shut behind me without letting it click, and then tiptoed across the hallway. Why I was tiptoeing, I wasn’t entirely sure. Nobody tiptoed successfully in sneakers. Still, it felt appropriately sneaky.

Halfway to the front desk, I froze. Voices. Kitchen. A man’s voice and a woman’s. The woman laughed. I recognized that laugh.

Lola.

Abort. Abort.

I ducked behind the grandfather clock. Why? No idea. It was approximately six inches wide.

I was not.