Page 89 of The Worst Possible Plan

I hadn’t admitted that part to myself until just now. My subconscious had been saving it for maximum impact.

The thought landed hard enough that I found myself staring at nothing for several long seconds, wondering why one woman’s opinion suddenly mattered this much.

Did she hate me now?

Probably. If I were in her shoes, I wasn’t sure I’d be sending myself Christmas cards either.

Could I blame her?

Not really. She’d looked at me with complete trust last night. This morning I’d asked her to turn around before putting handcuffs on her. Perspective mattered.

I stared out the window a little longer. The bakery door opened again. Someone wheeled a stroller past. Life continued with infuriating efficiency while my brain stubbornly refused to move on.

The kiss replayed itself anyway. My memory had become a terrible roommate, insisting on rewatching the same scene over and over despite repeated requests to change the channel.

Her hands on my face. Warm. Slightly trembling. Determined in that wonderfully reckless Hartwell way that somehow managed to ignore every logical reason not to do something.

The way she’d looked at me afterward, equal parts surprised and delighted, like she couldn’t quite believe she’d actually done it. Truthfully… neither could I.

Then the image shifted.

Handcuffs. Tears she refused to let fall. She’d blinked them back before anyone else could notice. She probably thought she was hiding them. She wasn’t.

Her asking about the animals instead of herself. Not once had she asked if she was going to jail. She’d only asked about the animals. Not her record. Not the charges. Not her job. Just one stubborn little goat and the rest of the trailer full of creatures she’d somehow decided were worth risking everything for. That was the part I couldn’t stop thinking about—not because it excused what she’d done but because it explained exactly who she was.

I shook my head slowly. “You’re impossible, Hartwell.”

The frustrating part was that I understood exactly why she’d done it. And that made doing my job a whole lot harder than it had been yesterday.

A knock sounded against my office door, jerking me away from my thoughts.

I turned around. “Come in.”

Jenna stepped inside carrying a manila file tucked under one arm. She shut the door behind her and then leaned against it instead of crossing the room. One boot hooked casually over the other, like she planned on being here for a minute. That was never a promising sign. Jenna only leaned when she intended to have a conversation instead of delivering paperwork.

She didn’t say anything, which was unusual. Jenna generally averaged at least one sarcastic remark every thirty seconds. The silence meant she’d already formed an opinion.

I sighed. I’d seen that expression before. “Why the look?” I figured I’d save us both some time.

“What look?” She managed to keep a perfectly straight face. She’d always been a terrible liar. Mostly because she enjoyed getting caught.

“The one that says you’re about to tell me I’m an idiot.”

She shrugged. “If the shoe fits.” Not even a hint of apology. Just quiet confidence. She’d arrived with conclusions already prepared.

I let out a tired breath. “I’ve had a long morning.”

“So has Sophie.” She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t soften it. Just dropped Hartwell’s name into the room like evidence marked Exhibit A.

I watched her. “Is that it?”

“You were an ass.” She said it with the same tone she’d use to tell me it’d probably rain later—calm, matter-of-fact, and completely convinced of the forecast.

I narrowed my eyes. “I was doing my job.” I heard the defensiveness in my own voice immediately. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t seem to stop it either.

“No.” She crossed her arms. “You did your job. And then you were an ass.”

“Those are two different things.” At least they were in my head. One involved legal procedure. The other involved… interpersonal skills, a category I’d never claimed mastery over. “I arrested someone who stole a truck.” Facts seemed like the safest place to stand.