Page 93 of The Worst Possible Plan

It sounded considerably better than grand theft livestock. Which, admittedly, sounded less like a misunderstanding and more like the title of a low-budget action movie starring goats.

“Something like that,” I mumbled. Possibly the most accurate understatement I’d ever produced. I’d also once described food poisoning as “a long evening.”

Sarah looked from me to Dottie. Her eyes lingered just long enough to make sure neither of us appeared physically damaged. Emotionally was a separate inspection. “You two okay?”

“We’re fine,” Dottie said brightly. That sort of brightness was normally associated with people who were absolutely not fine but had recently decided optimism was easier than paperwork. “We’ve had quite the morning.”

“I’ll bet.” Sarah nodded slowly, wisely choosing not to ask follow-up questions. She studied my face for another second. “You look tired.”

“I’ve aged approximately twelve years since breakfast.” Possibly fifteen. I briefly wondered whether stress wrinkles qualified as tax deductions.

Sarah laughed. “I’ll make coffee.” She said it with complete confidence, like she’d just prescribed the only medically appropriate treatment.

Bless that woman. If kindness had a patron saint, Sarah Hartwell was making a compelling application.

Coffee couldn’t fix everything. It couldn’t undo a kiss, erase an arrest, rescue some animals, or explain the emotional operating system of one stubborn sheriff. But it had an admirable attendance record. Whenever life fell apart, coffee consistently showed up on time, didn’t ask difficult questions, and never once suggested I examine my feelings. Frankly, that made it the healthiest relationship I’d had all week.

Five minutes later I found myself sitting at one of the dining room tables with an enormous mug cupped between my hands. The ceramic was almost too hot to hold, which suited me perfectly. Physical discomfort was refreshingly straightforward compared to emotional confusion. Coffee simply burned you. Sheriffs, required interpretation.

Lola had somehow located fresh lemon squares. I had absolutely no idea where she’d found them. She possessed an almost supernatural ability to sniff out desserts within a five-mile radius. If civilization ever collapsed, I was reasonably confident she’d still emerge from the rubble carrying pastries and excellent lipstick.

Dottie was absentmindedly folding paper napkins into tiny rabbits with little ears and itty bitty folded noses. One even had what looked suspiciously like a fluffy tail. She smiled to herself every time she finished one before starting another, as though an invisible colony of paper woodland creatures urgently depended on her.

Twenty-four hours ago, I might’ve questioned it. Today it barely cracked the top ten strangest things I’d witnessed. After stealing a truck full of livestock, paper origami wildlife felt almost aggressively normal.

“You know…” Lola said carefully. Which was unusual. Lola generally approached conversations the way toddlers approached puddles, with enthusiasm and absolutely no concern for the consequences.

“No.” I took another sip of coffee without looking up. Preventative answers. I was evolving.

Lola made a pout. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I have a strong working theory.” Years of experience had taught me that approximately ninety percent of Lola’s advice involved men, flirting, or combinations of the two. The remaining ten percent involved shoes.

“You should talk to him.”

I looked at her. “No.” Immediate. Firm. Practically reflexive. My brain had installed an automatic emergency brake whenever the subject of the sheriff appeared.

“He likes you,” Lola pressed.

“No.” Because if I repeated it often enough, perhaps it’d eventually become emotionally true.

“He literally told you he wanted to kiss you,” continued Lola.

I glared at her. “How do you know that?”

She flashed me her teeth. “I heard everything. Saw everything.”

I sagged in my chair. “Yeah, well. Then he arrested me.”

Dottie looked up from rabbit number three. She held it at eye level for a second, gently straightened one paper ear, and then looked at me with complete sincerity. “I think he looked sad.”

“He looked like a sheriff.” Which was considerably less comforting than it sounded. Sheriffs specialized in expressions that gave away absolutely nothing. It was practically part of the uniform.

I stared into my coffee. The dark surface reflected a very tired-looking woman who really needed to stop falling for emotionally unavailable public servants. Unfortunately, coffee had yet to develop the ability to answer life’s important questions.

I’d read this chapter before. Different man. Same ending. My imagination always sprinted three miles ahead while reality casually tied its shoelaces.

He’d made his choice, whether I liked it or not. He’d walked away without so much as looking back. Funny how boots on a tile floor could sound so final.