Page 7 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Sheriff

I’m fairly sure the kitchen is on the other side of that half wall. I can see what I think are avocado green Formica countertops.

“I called the watch company,” she says. “I was on and off hold for forty minutes with a man named Devlin whose great advice was to turn it off and on again.” She spreads her hands. “Since it’s still calling you, I’m guessing that didn’t work.”

“It did not. Devlin doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

She laughs and the sound is like pure magic. I’ve got to get away from this woman before she has me reciting poetry.

“I’ve got to go,” I say abruptly.

I make it to the door before she catches me.

“Wait—Sheriff—” She’s already got a bag. A little paper bag, folding the top down, pressing it at me with both hands. “For the road. And don’t argue, because you kept me from being squashed and then just carried it up the stairs as if it was nothing more than a five-pound bag of sugar. I refuse to be the kind of person who lets a man do something like that and then sends him off empty-handed. My foster mother would—” She stops abruptly, and then a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. “It’s just cookies. Take the cookies.”

I should say no. I said no Tuesday and I was right to.

I take the cookies. I’d have to practically shove the bag back at her to decline.

“I’ll bring them to the office for my deputies,” I tell her, which is a lie, a full and complete one, and we both watch it sit there in the air between us.

“Sure,” she says, fighting a smile. “For the deputies.”

“Night, Ms. Bailey.”

“Night, Sheriff Meadows.”

I eat two before I hit the highway.

I eat the third at the stop sign, and it’s still a little warm, and it’s the best goddamn thing I’ve put in my mouth in a year. Maybe ever. It makes me think about whether or not Hope Bailey’s skin would taste like cinnamon and sugar. A thought I should not be having. So I eat two more cookies and force myself to drive away from her house. I need to stop patrolling out here. Keep myself and my thoughts away from the tempting brunette and her delicious cookies.

chapter

four

Hope

The watch spends the night on its charger, and in the morning I stand at the counter and look at it for a good, long minute before I put it back on.

I could just… not. That's the thought I’ve had every single morning since the first time it summoned the sheriff. I could leave it sitting right there and be a woman whose wrist minds its own business. Nobody would ever know.

Except me. And the doctor. And, if I'm being honest, which I can manage before coffee, when I'm too tired to lie to myself—my own heart, which every now and again does a little flutter-skip thing. Dramatic organ. It's nothing. It's a keep an eye on it nothing. It is the least interesting fact about me and I intend to keep it that way.

So I put on the watch. Same as every morning. Because independent doesn't mean stupid, and I know the difference, even on the days I resent it.

Then I make coffee. I am a grown woman and I am allowed, even if the doctor said to go easy on the caffeine. I won’t obsess about that warning, and I definitely won’t obsess about a certain grouchy sheriff. I'm zero for two before the pot even finishes brewing.

Me: He took the cookies.

Jules: WHO took the cookies?

Me: You know who.

Cora: THE SHERIFF???

Jules: You summoned him again?

Me: My watch summoned him. He had good timing too because I was on the verge of being squished by a piece of furniture.

Cora: OMG! Would you stop doing things on your own? I can send Oliver or one of his brothers over to help you unload furniture.