I knew that only because my shop was on Main Street, a stone's throw from the station, and I couldn'tnotnotice. It wasn't just the sheriff; I noticed everyone's routines. Maybe that made me the town creeper but I didn't care. I'd rather be the kind of person who noticed everything than the kind who noticed nothing. That was my little way of being the change I wanted to see in the world. I wilted a bit whenever someone forgot the details I'd shared in our last conversation or asked the same questions every time we talked. Those exchanges always dimmed my shine and I always walked away wondering why I wasn't memorable.
Considering I made good observation my corner of the market, it was shameful that I'd failed to notice the most basic things about Owen Bartlett. It seemed I could notice things as long as they didn't impact me. And that—thatwas the wound I was feeling today. I wasn't aching over the loss of Owen as a love interest, probably because he'd always existed as a future prospect, a hypothetical. I should've stepped back and examined my flirtations with him ages ago, but it was easier to soothe myself with the idea that I'd always have Owen. Even if he was never mine.
I sipped my coffee and wished I'd brought a muffin with me, but I wasn't putting everything down and monkeying my way back inside now. Climbing out here was no simple task and I had a history of spilling coffee or cocktails in the process. And I was stalling. Putting off the sorry-and-here-are-some-muffins note I had to write. If I didn't, they'd be mystery muffins and the sheriff would march on over to my shop and demand to know the meaning of all this. Or he'd read all the way into thosemuffinsandsticky buns, and we couldn't travel down that road today.
I'd sample my creations after I found the right words for Sheriff Lau.
My first attempt wasn't awful but it wasn't awesome either.
Sheriff Lau,
My deepest apologies for my behavior last night. I wasn't myself. Thank you for coming to my rescue. The town is lucky to have you.
The least I could do was bake some muffins and rolls for you to show my appreciation.
Best wishes,
Annette Cortassi
I rereadthe words with a scowl. They weren'tright. They met the basic criteria for an apology note, and the overall message was appropriately concise, but the whole thing tasted bitter, like an over-ripe cucumber.
And that brought to mind the feel of Jackson's body pressed against mine, the hard planes of his chest, and the undeniable ridge of his erection.
I realized I wasn't scowling anymore. A breath parted my lips as I shifted through foggy memories of his hands on my naked body, his ragged breath in my ear, his hips rocking against me as he searched for a small dose of relief.
I did that to him, all of it. I'd also stripped down to my skin and thrown myself at him. I wasn't sure how much feminine pride I was allowed in this situation. He was a man, and as much as I loved and respected men, most were consistently reliable in their reaction to bare breasts. Hell, my tits were terrific. I would've been miffed if he hadn't popped some wood.
A small part of me wanted to acknowledge it. I wanted to signal to him that things took a turn for the intimate for both of us and I wasn't one hundred percent clear on my feelings there. I knew I was zero percent clear on his feelings.
On the one hand was the erection, the way he touched me, the way he kissed me back.
On the other hand were drunk memories, and they were liars.
"None of this is helping," I muttered to myself.
Shuffling the next card to the front of my pile, I started a new note. I was aiming for a personal tone, something that quietly said, "Hey! You've seen me naked! Maybe you liked that?" but striking that balance was tough.
Dear Sheriff Lau,
Thank you for escorting me home last night. Unfortunately, it seems that I didn't make it to my home and I am sorry for any difficulty I caused you. I had a bad day and drank too much, and somehow that became your problem. I apologize for that. I don't like being anyone's problem.
I know muffins and rolls can't solve everything and they probably won't make you forget any of the inappropriate and invasive things I said and did last night, but they're the best I've got. I hope you enjoy them and I hope we can put this weird night behind us. I know you haven't been in town long but I can promise you, I don't get sloppy-and-stripping drunk very often. Or, ever.
I'm a grown-ass lady and I can handle my liquor except for when the guy I thought I'd marry (eventually) shows up at my store with his boyfriend. It's not fair to say I thought we'd get married. It was more like a backup plan. Like, a back-way-up plan. I thought we'd get together at a certain point if neither of us were married or in a serious relationship, but I'd never run that plan by him. I didn't want to be his problem. I wanted to be the girl who was there if he wanted me.
That sounds pathetic. That's even worse than sloppy-and-stripping. I'm not pathetic and I can handle my liquor. It was a bad day and I learned many things I'd been ignoring or pretending I didn't know. Thank you for being there when I needed someone, even if I don't like needing people. I doubt that matters to you. I was a hot, drunk mess and you kept me safe. I imagine this is all part of your job description and just another day at the office for you.
Enjoy the muffins.
Annette Cortassi
I barkedout a mortified laugh as I read over this draft. This was personal but it was also awful. I could be embarrassed without being a sad, single girl cliché. And this was the saddest.
Staring out at the sparkling blue ocean, I drank the rest of my coffee and debated short and sweet notes like, "Thanks for all your help!" or "Sorry about all the trouble last night. Enjoy some baked goods." Those were much easier approaches. I wasn't lacing anything between the lines and he wasn't getting the story of my life.
But I couldn't get over the feel of him, the pressure. Even through the heavy fog of vodka, I remembered his touch. It wasn't a cautious hold, as if he was preventing me from falling over. It wasn't friendly either. It was purposeful, as if he was telegraphing his intentions. His desires. No man had ever touched me that way.
I'd embarrassed the hell out of myself and probably Jackson, too. And I owed him an apology. Somehow, I had to wrap each of those sentiments up and tuck them into a bakery basket.
