"You go get them. I'll stay here while Danny counts it just to make sure he doesn't try to rip you off," Jagger offers.
Danny fumes, "You're lucky I didn't press charges against you."
"Coulda, shoulda, woulda. Move on from the past, old man," my brother taunts.
"Jagger!" I scold.
The sheriff interjects again, ordering, "Danny, go count the money with Officer Tenpenny. Jagger, you sit in that chair and keep your comments to yourself." He points to a seat several desks away.
Both men follow orders.
The sheriff puts his hand on my back.
I do everything I can not to squirm away from him, knowing he'll eliminate even more space between us if I do.
That's the thing about a small town. Everyone tends to know everyone, and the sheriff is as dirty of an old man as any other. And it's not the first time I've had to deal with his unwelcome touches.
The moment to escape his grasp comes, and I rush through the door into the holding area, questioning, "What number?"
"Fifteen."
Catcalls erupt from the men locked up. They echo louder as I pass more cells.
"Shut up," the sheriff barks, but there's nothing he can do.
The noise increases. I get to fifteen, already thinking about what I'm going to say to my clients, and freeze, the air disappearing from my lungs.
It's not him.
A devil in cowboy boots lounges on a bench against the wall, owning the cell and reeking of sin. Denim covers his long legs, and a ripped, bloody white T-shirt stretches over his torso, half tucked into a belt buckle with a W on it. His wounded knuckles, full of ink and crossed peacefully on his taut abs, rise and fall with his breathing. A worn, brown leather cowboy hat tilts over his face, covering the bad-boy smirk I'm sure plays on his lips.
The dim light of the holding cell makes the inked sleeve on his forearm appear dangerous and majestic. Black lines etched into sun-warmed skin hint about stories you'd never unravel unless he let you close enough to trace them with your tongue.
He's the kind of man who'd wreck your plans, your bed, and your sense of right and wrong, without ever raising his voice.
And that's exactly what Wyatt Houston did to me.
Somehow, I forget to breathe. I reach for the bars, wrapping my fingers around one, trying to stop the adrenaline rush and chaos attacking me from every angle.
"Willow. Sorry to fuck up your Christmas," Jericho blurts out.
Wyatt's hands stop rising. His jaw clenches, and I don't miss the glint of his eye peeking out from the side of his hat. As if in slow motion, he raises a finger, pushes the brim of his hat up, and pins his dark eyes on me.
Flames flicker in the pit of my stomach, dark and reckless. The catcalls only intensify old feelings, giving life to something scarier.
It's been too many years since he's touched me.
Don't go there,I scold myself.
Wyatt's intoxicated, but the same challenging gaze that wrecked me all those years ago takes me in, undressing me with every passing second.
I don't move, scared of what I might do, even though there's a locked door and several men between us.
Ironically, Sheriff Lorall saves me, stepping beside me and unlocking the cage. He scolds, "You're lucky Willow is saving your asses. Call it your Christmas miracle. But you will lose your careers the next time this happens. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," Colt replies.
"Thank you," Jericho adds.
