The last of her pageant parents were bundling their kids into coats and sneaking curious looks at the sheriff of Northfield, so out of place in her dainty studio filled with tutus and halos. Rush gave them his polite nod, but his attention stayed pinned on her.
Which was unfair because she was still in her leotard—black again, this time with pale-pink tights—and her curls had escaped her bun. She felt rumpled and tired after their late night together. Hardly glamorous. Meanwhile, he strode in looking like sin, the kind of hot that made women trip overthemselves in the grocery aisle when they saw him—and he was staring at her.
She resisted the urge to fan herself as he made his way over, her pulse at hot-yoga level, dragging her right back to their slow, wicked strip-show game on his couch last week.
“Thank you,” she murmured quickly, taking the cup he offered to cover the flutter in her chest. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Figured you’d need it after pageant rehearsal,” he said, his gaze taking in the leftover tinsel and crooked angel wings still scattered across the room. “I heard your wise men are bloodthirsty.”
“You figured right.” The warmth seeped into her palm and, traitorously, deeper than that.
A tug at her skirt pulled her back to earth. Lily glanced down. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Chloe stood there, curls neatly tucked under her hat, staring up with solemn blue eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Lily scanned the nearly empty room for the Whitmores. “Your grandma should be here any minute. Want to wait with me?”
Chloe shook her head, tugging again.
Lily bent to eye level. “Bathroom? Snack?”
Another shake. Chloe darted to the cubbies and returned clutching a folded sheet of paper to her chest.
“Oh, you made something.” Lily reached for it, but Chloe shook her head firmly. Then she turned, those big blue eyes locking straight onto Rush.
Lily’s breath caught. “It’s… for the sheriff?”
Beside her, Rush went rigid, his shoulders locking tight as if bracing for a fight. His face, partially hidden beneath the brim of his hat, gave nothing away. But Lily felt the tension radiating off him, raw and jagged, like he was holding back a tide that threatened to break loose. It was the same look he’d worn thatday outside her studio when he’d seen Chloe for the first time—frozen. Stricken.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Chloe nodded and held the paper out toward him with both hands.
Please,Lily begged silently.Please don’t shut her down.
At last, he reached for the picture as if Chloe had handed him a live grenade. His big hand dwarfed the rumpled paper as he unfolded it as carefully as if it were made of glass.
A crooked sun smiled from the corner. Two stick figures stood beneath—one tall with a wide circle of a hat, the other small with a halo of squiggle curls.
Tears threatened to choke Lily. Chloe had drawn them together.
Rush’s face turned to stone. Lily could almost feel the storm gathering inside him, chaos roiling just beneath his skin, threatening to tear through the seams of his composure. He didn’t speak, and she didn’t push. This was between Rush and Chloe.
He cleared his throat; the muscles working were visible to everyone. “Thank you.”
Chloe’s face lit up. She rocked back on her heels and let out a huff of delight, and Lily’s chest nearly exploded with emotion.
“She worked on that all week, hoping to see you,” Margaret Whitmore said quietly from the doorway. Her eyes glistened, and Lily knew she saw what Chloe and the entire town did: a man who carried the weight of the life he couldn’t save instead of the one he did.
Mrs. Whitmore guided Chloe to the door. The little girl looked back once, her eyes solemn, and she lifted her hand in a shy wave.
Rush lifted his hand—too late. He didn’t move until the door clicked shut.
Then he turned away sharply. He tore off his hat and shoved a hand through his hair.
She didn’t press. She didn’t even move, sensing he needed a moment to wrestle his emotions back under lock and key.
He put his hands on his hips, tipping his head back with a heavy sigh. “Christ. Wasn’t expecting that.”
