Winnie
The bell over the door to my little gift shop chimes, but I’m too busy sorting out the beads in my charms case to look up. If I do, I’m afraid the whole thing will topple over—and I’ll cry. This thing has taken me all day to organize.
“That looks like a lot of work,” a gruff voice says. I smile, fit the last charm into place, and turn.
Sheriff Corbin stands just inside the doorway, his blue eyes sending a shiver straight down my spine. His uniform hugs every inch of his muscled body, corded arms crossed like he’s daring someone to test him. A scar runs from his temple down to his chin, but instead of marring his square, chiseled features, it sharpens them—making him look all the more dangerous. And devastatingly handsome.
I realize I’ve been staring a little too long and haven’t said anything back when he quirks one eyebrow at me.
“Yeah, a customer got a little too enthusiastic and the beads spilled everywhere. Thankfully, they’re all accounted for now.”
He frowns. “Enthusiastic how? Do you have a description of them?”
I can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of my mouth. “No, no. It was an honest accident, Sheriff. No need to jump in and save the day this time.”
He still appears unsure, but lets it drop. For a moment, he looks lost, as if he doesn’t know what to say or do next. It makes him seem boyish. Cute. Which seems impossible for such a hard man. Thankfully, I know just what he needs.
“I hoped you might come in today,” I say, and his whole scarred face seems to brighten.
“You did?” he asks, a hopeful tone in his voice.
I nod and make my way behind my checkout counter. “Yes, because who else could I share these with?”
I pull the lid off a Tupperware container to reveal several chocolate chip cookies. Sheriff Corbin’s gruff laugh sends my omega into a tailspin of excitement. I internally scold myself. He’s just a nice alpha. Him coming in here three or four days a week doesn’t mean anything. He visits most of the businesses.
We want him,she nearly cries.
I shut her down. He’s the sheriff. I’ve flirted with him quite a lot. If he wanted to court us, he would. He doesn’t.
I try to reason with my omega, though it still feels a lot like rejection. When the Sheriff leans in to take a cookie, I catch a breath of his scent-neutralizing spray. He always wears it while on duty, which is the only time I see him. But faintly, underneath it, I catch notes of cedar and leather. It makes my toes curl and my eyes flutter.
I’ve commented on it before, but he just makes a joke about not being able to afford the good scent-neutralizing spray on a cop’s salary. I’m glad. I really like the scent, so I’m happy he can’t fully cover it.
It’s likely we’re scent-matched, but I can’t be sure under the scent-neutralizers. If we are, he would know, as I don’t wear spray. But since he hasn’t brought it up, we either aren’t matched—or he’s not interested.
“Any good stories today?” I ask. It’s a habit we’ve gotten into. The Sheriff comes in about every other day. One of us asks if there’s anything interesting, and then we tell each other the best story we can from the day or yesterday. The visits have, pathetically, become the highlights of my week. I don’t even know why. There’s just something so easy about the Sheriff. It's probably why he became one in the first place. Good with people.
“As a matter of fact,” he begins, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “I had a call from Stella’s today.”
My heart leaps. “Is she all right?” Stella ownsStella’s Boutique,the only clothing store in town. And she’s approximately one hundred and five. She’s sour on the best of days and in incredibly poor health for someone still working and insulting.
“She’s fine,” he assures me, resting his hand on top of mine and squeezing lightly. The contact sends an electric bolt straight to my heart. The Sheriff is usually so careful not to touch. I think it’s his own personal code of conduct. Tattoos peak out from under the sleeve of his uniform and I wish I could see them fully.
“But—” He draws out the word and pulls his hand back. “She did think that someone had broken into her back room. There were a lot of noises coming from there. I went to check it out and found a puppy.”
I immediately perk up. “What?”
I feel like I must not have heard him correctly. He nods.
“Yeah, he’s the oddest-looking thing too. Wiry gray hair, big long snout. Paws like you wouldn’t believe.”
“What did you do with him?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I took him back to the police station. He’s in my office with some food and water. Poor thing seemed underfed. No tags.”
“Can I come see?” I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been playing with the idea of getting a dog. My rental house is super small, so I’ve been watching videos of the best apartment pets—Dachshunds, Chihuahuas, small babies. But the videos I always linger on are the big boys: Mastiffs, Great Danes, Standard Poodles.
“Miss Heart, this puppy…he’s a handful,” Sheriff Corbin hedges. “And he might still belong to someone. I don’t want you to get attached and then have to give him back.”
