I shake my head. “For you, golden boy. Not for me.”
“Baby, please. There is a good life for us here if you just…stop caring about that. This place is worth the effort to stay.”
But I’m not worth the effort to leave.
“Let’s go home, Logan,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m tired.”
He exhales sharply, the sound cutting through the quiet. “Fine.” He stands, brushing the dust from his shorts. “Let’s go.”
Twenty Eight
Logan
The blue and red lights start flashing as soon as we pull onto Main Street.
“What?” I slap the steering wheel in irritation. “I wasn’t speeding.”
“Oh, no,” Sierra whispers. She sinks low in her seat and covers her face with her hands.
“It’s fine,” I say, frowning at her overreaction. I pull over to the shoulder. “It’s been an hour or so since we had the wine. Maybe my headlight’s out?”
The deputy takes his sweet time to approach. I internally groan when I finally see who it is—of course, it’s the town marshal himself. He taps sharply on my window, and I roll it down.
“Logan LaSalle and Sierra Howard,” he drawls. Something about the way he says our names makes my back stiffen. He sounds too pleased to see us. “What brings you out here solate? It’s been a few years since I caught you two together in cahoots, up to no good.”
I frown. As unfortunate as it is, I see Marshal Dawson fairly often. It doesn’t make sense for him to talk to us like wayward teenagers.
“We’re just coming back from a date,” I say coolly. “What seems to be the problem, Marshal?”
“License and registration.”
I hand it to him. “Is my headlight burned out or something?”
He glances at the cards in his hand. “Have you had a chance to review the trust changes I asked for?”
I grit my teeth. This shit again? “I think I’ve made it pretty clear.”
For some reason, he looks past me to Sierra. His piercing blue eyes darken before turning back to me. “Humor me again. Will you change the trust designations?”
“I don’t know how many times you think you’re entitled to ask, but it’s not going to happen. Ever.”
He nods. “I see. Step out of the vehicle,” he orders. “Now.”
Anger sizzles in my belly, but I hold up my hands. “All right, all right.”
A cool wind blows past me as I step out. Even though the sun has set, the street is far from empty. There are still a healthy number of stragglers making their way back to their hotels and cars. A small, well-dressed tourist group poses nearby under the gas lamp post, snapping photos.
“I’m going to conduct a few field sobriety tests,” he announces loudly.
The fashionable group seems to hear that and pauses their photoshoot. What appears to be a bachelorette group walks by at that moment too, giggling when they hear Dawson’swords.
My frustration spikes. “I’m not drunk. I’ll take a breathalyzer test.”
He ignores me. “Walk nine heel-to-toe steps along a straight line, turn on one foot, and take nine steps back.”
I grit my teeth and perform the exercise. I look at him for confirmation that I’m done, but he taps his chin as if thinking hard.
“Again,” he finally instructs.
