My dog likes him.
Which feels like a betrayal.
Timing-wise, it’s not ideal—celebrating independence while taking out a public servant—but my moral compass has been pointing toflexiblefor a while now.
“Oh, we’re ready,” Lily declares, eyeing Noah and Everett with great interest. “Between Effie’s glitter explosion and our premium man candy, we’ve got this locked up.”
“Man candy?” Everett raises an eyebrow, more amused than offended.
“Premium grade,” Lily confirms with a wink. “Locally sourced, organic, free-range masculinity.”
“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or file a complaint,” Noah teases.
“Be flattered,” Lottie advises as her cheeks grow pink. “These ladies know quality when they see it. Effie, are you ready?”
“As ready as we can be,” I say, trying not to think about Uncle Jimmy’s deadline—or the fact that Watson has developed a serious crush on my intended target.
Some Fourth of July celebrations are subdued—tasteful decorations, quiet reflection. Others look like freedom exploded in a craft store.
Ours comes with a side of innuendo.
I’m starting to think it’s the more honest version.
And I’m oddly proud of that.
CHAPTER 20
Darkness settles over Honey Lake, and the twinkle lights take over as if they’ve been waiting all day for their moment.
The festival shifts from afternoon chaos into evening magic, with lights reflecting off the water like fallen stars. Families spread quilts across every patch of grass, coolers packed with enough beer and snacks to survive a small siege, while anticipation builds for the fireworks—promising to be bigger and louder than my Uncle Jimmy’s temper when someone crosses him.
Just thinking about Uncle Jimmy sharpens my upcoming deadline, and the idea of taking out the mayor makes my stomach churn.
Maybe dancing on tables isn’t such a bad plan B.
The air smells like everything good about summer—grilled burgers and hot dogs, citronella fighting a losing battle against mosquitoes, and that warm, lake-soaked evening air that feels like happiness with a side of fried food and controlled explosions.
Distant booms echo across the water as someone tests fireworks early, making kids squeal and dogs bark as if this is all perfectly normal.
Children race around with sparklers that violate several safety regulations, their parents trailing behind with the resigned expressions of people who’ve accepted that a trip to the emergency room is part of the holiday.
Food trucks wind down their dinner service, gearing up for the dessert rush for people who want sugar while they watch things blow up in the sky.
Watson bounds up to our booth, his bandana hanging on for dear life, but his enthusiasm fully intact. He’s clearly had the time of his life on festival patrol—charming hot dogs out of unsuspecting vendors and collecting enough belly rubs to last a week. There’s never anything new with him.
“There’s my boy,” I coo, dropping to my knees for the full Watson welcome, which involves enough face licking to qualify as a spa treatment and tail wagging that could take out a small child.
Cooper appears behind him like a holiday mirage, and my brain briefly forgets how to function because the man looks criminally good in the evening light. His wavy brown hair is slightly mussed, his polo clings in all the right places, and the way the festival lights catch his blue-green eyes makes me want to drag him behind the nearest food truck for activities that are definitely not family-friendly.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, and my knees do a mean wobble at the sight of him. “Miss me?”
“Like a fish misses water,” I say, stepping closer until I catch his cologne mixed with summer air and whatever chaos he’s been wrangling all day. “How’s security duty treating you?”
“Quiet so far,” he murmurs, his hand finding my waist and pulling me closer as if he knows exactly what he’s doing.“Though I have to say, watching you in that dress all day has been seriously testing my professional focus.”
I glance down at my dress—a navy sundress dotted with tiny white stars. It’s soft, light, and swings just enough to make me feel cute without trying too hard. The hem hits above my knees, the halter shows off my shoulders, and the whole thing walks a fine line between wholesome and questionable decision pending. And I wouldn’t mind making a questionable decision with Coop later tonight, either.
“This old thing?” I say innocently, doing a little twirl that sends the skirt flaring—and gives Cooper a preview of what’s underneath—which, unfortunately, includes more than just my favorite lace underwear.
