Page 12 of Cuffed By the Wolf

“Maybe I should come there and help you find who did this in a more subtle way.”

What if I ask Fitch for help? After all, he did put in a good word with the sheriff about the job.

A sly grin lifts my cheeks as I take in the cute shops. “No. I have a plan.”

“Good morning,” I sing as I walk through the doors of the Morgan County Sheriff’s department. I walk in with a bag resting on my wrist with two boxes of donuts inside. A boxed jug of hot coffee in one hand, and a to-go carrier of gourmet coffee in the other. I think the coffee shop Spout is my new favorite place to relax in this little town. I notice they have a fireplace. I bet it’s cozy in the winter.

The officers stare with open mouths as I step into the office space. A few officers call out good morning.

“Where can I place the goodies?” I ask.

Fitch appears out of nowhere. I’m careful not to look in the sheriff’s office.

“I’ll take those from you,” he says, leading me to a table near the coffee machine.

“Thanks for the treats,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” I respond as my eyes move to the sheriff’s office.

So much for not looking.

He’s wearing a different scowl this morning. One that reads he wants to go back on his decision to interview me.

“Fitch, wish me luck.” I beam.

His eyes move over me once in approval.

“Fitch, get back to work,” Sheriff Drake barks out.

“Good luck,” Fitch says before darting into the garage.

“Ms. Walker, in my office. Now.”

My eyes move over the concerned faces. “Enjoy the donuts and coffee, everyone,” I say as I walk toward the sheriff’s office.

“May the Force be with you,” one of the officers says.

Damn, it’s going to be that bad. I need a quote from Star Wars.

Smoothing one hand down my gray pencil skirt, I attempt to step into the office past the sheriff without brushing up against him. Forest floor and dark chocolate slip up my nose.

Down girl.

Behave.

“Get back to work,” he shouts to his officers, then slams the door behind me.

“This is an interview, not a production,” he snaps.

“Who peed in your oatmeal this morning?” I mutter under my breath.

“Who peed in my oatmeal?” He repeats angrily.

The man looks like a fire-breathing dragon. If I say one more thing to get under his skin, fire might leave his flaring nostrils.

“I brought your favorite coffee. A vanilla latte with no sugar. But extra whipped cream.” I hold it out to him.

He takes it from my hand, and our fingers touch. A spark of electricity zings through my body.