Page 27
I figured the whole situation would be the talk of the town today, and although I’m sure it was on everyone’s minds, it wasn’t the thing they were talking about. Because sometime between last night and this morning, someone—who I have to assume is Elsie—plastered handmade signs in the window of every business up and down Main Street. And the signs were not things you’d walk by and not notice, no—each of them was covered in red and blue glitter, making them hard to miss. And more than a few had ridiculous taglines added. Like the one at the coffee shop that had red glitter hearts and big bold lettering that said I Don’t Always Vote, but When I Do, It’s for the Hot Sheriff—Vote for Wyatt Foster December 13th. Or the one Bryan likely saw that said Don’t Miss Your Chance to Vote for Sheriff McHottie on December 13th.
When I noticed the first sign at the coffee shop, I called Elsie to ask her what the fuck she was thinking, but of course she didn’t pick up. And since then, I’ve called her multiple times and sent a few texts, but I have yet to hear back from her. It’s not surprising she’s avoiding me when she probably knows I’m pissed.
After enduring another hour of the guys giving me shit while I fill out the reports I need to get done, I pack up my stuff, check in with Mike to make sure he doesn’t need anything from me before I leave, then head to my truck, ready to put this day and the last week behind me. With overtime I’ve spent more time at the sheriff’s office than I have at home and have barely slept more than six hours a night. I’m ready for some much-needed time off before I have to do it all again next week.
Pulling up to my house fifteen minutes later, I bite back a curse when I find Mia’s car in my driveway and don’t see her behind the wheel. Around six months ago she and I spent some time together for a few weeks before I called it quits. I didn’t see things between us going anywhere, and I could tell by her actions and the shit she’d say that she was in deeper than me, and I didn’t want to lead her to believe that we would ever be more than what we were. Which in my head was two people who were hooking up.
Since then, we’ve kept things friendly. I’ve helped her out with shit around her house when she’s needed something fixed, and she’s looked after Storm for me when I’ve had to go out of town or work late, which is why she has a key to my place. Something that wasn’t ever a problem until recently. In the last few weeks, she’s started to take advantage of the key I gave her, and I’ve come home to find her in my house more than once with no clue that she’d be here. The first time I came home to find her here, she claimed she heard that there was a big wreck, so she figured I’d be getting home late, and she wanted to come take Storm on a walk but stuck around to make sure I was all right. And twice I came home to find her in the kitchen, cooking the two of us dinner.
Tucking away the annoyance I’m feeling, I park my truck next to her car and get out, taking my bag with me before slamming the door. I head up the sidewalk and can hear Storm at the door attempting to get out, knowing I’m home before I even have a chance to make it up the steps of the front porch.
After letting myself into the house, I drop my bag to the ground while Storm dances at my feet, his size not matching the puppy excitement he still has. That excitement is the same reason I don’t take him to work with me every day. Eventually that will change, but he needs a few more months of training before I’ll be able to trust him completely.
“Mia,” I call out while rubbing down Storm, and she walks around the corner from the direction of the kitchen with a smile on her face and a hand towel clutched between her hands. Seeing it and smelling the food she’s obviously cooking, I search for calm.
She’s a beautiful woman—not compared to Genevieve, but she is beautiful, with long chestnut brown hair, big brown eyes, and a body that makes it obvious she works out daily and counts every calorie before a bite ever touches her lips. But the thing with her is she knows she’s beautiful and that with a crook of her finger she can get most men to do anything she wants. And for me that is one of the things that was, and still is, a turnoff. There is a difference between being confident and being conceited, and she is definitely the latter of the two.
“Hey, how was work?” she asks with a smile, stopping just inside the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead of answering, and she doesn’t even hesitate to reply, obviously not catching that I’m annoyed with her being in my house.
“Well, I know you’ve been working a lot these last few days and that you probably wouldn’t want to cook tonight, so I came over to surprise you with dinner.”
“Mia, we’ve spoken about you just showing up without letting me know you’d be here.”
“Yeah”—she rolls her eyes—“but it’s not a big deal, Wyatt. I’m just here to cook for you. Then I’m getting out of your hair.”
“It is a big deal.” I attempt to keep my tone neutral, but it’s difficult when I feel myself getting pissed. “You can’t just let yourself into my house anytime you want. That shit’s not cool, and you know it.”
“Wait.” Her eyes scan over my face as I come out of my squat. “Are you being serious right now?”
“We had this exact conversation the last two times I came home to find you here.” I walk past her to the kitchen and shut off the pot of water she has boiling on the stove and the red sauce she has bubbling next to it.
“I . . . I thought that you just had a bad night. I didn’t know you were serious,” she says as I walk to the fridge and open it up. I grab a beer, and I twist off the cap and toss it into the trash before I turn to face her.
“I wouldn’t have told you not to show up without calling if I wasn’t serious.”
“Is this about Elsie’s daughter?” How the fuck does she know about Genevieve?
“Pardon?”
“Penny told me that she saw you two together, having breakfast with her mom. Is this about her? Are you worried that I’ll be here one night when you bring her home?”
“You know that’s none of your business, Mia.” I don’t know why I don’t tell her the truth that I barely know Genevieve and I’m not interested in her, probably because that would be a fucking lie. Genevieve has taken up a whole lot of my headspace this last week, more than she should be.
“Oh my god, you are seeing her, aren’t you?”
“Again, that would be none of your business.”
“I . . .” She rests her hand against her throat. “We.” She shakes her head, and I see tears begin to fill her eyes.
Fuck.
Maybe I’m slow on the uptake, but I didn’t know until this moment that she was still holding on to the hope that things between us would work out, or maybe I did but figured she’d get it eventually, that it would never happen.
“I think it’s time you give me my key back,” I tell her gently, “and I think it’d be good if you found someone else to help you change out the washer hookup in your laundry room this weekend.”
“So that’s it,” she whispers. “I am cooking for you, and taking your dog on walks when you’re working late, and you’re just going to cut me off so . . . what? So you can get in some other woman’s pants and string her along until you toss her aside for the next woman you want to sleep with?”
