by Unknown
A solar storm couldn’t have stopped today. Because just like the sun would rise each morning and set each evening, the women of St. Helena would do anything to get their hands on St. Paws’ extended edition Cuties with Booties calendar. And Shay was the town’s only supplier.
Last year, kitten and puppy season had been brutal, so Shay, wanting to raise awareness of the staggering number of homeless pets, started Cuties with Booties, a pet-adoption blog. Each week she paired one of St. Helena’s sexiest working men with a pet in need. Contractors, vintners, service men, even a forest ranger—all barefoot while their partners-in-crime wore their work boots.
Cuties with Booties had gone viral in a matter of days, helping Shay place nine pets with their forever families and raising enough donations to help offset spaying and neutering costs for another dozen. It also made local stars out of the men brave enough to pose and the animals who’d captured the town’s hearts. The women of St. Helena had even started up a fan club, Booty Patrol, printing off the photos of the pets—and men—and asking for their paw prints.
This year Shay had bigger dreams, and with the blog’s success putting her on the map as the patron saint of St. Helena’s strays, she regularly received calls from people needing help finding an animal a good home or from the local shelter when its facility was maxed out.
But it seemed that for every one she placed, another two would appear on her doorstep, and her heart had already outgrown her house. Not to mention her checkbook.
Every life counts, she reminded herself, which was why turning away a stray broke her heart, so she was determined to find a way to place more pets. Her current goal was twelve animals over the next twelve months. With Bark in the Park right around the corner, Shay was certain she’d place the four foster dogs currently residing in her home by the end of the summer. The seasonal doggie roundup acted as a place where locals could socialize their four-legged kids and would allow Shay to introduce potential families to her dogs. Dogs that, when adopted, would provide her the extra space she needed to foster more pets. Only more fosters meant more vet bills, more food, and more money.
Money Shay didn’t have access to.
But she did have access to the most adorable and adoptable pets on the planet. And together with some of St. Helena’s finest first responders, wearing not much more than their work pants and a smile, she’d hoped that the Eighteen Months of Cuties with Booties calendar would raise enough to cover the costs of twelve animals.
Shay turned to her friends. “Peggy is being super supportive.” Peggy wasn’t just her landlord, she was also the owner of Paws and Claws Day Spa, which made her Shay’s boss. “She even offered to let me have a few calendar signings at her shop, including one with Warren and then a big meet-and-greet with the cuties the weekend after Bark in the Park. A ‘men behind the dogs’ kind of signing, where we sell all kinds of autographed calendars and swag. I already have several of the guys from the calendar lined up to do signings with their featured pet.”
Shay smiled at the long line of women that wound through the park to the steps of town hall, all waiting to get their hands on the anticipated calendar.
Cuties with Booties was going to make her dream a reality. She just knew it. Helping those otherwise overlooked souls was something Shay not only understood, it was what drove her. Everyone loved kittens and puppies. Who wouldn’t? Not many looked twice at a sweet older dog with bad vision and gas problems. Once they reached a certain age, their likelihood for placement dropped dramatically, and during puppy and kitten season the chances of placement were slim at best.
“With that many hot dawgs in one place, every lady in town will show up with their pens. And checkbooks,” Harper said, handing a calendar to the next customer—followed closely by a Salty Chihuahua. “I bet your applications will go through the roof.”
That was the plan. “Then I just have to come up with the money to cover the cost of the new fosters.”
“The number of people willing to stand in the heat and plunk down a cool twenty for a calendar tells me that St. Paws will have enough to take care of as many fosters as you can handle.”
Emerson was right. With this kind of crowd, she would be able to afford more fosters than she’d originally thought.
“Who’s next?” Shay ushered the next customer forward.
To her surprise the next customer was neither a soccer mom nor an old biddy. A three-foot-tall girl with freckles and a mess of wild blonde curls flying every which way peeked over the edge of the table. She was maybe six, beanpole thin, wearing a faded sundress that was on the wrong side of vintage, and holding a beach bag that was twice her size.
“Well, hello,” Shay said when the girl just looked her at her with serious, assessing brown eyes. Shay glanced around to see who she was with, because surely the girl was too young to be there alone. But no one seemed to step up to the table to join her.
Shay shot Harper a questioning look. Harper managed the Fashion Flower, the only kids’ clothing boutique in town, which meant she knew just about every munchkin between two and twelve. Harper just shrugged.
Hoping a parent was nearby, Shay leaned forward, getting to eye level. “Are you here to pick up a calendar for someone?”
Goldilocks shook her head, her gaze dropping to the dog at Shay’s feet. She reached out a tentative hand, pausing briefly. “Is it all right if I pet your dog?”
“He’s not mine.” Not anymore, she thought, ignoring the ping of sadness that always surfaced when one of her lost ones found their forever home.
Just that morning, before the signing started, a young family had come specifically to meet Tripod and fallen in love. The feeling was mutual. They lived in a one-story home, which was a must with only three legs, and had an autistic daughter who would benefit from Tripod’s calm and loving demeanor. It was the perfect match for everyone involved.
“Tripod goes to his new family next week, but he’s friendly and loves belly rubs.”
On cue, Tripod, the star of today and an attention-lover, rolled over to expose his soft underbelly.
The girl had great animal etiquette. Kneeling next to Tripod in the grass, she stroked him gently, careful not to go near his face.
“Do you have a dog?”
She shook her head. “Grandma’s allergic.”
Too bad, Shay thought, taking in the way the girl seemed to relax while petting the dog. It was the same thing that happened whenever Shay was around animals. There was something so healing about unconditional love.
“Is it a nice family? Tripod’s new one?” Goldilocks asked quietly, giving Tripod a belly rub that had his tongue lolling to the side in ecstasy and all three legs sticking up in the air like roadkill.
Tripod was a two-year-old shepherd mix who’d lost his front leg in a car accident when he’d been dumped on the side of the highway, then bravely bared it all for the cover of the calendar with a local deputy.
Just not the deputy Shay had wanted.
Then again, Shay had learned early on that the things she wanted either gave her a big butt or a broken heart, because the ones she really wanted never seemed to want her back. Or at least not for long. But Tripod had a chance at a lifetime of happiness. Shay had made sure of it.
“The nicest,” Shay assured her, but Goldilocks didn’t look convinced and Shay couldn’t blame her. People could suck, something Shay knew firsthand, which was why she screened all of her applicants thoroughly before approving any adoption.
“It’s a rule.” Shay handed Goldilocks a St. Paws flyer and pointed to the tagline at the bottom. “See, right here. Only nice families need apply.”
Goldilocks gave Tripod one last pat, then stood to study the flyer. She looked at every condition Shay listed, then read the most important part: “St. Paws pets are the ‘for keeps’ kind.”
“Yup.” That was the best part of what Shay did. She wasn’t interested in finding her animals another temporary stopover, so she took the time and care to ensure
that each match ended in a lifetime of love and companionship.
“We only place pets with people who have big hearts,” Shay explained.
After a long moment the girl gave a small nod and extended the flyer. “Can I have it signed?”
Shay smiled. “Sure.” She reached across the table to grab the organic inkpad she’d brought for Tripod, but the girl shook her head.
“I want you to sign it.” She handed Shay a pen from her Mary Poppins–sized bag. “Right there.”
Shay took the pen and signed her name right where the dirty finger pointed. The girl looked at the signature, then at Shay and smiled. Big and bright, exposing a gap where she’d lost a tooth. “Someday I want to be a saint too.”
And didn’t that just make her week.
Shay swallowed hard as Goldilocks gave Tripod one last pet to the head and, tucking the signed flyer in her pocket, walked toward town hall. Shay was still collecting herself when two bony hands snatched a calendar off of the table.
Estella Pricket, the current president of the Companion Brigade, the local pet owners’ society, sucked on her teeth as she looked it over carefully. Estella was about four hundred years old, favored penciled eyebrows over real ones, and had jaws like a pit bull when it came to getting her way. That she was Shay’s neighbor only made it that much worse. “How did you pick the models?”
Shay looked at the back of the calendar, over all of the drool-worthy men, and waggled a brow. “I asked them if they wanted to take it off for a good cause and they said yes.”
“And all these years I’ve been suffering through coffee dates,” Emerson said, grabbing the calendar.
“At least you get coffee,” Harper argued. “I had every one of those cuties and their half-naked booties in a dark room and the closest I got to a date was one of them asking when the calendar would be released.”
Harper had donated her set design and photography skills to the cause in hopes of meeting a dark and dangerous bad boy wanting to give her an adventure she’d never forget. Too bad for Harper, the men of St. Helena had a hard time picturing the town’s good girl getting down and dirty.
“Maybe you should lose the cardigan and tights,” Emerson said before picking up her tray to make her rounds.
Shay laughed. Estella only scowled, which made her forehead fold over on itself and her lips purse out like she needed an EpiPen. It was enough to scare a ghost. The last time the woman had scowled like that in public was when Sheila Stanton mistakenly announced Estella’s prized Pomeranian as a papillon at last year’s Bark in the Park crowning ceremony.
Sheila was sentenced to doodie duty at all Companion events—for the rest of her life.
“Not the men,” Estella said impatiently, narrowing her beady eyes on the calendar. “The dogs.”
“Oh.” That was an easy answer. “I didn’t, they picked me.” Which they had. Shay truly believed that each and every stray she rescued picked her—and in return she promised to find a family to love them.
“Then that’s false advertising,” Estella said, pointing to the tagline at the bottom of the cover, which read WINE COUNTRY’S FINEST TAIL.
“It’s just a marketing tool, Mrs. Pricket,” Harper said sweetly, scooting a little closer to Shay, which, for a girl who would rather leave the state than face a confrontation, was a big deal.
“No, it’s a lie! Because Foxy Cleopatra is the best tail in town,” the older woman snapped, and the tiny Pomeranian that sat at her owner’s feet started shaking.
Harper laughed.
Shay didn’t. She wanted to pick up the poor dog and cuddle her close. It was obvious that Foxy was terrified being in a sea of legs, and Estella’s tone was only amplifying the dog’s insecurities. But their conversation had caught the attention of Nora Kincaid, who slid closer. Nora was the kind of woman who made a business out of knowing everyone’s business, then posting it on her Facebook page—which had over ten thousand likes and was growing daily. And informing Estella of her lacking parenting skills with the town’s own paparazzo nearby wouldn’t help matters.
“Foxy Cleopatra came from two champion lines . . .” Estella paused to watch Nora pull her phone out of her purse, then turned so that Nora could catch her good side, should the Voice of St. Helena decide to start snapping and uploading pics. “And is, herself, a blue ribbon holder, and you didn’t once come to ask me if she’d like to be in the calendar.”
“And she is a wonderful dog.” A painfully shy and insecure dog who needed gentle reassurance, not a stroll through a forest of drunken legs. “But this calendar is for adoptable dogs.”
“Which explains why you only went as far as to search through that ark of misfits you have in your house.” An ark of misfits that had been a point of contention since the day Shay moved in. “You should clarify that for buyers.”
Then to ensure that everyone in line could hear, Estella raised her voice, which had Foxy cowering and Nora’s trigger finger bursting into action. “Because you can’t imply that you have the finest tail in all of wine country if you didn’t inspect all the tail wine country has to offer.” Estella turned back to look—right over Shay’s shoulder. “Isn’t that true, Deputy?”
Oh boy. Shay didn’t have to turn to see which deputy was standing behind her—her nipples already knew. Jonah oozed enough testosterone and confidence that all he had to do was stand downwind and Shay’s hormones short-circuited.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jonah said without a hint of humor in his voice, but she knew he was laughing. “And I have it on good authority that a thorough search of the best tail in wine country has not been completed by Shay here.”
At that she turned to face him, completely ignoring how well he filled out his uniform. Or that his cuffs and more-than-impressive equipment were at eye level. Even his gun had swagger. She looked up and found those laser-sharp pools of blue aimed right at her.
So she aimed back. “I’ve inspected enough tail to know right away what a cause worth pursuing is and, more importantly, what is not.”
Estella, thinking Shay’s comment was directed at her dog, snatched up poor Foxy and stormed off, mumbling, “Wouldn’t know good tail if it bit you in the ass.”
Which was probably true, but Shay kept silent.
Jonah, however, let his gaze fall to Shay’s tail, which was sporting her best pair of shorts, and smiled. An arrogant smile that promised to deliver everything Shay could ever want, and more.
Only Shay had seen that smile enough to know that it lied.
People either wanted to control Shay or change her, and she had a feeling that the sweet sheriff fell into the former category. Sure, their chemistry was off the charts, and sleeping with Jonah Baudouin would most likely be a religious experience, but beneath all the swagger and upstanding small-town charm was a man who controlled his world. And Shay was done with being controlled.
“I stand by my earlier statement,” she said.
“Following your gut is important.” Jonah took in the hordes of women flapping their money in the air, pushing their way forward—and the pitchers of alcohol. “Like when it’s nagging you that the hostess probably doesn’t have a permit to sell wares in a public park or serve open containers.”
“I’m handing out calendars. For charity,” she argued, purposefully leaving out the alcohol part.
“Which requires a permit.” He leaned in close. “You got a permit, Shay?”
Yeah, that would be a big, fat, apparently illegal no. The way his hands went to his cuffs told her he’d figured it out. The way her body responded said she was crazy, which was the only explanation she could come up with for why she stood and held out her wrists in surrender. “You going to cuff me, Sheriff?”
“Deputy,” he corrected, looking as though he was contemplating it, and a whole lot more.
“Deputy,” she said with a smile. When he didn’t move to whip out the cuffs, she decided to change the topic. “And how is our favorite Great Dane?”
He remain
ed locked and loaded, but his swagger faltered slightly. “Working on it, Trouble.”
“That wasn’t our deal,” she reminded him, ignoring the thrill of him giving her a nickname. “You said you’d handle it and I believed you.” Something Shay didn’t do lightly.
Trust was a hard concept for her. But for some reason with Jonah she’d been willing to give him a chance. She just hoped he didn’t turn out like all the other men in her life—a gigantic disappointment.
“Give me a few more days,” he said quietly.
Shay looked at the stack of calendars, each one getting her closer and closer to her dream, then back to his gun. “Only if you give me a few more hours here.”
“You’re serving alcohol without a permit,” he explained, but she could hear the hesitation waver in his voice.
“It’s grapefruit juice,” Shay said, and Jonah raised a brow.
She sat silent, letting that lie grow and grow until she felt the urge to reach up and touch her nose. “And other stuff,” she mumbled.
“It’s the other stuff that concerns me.” The cuffs clanked against his hip and Shay considered offering him some of that “other stuff.”
Personally, she thought Jonah could use a little loosening up—good cop with a touch of wild side was way more appealing than an uptight sheriff.
“If you arrest her, then you’ve got to take all of us in,” Clovis Owens, a portly woman in a Booty Patrol T-shirt, shouted.
“Grandma,” Harper warned, and when Clovis crossed her arms in outright defiance, she added, “Last time they took you in, I had to post five hundred bucks in bail.”
“A man should know better than to touch a lady’s cane without permission,” the older woman defended, then looked back at Jonah. “And you should know better than to think we are going anywhere without our man candy.”
That elicited a few supportive amens and a damn straight, and soon fifty wrinkled hands were fist pumping bills in the air in protest, all hollering, “We want”—double fist pump—“man candy.”
