by Unknown
“You see this?” Ida asked, waving the day’s issue of the St. Helena Sentinel at Shay while Norton gave Jabba a good butt sniff. “First that woman bans Norton and me from the Companion Brigade, claiming he isn’t a companion. And now this.” Ida pressed her thin lips into an angry line while her gray, spiky hair moved with each flip of the hand.
“Norton is a duck,” Shay reminded her, sending a gentle smile at Norton, who had waddled over to say good morning. Normally that consisted of a few beak nuzzles to the thigh and flopping on his back for a belly rub. But midnuzzle he heard the offensive term duck, and, preferring to be addressed as a companion like his doggie friends, looked up and—
Quark!
Quark! Quark! Quark!
—abandoned his greeting to instead waddle over and poop in Shay’s station.
“A duck who has spent more time socializing with dogs than Estella’s snooty Foxy Cleopatra.” Ida unfolded the paper and jabbed a bony finger at the front page. “Read.”
Shay looked down at the full-page article: MANHUNT TO MAN CANDY: HOW OUR SHERIFF HOPEFULS HANDLE THE CROWD. It had a photo of each candidate posted side by side. Deputy Warren had his arm around the once lost but thankfully found Giles Rousseau and looked as though he were heading up a joint task force with the fire department and Search and Rescue team. Whereas Jonah stood in front of a Cuties with Booties banner, surrounded by a sea of waving twenties, looking for the world as though he were about to rip off his uniform and shake his tail feathers for charity.
The article went on to praise the department in its rescue of Valley Vintage’s lost resident, at the same time promoting Shay’s calendar, which had Deputy Warren featured. It even went as far as to quote Shay about the success of the day.
“Deputy Jonah handled the crowd like a pro,” she read aloud and cringed. Yeah, unfortunately, she’d said that. Not that Nora had told her what the article was for when she’d called—or how bad it would make Jonah look.
No wonder he’d been absent this morning. He was probably handling the fallout of the article, explaining to his boss how he’d ended up in the center of a mob of drunken seniors cheering for their man candy. He didn’t seem to be the kind of guy to get angry over a silly photo. But it couldn’t be good for his campaign.
Jonah was obviously working hard to cement that upstanding superhero persona he had going on. And Superman did not strip for charity. A shame, since Jonah on her cover would have doubled her profits.
“I should go apologize,” Shay said, surprised at the unexpected need to see if he was all right. To make sure he didn’t blame her.
“Apologize?” Ida laughed. “For what?”
QuarkQuarkQuark. This from Norton, who was sitting on Jabba’s back as though trying to hatch him.
“I agree, dear,” Peggy said. “Best press that man’s gotten all year. He’s actually smiling. See.”
She saw all right. A double dose of dimples with a set of lips so kissable that Shay’s body zinged. Silly, since she’d long ago stopped believing in zing. Only there was a definite zinging going on in her belly—and lower.
“Damn.”
Quark!
“Watch your mouth. Norton’s been repeating what he hears and the grandkids are repeating him,” Ida explained, then pointed her bony finger at the bottom of the page with so much force she nearly punched a hole right through it. “But I was talking about this.”
At the bottom of the page was a color ad for Bark in the Park.
“They moved it to the last weekend in August,” Peggy said quietly from over Shay’s shoulder.
“What?” Shay looked at the date and felt her stomach hollow out. “But Bark in the Park is always the third weekend. Always.”
“Now it’s the same day as the big signing here,” Peggy said, resting a hand on Shay’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, dear. I know how much you were looking forward to this event.”
An event that, if this ad was accurate, was now irrelevant. Because, if Shay was honest with herself, and she always was, she knew that given the choice between attending a fifty-year tradition held by one of the town’s oldest families or a cookie and soda mixer with the town’s newest tumbleweed-transplant, Shay and her dogs would come in a cool second.
“I guess I’m going to have to change it,” Shay said as though it wasn’t a huge deal. As though she hadn’t already sent out a few hundred flyers. As though it wasn’t mentioned in the article above. Changing it now would be a major undertaking and Estella knew that. “She did it on purpose, to get me back for the calendar.”
“Oh boy,” Peggy said, her face going soft in that grandmotherly way that always had Shay sweating. Having people care about how she felt was unfamiliar and a little scary, because she was afraid that once she got used to it, the caring would go away. “Keep reading.”
Shay did, skipping past the list of vendors, the photo of Foxy dressed like Cleopatra and Estella like the Sphinx, reading the fine print under the last line.
“No peddling of pets allowed.” Shay looked up, a bad feeling settling in her chest. “What does that even mean?”
“It means that Estella bullied the Companion Brigade to change their policy on allowing breeders and rescues into the event,” Ida said. “She says it is about honoring companions, not selling them.”
“I’m not selling them.” On average, she lost a few hundred dollars with each adoption, which was why she’d come up with the calendars to begin with. Every calendar sold helped to pay for vet bills and keep her fosters fed and housed until they went to their families. “And she can’t do that, not so close to the event,” Shay said, rereading the ad but knowing there was nothing she could do to change it.
Bark in the Park was run by the Companion Brigade, and Estella was their long-standing and much-respected president. If she said no peddling, then Shay was out of luck.
“Bark in the Park is my biggest adoption event of the year.” Shay felt her throat begin to close.
“That’s why she did it,” Peggy said, laying a hand on Shay’s.
“It doesn’t make any sense. Cutting out breeders and rescues cuts into the event’s profits.” Unlike pet owners, who could participate for free, people like Shay had to pay to play—a hundred dollars a pop. “She’d have to refund everyone’s money.”
“She already cut the reimbursement checks. Justified it by saying distinguished organizations deserve distinguished members,” Ida said, and that got a big quack out of Norton.
“She’s punishing all those pets because I didn’t put Foxy in the calendar.”
“She’s doing this because she thinks the dogs in your calendar have an advantage to be named this year’s Blue Ribbon Barker and will upstage her Foxy Cleopatra,” Peggy explained.
Shay snorted. “I wish, but every year a purebred wins.” Usually it was Estella’s. “There is no way one of my mutts would take the crown.”
“Every woman in this town has a calendar hanging on their wall, telling them just who the finest tail is in wine country,” Peggy said.
“She’s right,” Ida agreed. “Not even Estella’s reputation and pull can compete with mutts with trading cards and coordinating man candy.”
“Yeah, well trading cards and man candy will only find the calendar dogs homes. I was hoping to capitalize on the draw of the calendar to place other animals.”
“You still have the big signing,” Peggy offered.
She closed her eyes, because no, she realized painfully, she didn’t. “My guys aren’t available the weekend before.” They’d all made it clear that they needed advance notice to make sure they could get the time off work. “Some guys had to take personal days to be there. So if I change the date, a bunch of them won’t be able to come, and if I keep the date I am competing with Bark in the Park. It’s like this whole calendar thing was for nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, dear,” Peggy said, placing an arm around Shay’s shoulders. “You have the money to help dozens of animals get their shots
.” But if she couldn’t find her animals homes, then the money was worthless. “And don’t forget those cute kittens back there. You’ll find them a good home.”
It wasn’t the kittens or the pinup pets Shay was worried about. It was the older pets, the awkward ones with special needs who were hard to place. Those were the ones who needed Bark in the Park. Needed a little extra exposure to show how wonderful and loving they could be.
Those were the ones who people like Estella Pricket always overlooked.
Jonah was done.
Done with this shift. Done with the weather. He was done with the whole damn day.
That it should have been his day off only made it worse, but with the department desperately understaffed, three rookies on the schedule, and Mother Nature flipping them the bird by dumping three inches of rain before lunch, Jonah had been called in.
He’d spent the morning doing traffic control and dealing with tourists going faster than the weather permitted, and the afternoon fielding a bunch of BS calls. It turned out the St. Helena Sentinel had sold a record number of copies, even doing a rush second print after lunch. Which meant that three out of every four calls he’d responded to after that had been female—single ones, married ones, widowed ones, ones with walkers—all wanting to know if the deputy made house calls and if his gun was really as big as it looked.
Soaked through to the bone and wanting nothing more than to get out of his wet clothes, Jonah dropped his hat on the back of his chair and made his way to the locker room, surprised to find half the squad standing around as though the rest of the team weren’t out in the storm, busting their asses trying to keep up with the high call volume.
It was weird. They were all geared up and ready to head out, only they weren’t moving, just standing there shooting the shit. And, in a stellar example of what not to do on the job, Warren sat on the bench, clicking away on his phone.
Telling himself that it wasn’t his business how Warren handled his shift, Jonah opened his locker, took one look at the pair of pink fuzzy cuffs dangling from the hook, and that twitch—the one that had started behind his right eye the second he’d seen the morning paper—gained ground until his whole head throbbed.
Warren was looking for a fight, and after Jonah’s day he wanted to give him one. Only he wasn’t that guy anymore, couldn’t afford to be, so he plastered on a laid-back grin that he sure as hell didn’t feel. “I think your girlfriend left these in my locker.”
He tossed the cuffs to Warren, who caught them midair, and with a grin that was more shit-eating than good-natured, the prick pulled out a twenty and waved it. “For the record, how much will this get me?”
“Fuck you,” Jonah said, turning back to his locker. The faster he got out of uniform, the faster this day would be over. And the less likely it would end with Jonah having to explain to IA how Warren’s teeth had ended up down his throat.
“You’re not my type,” Warren said, sounding highly amused. “But, wow, can’t believe a twenty gets me all that.”
“Instead of spending all your brain power figuring out how to get in my pants, why don’t you put the phone away and try doing your job?”
“Somebody’s hormonal,” Warren said, but nobody laughed. They were all too busy staring at Sheriff Bryant, who was standing in the doorway. The guy might be old as dirt and three months from retiring, but even Warren knew to watch his step around the sheriff. He was respected, tough as nails, and the one person who could sink what little chance Warren had of winning the election.
“If you ladies are done wasting county money, we’ve got a four-car pileup on Silverado Trail blocking traffic in both directions,” Sheriff Bryant said. “So quit playing grab ass and head out.”
“Yes, sir,” Warren said, securing his utility belt and shoulder-checking Jonah before he headed out to start his shift.
Sheriff Bryant crossed his arms over his generous spare tire and waited until the room cleared out. “You going to let him be a problem?”
Jonah looked over his shoulder. “No, sir.”
“Good to hear.” The sheriff took in Jonah’s disheveled condition, the pink cuffs on the bench, and chuckled. “We need to talk about it?”
“Christ no.”
He nodded, looking relieved. “I took you off the schedule tomorrow.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’ve worked too many overtime hours this month and I don’t need billing on my ass.” His smile faded. “If you’re going to last as sheriff, son, then you need to find some kind of balance. As tired as you look, I’d bet you haven’t had more than fifteen hours of sleep this week.”
It was probably less. Sleep and Jonah didn’t mix anymore. He just lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the things he wished he could do over. Which was why he needed that overtime.
“That’s what I thought.” Bryant lowered his voice. “Son, in your condition, you’re more of a harm than a help. So do me a favor and go home and spend your TO in bed resting, instead of building a fence to impress some girl.”
Shay looked at the bag in her hand that was getting wetter with every drop of rain, then back to Jonah’s front door, but no matter how much she willed her feet to take that last step to his porch, she couldn’t seem to make any progress.
It wasn’t the idea of apologizing that got her. Shay had made her way through life using the trial and error method, and as such was a firm believer in owning your mistakes. It was apologizing when she wasn’t sure how it would be received that was hard for her. And after her earlier attempt with another neighbor, it was no wonder why she was waffling.
Moments ago, Shay had swallowed her pride and gone to Estella to find common ground and maybe end this ridiculous feud by offering to put Foxy Cleopatra’s photo on her blog. Hell, she would have offered to make Foxy the Cuties with Booties’ official mascot if it meant getting her fosters inside Bark in the Park and finding a few of them families—but Estella had slammed the door in Shay’s face.
It seemed no matter how hard she tried, the woman had it out for her, as though she could tell Shay didn’t belong, and that hurt.
The truth always hurts, she thought, because she knew that Estella wasn’t the problem. Shay was. She had a hard time fitting in. Always had, because every time she started to fit, the space changed, the family changed—and with that expectations.
The last time she’d thought she finally found her place, she’d been sorely mistaken. It had taken her two painful years to overcome that heartache, and ever since she’d been more gun-shy than ever.
But here, in St. Helena, she wanted to do more than fit. She wanted to belong to something bigger than herself. Be a part of this town in the same way as Emerson and Harper. She just wasn’t sure she knew how.
She looked down at the bag and took in a humbling breath.
“The last person who threw a flaming poop bomb at a deputy’s house wound up with two hundred hours of community service and a permanent record,” an amused and incredibly sexy voice said from behind her.
“I’ve already got a record.” To prove that point, Shay slowly raised both hands over her head, the suspicious bag clearly visible, dangling from her fingers. “And this isn’t a poop bomb, it’s an olive branch.”
“Trouble, it sounds like you and I need to have a serious conversation about what olive branch means.”
At his casual demeanor, Shay turned around and dropped her hands to her sides. “Seriously?” She waved her free hand to encompass the general vicinity of where his holster usually hung. “You aren’t even armed.”
Jonah leaned against his cruiser parked on the street in front of his house. He was in a pair of worn button-flies and a soft-looking T-shirt, his forearm leisurely resting on the window frame, a ball cap pulled low on his head, looking so solid and together it was annoying.
He looked down to where she was pointing and grinned. “That could be argued.”
My oh my, was the straitlaced sheriff flirting?
Part of her brain was saying yes, he was. The other part was screaming at her to abort mission. He might not be armed, but when he looked at her like that, she knew he was dangerous—to her mental well-being.
And just maybe her heart.
Jonah pushed off the car, taking his sweet-ass time to stroll up the walkway, not stopping until she could see the rain on his lashes. Eyes on hers, he reached out, and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her. His hands were headed for her hips, and when his lips parted slightly, her knees wobbled and her pulse raced and she made the split decision, right there on Jonah’s lawn, that she’d kiss him back.
His gaze slowly dropped to her mouth—then lower.
To the bag—saving them both from making a huge freaking mistake when he took it to test its weight and size. After a thorough investigation, which must have passed inspection, he stepped back and grinned.
“Too heavy to be dog shit,” he said as though he were uncovering evidence to prove the identity of JFK’s assassin. He shook it and it rattled. His brows went up. “Last I checked, branches don’t clink, so you want to talk about why you’re trespassing on private property in the middle of the night?”
“It’s barely eight and you’re not even on duty.”
She reached for the bag and he held it over her head. “I’m always on duty.”
Didn’t she know it.
Admitting she wasn’t tall enough to snatch it back, Shay gave up. Then went for honest. “I came to say thanks and to apologize.”
“Apologize?” Jonah raised a single brow, then cautiously peeked inside and smiled at her over the rim of the bag.
“You brought me beer.” His expression softened, bringing forth that annoying zing. Only this time it wasn’t so annoying. It felt—nice. “My favorite brand.”
“I know,” she said, and damn if her face didn’t heat.
He seemed surprised by her statement, but it was true. She’d done a little investigation of her own and discovered everyone’s favorite deputy was a beer connoisseur. She’d watched him on occasion, sipping a bottle on his front porch, but until today she hadn’t known that it was his thing.
