by Marina Adair
This might be Mayberry, but Barney Fife he was not. The man was seriously hot. Tall, ripped, and looked amazing in uniform. She half expected him to pull out a boom box, rip off his pants, and show her his cuffs. Which should have excited her but didn’t, she thought proudly. Her antiman campaign was going swimmingly.
“This your car?” Jackson asked, writing on that little notepad of his.
“Yes, sir.” She reached in her purse and handed him a quarter since she couldn’t see a meter. “Here.”
The sheriff eyed the coin and grinned. “I don’t know whether to arrest you for trying to bribe an officer of the law, or be offended that you think I can be bought off for a quarter.”
“What?” Josephina gasped, shoving the coin in her purse. “It’s for the,” she almost said meter, then remembered there wasn’t one. “I’m paying for my parking spot.”
“Parking illegally is the least of your worries, since driving a stolen car is a felony.”
She was so busy staring at the big red and white SHERIFF PARKING ONLY, VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT DEAD sign, she almost hadn’t heard his last accusation. “Did you say felony?”
“Yes, ma’am. There is an ‘attempt to locate’ on this car as of this morning. Imagine my surprise when it turned up parked in my designated spot,” Jackson drawled, his hand resting on his sidearm.
Josephina held her breath. If she wasn’t so terrified of guns, she would probably have jumped in Ulysses and sped off. Because every single person who happened to be in town was now filling the streets and, it seemed, placing bets on whether the city slicker would go to the pokey or grand theft auto was cause for a public lynching.
“I’m going to have to ask you to step into my office so we can discuss the matter of this stolen car.” Even when threatening felony the sheriff’s voice was sexy. Low and thick and having absolutely no effect on Josephina whatsoever.
“First off, I didn’t steal the car. It’s mine. And secondly, I’m the one who called it in when it went missing. Yesterday,” she added, making sure to point out just how misinformed his department really was.
“And who do you believe stole your—” he looked disbelievingly from the beat-up old jalopy to her corporate couture, “—car?”
“I assume the same someone who parked it illegally today.”
That made him pause, giving her a chance to fully inspect his standard-issue sidearm, which, like its owner, was in impeccable condition, and looked uncompromising and ready to blow.
“Seems to me, J.D., that there’s been a misunderstanding,” another, equally husky voice said from behind. “This looks like Ms. Letty’s car, and since Joie here is her niece, the one who inherited all of Letty’s property, don’t see how it can be stolen.”
A warm sensation spread through her body and her heart seemed to still in her chest.
Josephina didn’t need to turn to see who it was. Her nipples told her exactly whose breath tickled her ear when he whispered, “No wings today? I’m disappointed.”
Breath nonexistent, she prepared herself for the impact, and turned. There stood Brett, wearing khaki shorts and a polo that had a tractor logo on it, looking cocky and mouth-wateringly irritating. His head, missing a hat today and showing off his wavy hair, tilted in her direction as if he were about to kiss her, and something entirely inappropriate began to pulse below her belly button. As if she didn’t already have enough to deal with.
Why couldn’t it have been some boy next door with a desk job and three cats who made her heart flutter? In true Josephina fashion, it had to be this kind of guy. A famous athlete with more notches on his bedpost than the Bible in Braille and a deadly smile that said, “I’m yours—for tonight, anyway.”
“Afternoon, Joie,” Brett drawled, tipping his head.
“I noticed you left out the good.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“I’m not feeling very nice.” Josephina shifted, unsure what to do with her hands. She’d never been so aware of a man’s body before. Brett, on the other hand, was as cool as always.
“What the hell?” The sheriff watched as Spenser, who had disengaged the parking brake, rolled Ulysses backward, stopping under a large sign that designated him as being in a twenty-five-cent all-day parking spot.
Spenser’s smile widened as she slid a quarter into the meter. “See, no crime here.” She snatched the unfinished report out of Jackson’s fingers, crumpling it up and sticking it into his shirt pocket with a little pat.
“Christ, Spenser,” Jackson bellowed, but his eyes, Josephina noticed, kept dropping to Spenser’s lips. “I should cite you for tampering with a government document.”
“Oh, calm down, J.D. It’s a silly misdemeanor and you know it.”
“Since Joie owns the car and had no knowledge of how it came to be parked there, I suggest that she gets off with a warning,” Brett said smoothly.
“I agree.” Jackson picked up his radio and canceled the ATL on Ulysses, glaring at Spenser when he got to the part where he had to say he’d made a mistake about the parking designation. She gave a few complex hand gestures in response.
“You’re welcome.” Brett said, leaning against the fender.
“Go away,” Josephina said by way of thanks, ignoring how a warm zing slid down her body.
“That’s no way to greet a neighbor.”
She looked up into his eyes. “Afternoon. Now go away.”
At that he flat-out grinned. “You smell good. Like…” He took one stride forward, landing him right at her red-tipped toes, and leaned in, crowding her. To most people it would look as if he was just whispering in her ear or getting a better whiff, but the way his lips brushed her throat—purposely grazing her sweet spot—he was trying to get to her.
And it was working.
He buried his head even further into her neck, and she could feel him smile when he concluded, “Apple pie and,” another gentle inhalation, “something spicy.”
She meant to shove him back and ignore his stupid line. But then he said apple pie, and apple wasn’t a line. It was observant and sweet. “The spicy part is ginger.”
“God, that smells incredible.”
She felt herself flush. “I was trying things out for my breakfast menu. Cracked oat pancakes with a ginger-apple glaze. I found some whiskey in Letty’s cabinets.”
Brett chuckled. “Sugar, if it was in Letty’s cabinets it was most likely moonshine.”
“Moonshine?” That explained why her skillet had burst into flames.
“During Prohibition, Fairchild House supplied most of these parts with moonshine. Letty found an old bath in the basement, which was converted into a still, and to the best of my knowledge made a batch or two every year. Passed them out at Christmas.”
Josephina couldn’t help but smile at the idea of Letty making moonshine.
“Sounds to me like you need a test subject for those menu items of yours,” he drawled, his body still pressed against hers, his hand now on her hip. Was his accent getting thicker? “Maybe tomorrow, you can cook me up some for breakfast. In bed.”
The thought of him wearing just his tattoo and her sheets made her take a step back, two to be safe, because if she didn’t get some space between them she might take him up on his offer. The sound of his voice made her want to do irresponsible and deliciously dirty things. Things that would shock poor Mr. Ryan right into denying her that loan, because viable business owners did not act on impulse. Nor did they do rash things, such as licking the entire length of a man’s tattoo in the middle of town.
* * *
“You look tense, sugar.” She looked more than tense. She was flushed and her eyes had turned turquoise. If he didn’t know any better he’d say she was as busy picturing him naked as he was her. “And by the looks of it, I have the perfect remedy.”
She flushed again, then glared. She’d been caught checking him out and it ticked her off. Something he was quickly becoming a fan of.
Brett grinned at he
r outfit. Her hair was slicked up into some kind of complicated style. She wore a cream blouse with buttons and a collar, a gray skirt that hit the knee, and a pair of heels that, aside from her cute toes peeking out, looked stern and uptight.
She was composed, distant, and so pressed he knew he should just walk away. Instead he found himself forming a serious weakness for those shoes, and their owner.
Even more interesting was that Tinker Bell was friends with Lavender Spenser.
Spenser was the kind of woman every guy in town wanted, but fear of being maimed kept most at a distance. The ones brave enough to try claimed she was magic with her hands, loved to get dirty, and had great aim, which made her a revered mechanic and a painful person to screw with.
“I’m not interested in your backwoods”—her gaze dropped to his fly and back up—“remedies.” She sounded convincing, but her blush told him otherwise.
Unable to keep his hands off her, he tugged a stray lock of hair between his fingers, surprised it was curly and that it had managed to break free.
Her hand flew to her head in a panicked fashion, tucking it behind her ear. “It’s the humidity,” she explained by way of apology. “No matter how hard I try, it always ends up a mess of curls.”
“I like messy.” She stopped fidgeting at his admission, three other tufts curling out, and he wondered what else was untamed under all of that coiffing and uptown restraint. “And you like me. I can tell. We should go out.”
“No, I do not.” But instead of moving farther away, she shifted her body closer to his. “And no, we should not.”
“That’s a whole lot of nos and nots for someone so sure of herself.”
Pretending he hadn’t even spoken, Josephina clicked those heels right past him and around the back of the car.
“Nice to meet you, Sheriff.” She stuck out her hand and the bastard took it, his left hand clasping hers and, Brett noticed, giving it a gentle squeeze while his eyes gave her a slow once-over. “I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.”
“Jackson, ma’am. And under the ah—” he flashed a look at Spenser, who was glaring back, “—circumstances, it should be the city that’s apologizing. First for the delayed response on your call and then for the parking situation.”
“Mistakes happen.”
“Not on my watch.”
Jesus, Brett thought, watching J.D. puff out his fucking chest. Tinker Bell’s magic even worked on Sugar’s most self-proclaimed bachelor. He’d been through with women for so long he was practically a virgin.
“How about I make it up to you. Monday night everyone meets at the Saddle Rack. The Falcons are playing and there’s dancing. First round’s on me?”
Jackson was turning on the southern charm and—flirting? Brett wanted to flatten him. Joie, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable with the attention. Actually, downright shocked. Interesting.
“I’m afraid I have plans this Monday. Maybe some other time.”
“Some other time then,” Jackson said, and Brett almost felt sorry for the guy.
Almost.
Three years ago, Jackson’s wife had run off with some rodeo rider, leaving behind three ugly cats and a big-ass mortgage for a house he never wanted. Brett was happy that his friend was finally ready to get out there and meet women.
As long as it wasn’t Joie.
Joie looked at her watch. “Shoot, I’m supposed to meet Mr. um, Rooster in just a few minutes. He’s giving me an estimate on how long it should take to fix my plumbing.”
“Sugar, twenty minutes with me and I guarantee your plumbing will work just fine,” Brett drawled, pulling her attention back to where it ought to be—him.
“Does that ever actually work for you?” Her brows lowered as though she thought he was an idiot. “Your sexy little smile, a flick of the hat, and a lame line in that ridiculous hick impersonation? And what? Women just drop naked at your feet?”
Hick?
People loved his accent. Especially women. He could make them weak with a single flattening of the vowel. They begged for him to whisper sweetheart and darlin’ in their ear. Although he called her sugar. He’d never used that name before, but with her it fit. He knew under all that tamed order and careful control was a girl who believed in magic and wore fairy wings and was sweet as hell.
“You think my smile is sexy?”
“Didn’t you hear a word I said? Never mind.” Before he could respond, she yanked open the car door. With a quick wave to Jackson and a “see you later” to Spenser she hopped in and tore off, exhaust in her wake and her horn playing some kind of mariachi song the whole way.
“I like her,” Spenser said, sliding up beside him.
“Why’s that?” Brett asked wondering what the hell had gone wrong and why he was smiling like a lovesick loser.
“She doesn’t take any of your shit.”
Yeah, that was another thing he was forming a serious weakness for.
Chapter 7
Josephina lay motionless with her sheets pulled to her chin. Staring at the wild boar’s head that hung above her childhood bed, she listened to the mama opossum and her clan of six shuffle back and forth through the heating duct.
Jimmy Dean, the boar Aunt Letty had helped Josephina track, shoot, and mount on the wall, made her feel safe. It was from Josephina’s hog-ranching phase—a phase that had irritated her mother no end. The opossums, on the other hand, stressed her out, since she was certain her new roommates were stashing food for the winter just above the vent in her bedroom.
Not that she’d still be here come winter, she thought glumly, mentally adding to her budget the cost of the air quality specialist needed to handle the mildew Rooster had discovered behind the sheetrock in one of the bathrooms, which had gone nuclear. But she was afraid that in the summer heat the feast wouldn’t make it to winter either.
Neither nostalgia nor a rude upstairs neighbor had been why she’d woken up. She grabbed her phone off the nightstand, checked the time, and groaned.
She’d spent the past five days cleaning house, tearing down wallpaper, and pulling weeds, with still no sign of those roses. Her arms were sore, her nose was peeling, and she didn’t have a single nail that wasn’t chipped. She’d fall into bed exhausted and wake up feeling as if she might just be able to take on the world. Or at least ignore her parents’ relentless calls.
It had been some of the best sleep she’d had in over a decade. Until something rustled downstairs and interrupted a pretty hot dream starring a bubble bath and Mr. PGA himself, and that something needed to die. Slow death by golf club sounded good.
A pounding vibrated the floor, followed by a growl. Josephina froze, praying it was her overactive imagination. Her mother was always accusing her of making something out of nothing. Maybe it was just Boo having some kind of bad dream and she’d heard it wrong—
Another growl sounded from downstairs. Definitely not Boo. And it definitely riled her. She gripped the nine-iron that had become her bed companion.
Oh, my God! Brett had warned her about wild animals. Josephina thought he was just messing with the city girl…but what if—?
This time the growl was followed by a high-pitched squeal.
Fumbling for the phone, she pounded the one button, smothering a hysterical laugh when it began ringing.
Brett answered, his voice low and sleep-roughened. “I was wondering when you’d call.”
“Bear!” she panted into the phone.
“It’s not Bart or Bear or Benny, it’s Brett, and you know it.” He lowered his voice, turning the charm to full. “But if you wanted me to come over, all you had to do was ask, Tinker Bell.”
“A bear—” she cupped her hand over the phone so she could whisper, “—is in my house and I think it is going to kill me.”
“Ah, sugar, I was just playing with you. There aren’t many bears in this area.”
“Many or not. One is in my house. Right now. Probably plotting how he is going to track and shoot me.�
�� She glanced at the boar’s head and shivered.
“Bears can’t shoot.” He chuckled, still managing to sound cocky and laid-back even though it was obvious she’d awakened him. Odd, since it was a Friday and she assumed he’d be out with a woman—or women, plural. Unless he was with a woman, or women, right now and he hadn’t been asleep. In bed, but not asleep.
“Never mind. Forget I called.”
“Don’t hang up.”
She didn’t, because she was scared. Bear or not, something was rummaging through the kitchen; she could hear the pantry doors slamming shut.
“Oh, God, it growled again.”
“It’s probably just your dog.”
A huge crash echoed throughout the house, followed by another ear-piercing squeal. The covers went securely over her head, wrapping her in a big, black abyss of denial. A place she was familiar with.
“Holy shit,” Brett said. She could hear clothes rustling and the distinctive jangle of keys. “Where are you at?”
“In my bed. With Boo.”
Brett moaned, but this one was low and raspy and definitely not out of anger. And she shivered from head to polished tips, definitely not out of fear. “Stay right there, I’m on my way. I mean it, don’t move. If I drag my ass over there and it turns out to be some coon, I at least want to see you in bed.”
“Okay,” she breathed, and hung up, horrified when, picturing Brett in her bed, she heard herself purr. Rolling over to pull Boo close, she realized he was gone.
“Boo?” she whispered. Only silence in return.
“Boo-kins, come to Mama.” Nothing. Just like what she was doing. Her house was under attack and she was hiding under the covers, waiting for some oversexed prince in his white pickup to come and rescue her.
Taking a deep breath, she counted to ten, flung back the covers, and clutched her trusty golf club—who knew they could be so versatile?
She tiptoed her way to the top of the stairs. Shoulders squared, she was embracing her new, independent self, ready to maim her a bear, when she saw the shadowy outline of not one, but four figures. They didn’t look like bears, which was good, but they did look dangerous, huddled in a circle, most likely deciding who got to gobble up Boo.
