Page 12 of Sweet and Salty

It’s such an apt description, I laugh. “No, thank you. I kind of like trying to fix it up. I need a bit of a project.”

“There are easier ones. You could take up metallurgy or astrophysics.” He glances up at the roof. “At least the roof is holding. Somewhat.”

“Yeah.”

“I can help out a bit, after work. My son’s in baseball right now, so I’ve got an extra hour or so before I need to make dinner. There’s still some daylight after that.”

I almost say yes. It’s so tempting. There’s something easy and pleasant about Rory, an honesty that I crave down to my very soul.

But I can’t let anyone, especially not the town sheriff, into my sad excuse for a life. There will be questions. Quiet conversations over cold beers, all designed to make me lower my walls and inhibitions. I don’t need Harbor Stryke to tell me that’s the shittiest of all shitty ideas.

“I really appreciate it, but I’m doing all right.”

Rory doesn’t reply. He merely raises an eyebrow and casts his gaze over the cabin. I know what he sees. The railing falling off the three steps, the foundation on the right side cracked so badly the entire cabin lilts to its side like a drunken chimpanzee. Mud crusted to the windows from the storm last week that blew it straight into the side of the cabin.

“I fixed it up on the inside,” I reply, shifting from foot to foot. “The water’s no longer brown from the kitchen sink.” More of a dingy yellow, but the sheriff doesn’t need to know that.

Rory gives me a look that tells me he knows exactly how much shit I’m spinning. He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Laura’s got a spare room over her garage. It’s not big, but at least it’s not going to end up in Oz with the next tornado.”

I shake my head several times, not fully hearing anything he’s saying. “Wait, you get tornadoes here?” No, that’s not what I’m protesting. “Sorry, but no. I can’t move into your sister’s place.”

He gives me a very stern look, better suited for an older father letting his beloved youngest child go on their first date with a handsy quarterback. “You’re not moving in with my sister. Trust me. The apartment’s over her garage. She never goes up there.”

None of this makes any sense at all to me, but it also feels like it might swallow me whole.

“I really—”

He holds up a hand, effectively silencing me. “Look. You’re from the South, right? I’ve heard about Southern hospitality. But I don’t have time to deal with all the polite refusals, since I’ve got to pick up my son. So say yes, and I’ll let Laura know to expect you. Probably tomorrow.” He shifts his gaze to the cabin and his brow furrows. “Or tonight, if things aren’t going well.”

“That’s not it.” I stick my work gloves in my back pocket, because otherwise I’m going to wring them into rope. “Really. It’s not a polite refusal. I’m fine here. Just fine. Honestly.”

“Mhm.” Rory’s lips draw into a thin line. “Think about it anyway. Offer’s always open.”

“Thanks,” I say, meaning it. It’s been a long time since anyone went out of their way to help me, the US Marshal Service notwithstanding. “It was nice to meet you, Sheriff.”

“You too.” He nods toward me and opens the door to his truck. “I’ll be out later this week to help you fix up some of this stuff. You’re city, right?” There’s no judgment in his tone, but I’m judging myself. “City” was a curse word in Grandma’s town, but it was also her goal for me. I graduated at the top of my class from college and vet school. Once I was out in practice, though, I spent nearly every day driving the country in my truck, going from call to call.

“No worries,” Rory continues. “I’ve gotten your landlady to hold the next two months’ rent, since you’re sinking your own money into fixing up the place.”

He moves to step into the car but his phone chirps in his hand, stalling him. He glances down at it and smiles. “You’re expected at dinner this Sunday.”

“I’m busy Sunday.” Busy staring at the walls and trying not to look over the tree line toward Laura Marshall’s farm. Her pigs look healthy, but I wouldn’t mind checking out her retriever. Surreptitiously, of course.

“Indeed you are.” He slides into the driver seat. “Busy at Casa Marshall. We’re having either hot dish or Mexican. Five p.m. Don’t be late.”

With that, he shuts the door and reverses down the muddy pathway.

I stand there, staring after him, for way too long. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

CHAPTER NINE

Laura

I setmy phone in the tripod and adjust the angle of the camera and the ring light. This darn cake. It had better look good on screen.

It’s been far too long since I filmed a video of myself baking or decorating a cake. Chris said it took time away from him, so I let my blog and social media run fallow.

Well, to heck with that. Now that I don’t have to clean up after him, I have all the time in the world.