Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
"Wound looks good," she says, snapping off her gloves. "You’re healing."
"Could’ve told you that without the latex."
She rolls her eyes. "I have to get going."
I frown as I tug up my jeans. "Going where?"
"Dinner. With Logan and some of the crew. Karaoke after."
My blood runs hot. She’s leaving. Of course she is, that’s why her hair is curled, lips glossy. She came up here just to get me hard and then vanish.
"You're going out like that?"
"Like what?" she blinks, all innocent while her ass mocks me in those scrub pants, that scrub top doing nothing to hide how soft she is underneath. “I’m going to change first, obviously.”
“Not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
"You look like dessert."
She flushes. Starts gathering her things, but I’m not done.
"Emery."
She pauses, and I let my voice drop, a growl that lives in my chest.
I step in, real close. "You gonna sing tonight?"
"Maybe. Haven't in a while."
"I want to hear it."
She looks at me. Really looks. And there’s something there. Hunger in her eyes. Doubt fighting desire. That first flicker of a girl about to give in. And she hates how much she wants to.
"You’re not the only one who gets to give orders, Sheriff."
I grin.
She turns for the door. Stops. "Thanks for not being a total caveman today."
"Don’t thank me. You have no idea what kind of man you’re teasing, sweetheart. But you keep testing me, and I’ll show you real fast."
She goes. I let her.
For now.
But the second she’s out of sight, I grab my keys.
Because there’s not a damn chance in hell I’m letting her sing for anyone else before she sings for me.
Three
Colt
Ipark a block from the bar, kill the engine on my cruiser, and crack the window. She hasn’t even made it inside yet, and I’m already keyed up like I ran ten miles uphill.
She steps out of Logan’s car in that damn outfit. Baby blue tank top, denim skirt knee-length, thank God, and her hair is down.
My brain is on fire because everyone in that bar is about to see what should only be mine. She laughs at something one of her friends says, bounces once, her fucking tits jiggle and I damn near break the steering wheel in half.
I know she’s not with Logan like that. Not his type. No woman is. I know. I fucking know. Still don’t like him near her. If he so much as glances at her the wrong way, I’ll remind him I don’t need a badge to shoot him.
Outside my car, I nod to a couple locals that recognize me making my way to the back door where Murry Wetmore is standing, smoking a cigarette.
“Sheriff? Problem?” He’s owned this place for a decade. Good guy. Runs a pretty clean operation.
“I hope not.” I pause for a second, hands on the thick leather of my service belt, the cool steel of my sidearm pressing into my wrist. “Just gonna keep an eye on someone inside.”
He scratches his forehead but waves me through the back door.
“Mi casa es su casa. Lemme know if you need anything.”
I give him another nod before I disappear inside, wind my way through the back hall then out into the main bar area, tucking into a shadowed corner in the back, watching.
The place is classic small-town chaos. String lights and off-key singing, sticky floors and overpoured drinks. I melt into the wall. She doesn’t see me—but I see everything.
Room’s pretty busy tonight. I spot my deputy sitting a few tables over, but he doesn’t see me. Just as well, since he’d be asking questions about where I was all day, and that’s a conversation I don’t want to get into right now.
Her eyes scan the crowd. She’s nervous. Excited. She’s holding a drink she’s not even sipping. When someone calls her name, she blushes and tries to play it off, but her feet are already moving.
She’s gonna sing.
My chest tightens.
She steps up on that stage. Small. Brave. Gripping the mic like it might anchor her.
Then she opens her mouth, and the world tilts.
It’s not polished. It’s not rehearsed. But hell, it doesn’t need to be. Her voice is raw honey—smooth, aching, and soaked in something I shouldn’t hear in public. My hand clenches the edge of the table to keep myself from storming up there and throwing her over my shoulder.
Men are watching. I can feel their stares, their thoughts, and it makes something old and animal twist in my gut.
Then some asshole makes it worse.
"Big girl’s got lungs, huh? Wonder what else she’s got."
Quiet. But not quiet enough.
I’m already rising when she beats me to it.
She turns and launches her drink with perfect, furious aim. Ice and gin spray across the guy’s chest. He lurches up, red and pissed.
"Watch it, bitch."
I move.
Logan’s getting up, but I’m faster. One fist in the guy’s collar, I shove him against the wall before he knows what hit him.