Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Jasmine

The deputy’s grip cinches around my wrists, cold steel biting just enough to remind me I’ve lost this round.

“Easy there, Sheriff,” I say, aiming for breezy even though my heart’s still hammering from the protest. “I’m cuffed, not sprinting for the border.”

He doesn’t so much as glance at me. Tall, broad-shouldered, all pressed tan uniform and zero patience. The new guy, I’d heard. Golden Heights’ shiny sheriff, come to clean up our dusty little town.

Figures I’d be his first arrest.

“I told you to leave the property,” he says, voice deep and clipped. “You didn’t.”

“It’s called peaceful protest,” I shoot back as he steers me toward the cruiser parked at the edge of Mr. Jameson’s oversized driveway. “Key word peaceful.”

“Key word trespassing.” He opens the back door with the kind of calm that makes my teeth clench.

I glance back at the handful of neighbors who bolted the second those red-and-blue lights hit the driveway. Cowards. “You know, Sheriff…?” My eyes flick to the embroidered patch on his chest: A. Vaughn. “What’s the A stand for?”

He meets my gaze for half a beat. Blue eyes. Beautiful, but cold.

“Arrested,” he says flatly, guiding me into the back seat.

I huff a laugh in spite of myself. Okay, that was… unexpectedly funny.

The cruiser smells like sun-baked vinyl and stale coffee.

A scuffed youth hockey stick leans against the passenger seat, its tape frayed and dusty — a quiet clue that the new sheriff’s a dad. Huh.

“You’ve got a kid?” I ask, nodding toward the stick.

Nothing. Not even a twitch of acknowledgment as he slides behind the wheel.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” I keep my tone casual, but I’m studying him in the rearview: strong jaw shadowed with stubble, dark hair gone shaggy at the edges, a faint scar — or birthmark?

— above his right eye. “No one around here drives a cruiser like they own it unless they’re trying to make an impression. ”

Silence. The man’s a brick wall.

“So… where from? Texas? Alabama? Florida?” I prod.

Still nothing.

“Man of mystery, huh?”

Finally, without looking back, he says, “You know, staying quiet might actually help you right now.”

“Bold strategy, Sheriff Vaughn.” I grin at the mirror. “Arrest the local baker and tell her to shut up.”

That earns me a flicker of a look — quick, assessing, gone again.

I settle against the seat as the desert highway unspools outside.

Mesquite trees flash by. My wrists ache against the cuffs, but I’m too stubborn to shift.

“For the record,” I say, “your shiny new oil-money buddy back there is trying to buy up half of Golden Heights. Some of us think maybe our town shouldn’t be sold off to the highest bidder.

He’s already got a local in his corner. Loretta Hartley has the money and clout to slip her real estate business into a land grab operation under his umbrella. ”

“Imagine that,” he mutters.

Not exactly support, but not total dismissal either. Progress?

“You really don’t care why I was there?”

“My job’s to keep the peace,” he says, still calm. “Not pick sides.”

I bite back a snort. Keeping the peace — easy to say when you’re not the one watching your hometown get carved into oil rigs.

We reach the low beige block of the Golden Heights Sheriff’s Department faster than I’d like. The place smells of desert dust and burnt coffee even from the garage.

“You know,” I tell him as he opens my door, “this isn’t exactly the welcoming committee I pictured for the new sheriff.”

“Next time don’t trespass.” His expression stays cool, unreadable as he guides me inside.

The booking room is all gray paint and fluorescent buzz. He steers me to a line on the wall; I lift my chin for the mug shot camera, toss my hair like I’m at a photo shoot. Petty victory: his jaw ticks once.

“It’s five-five, in case you were wondering,” I say.

“I wasn’t.”

Cold. So cold. And somehow… fascinating.

Fingerprints. Paperwork. Keys clattering. Then the clang of a cell door sliding open.

“Seriously?” I glance at the bare bench and metal toilet. “Not exactly the cupcake treatment.”

“Phone call’s in a minute,” he says.

“Does the A stand for Always a Gentleman?” I toss out as I step inside.

No answer. Just one last unreadable look before he shuts the door.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I know someone’s calling, “Hey!”

I jolt awake, stiff neck, the imprint of the bench on my cheek. A pounding headache from a dream already fading — running, trees, something chasing me. Great. Jail nightmares.

“You’re free to go,” Sheriff Vaughn says, standing just outside the bars like he didn’t just ruin my afternoon.

“Already?” Relief whooshes through me. “Wow. Fast.”

“You can thank your friend,” he replies, unlocking the door.

Of course. Riley.

He escorts me to the counter where a deputy hands back my phone and bag. As Vaughn signs my release, I catch his full name on the form: Asher Vaughn.

I can’t help the tiny smile. Asher. Fitting.

He notices. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say, tucking the smile away.

We step into the lobby. Riley’s there — pink top, dark jeans, expression halfway between worry and exasperation. At her side sits Ms. Rainbow, her massive rottweiler, tail thumping against the tile.

“You like?” I spread my cuff-free wrists and grin.

“Jasmine Wallace,” Riley hisses, marching over. “What did I tell you about getting yourself arrested?”

Ms. Rainbow surges forward, snuffling at my hands until I drop to scratch her velvet ears. People in the waiting area scatter like she’s a dragon.

“Take the dog outside before I write you up for nuisance,” Asher calls dryly.

I glance back at him, sweet smile loaded with sass. “I know what the A stands for now.”

He just shakes his head and turns away.

Outside, the Arizona sun hits my face like freedom. Riley steers me toward her dusty sedan, muttering about my life choices.

“It was supposed to be a peaceful protest,” I insist as we buckle up. “Mrs. Hartley just couldn’t handle being called out on her land grab.”

Riley shoots me a look. “One day, Jaz, your mouth’s going to get you in real trouble.”

Maybe. But as the station disappears in the rearview, I can’t stop thinking about the quiet, infuriating, unexpectedly magnetic sheriff with the scar above his eye — and the hockey stick on his seat.

Asher Vaughn.

New in town.

Already under my skin.