Chapter Three
Marlowe
Well, this is my life now, I guess. My first night in my new town, and I land myself in jail. Not by my own doing, mind you, but that doesn't seem to matter.
I don't know who I'm more furious at: the wet rat—okay, fine, the otter named Benjamin Lawrence, Candy Creek's national treasure—or the too-tall man built entirely of lean muscle, with dark, almost black hair cut short all around except for a lock that keeps falling across his forehead, which he rather aggressively pushes back by running his hand through his hair.
But back to the otter. It was not cute. I thought it was a rat. I still think it's some sort of rat breed, and the good folks of Candy Creek may have been misled, probably by the creature in question itself. I wouldn't put anything past either of them now: the otter and the sheriff.
Dammit.
I'd thoroughly pep-talked myself into making this move at the age of twenty-five. This was going to be awesome. Perfect bliss. Peace in a basket with a bow on top. No city noise. No family drama. Just fresh air and daisies.
And maybe the picture of the cottage didn't live up to reality, but I dismissed that and focused instead on the bright side. The house stood up straight, and that was good enough for me.
Besides, I planned to pass my time giving it a lot of love and attention—good old-fashioned TLC. It was going to be marvelous when I was done with it. A place I could call home. My home. A cozy escape.
I arrived a little before sunset in Candy Creek and caught only glimpses of the town on my way to the outskirts, where the cottage was situated.
The long drive from the city and the chaos—both mental and physical—from the days before hit me hard, and instead of exploring the rest of the house, I found the bedroom where my brand-new bed had already been delivered, thanks to Turner, who helped me arrange it, and settled in.
Yes, there was only a bed in the room, but I planned to fill the house with beautiful pieces of furniture over time.
I also had enough money to live frugally for a long while before I needed to find a job—maybe as a waitress at a diner—and everyone would know my name and love me, and I would be happy and content. I just love the simplicity of it all.
But then, within the first ten minutes of arriving, after making the bed with the fresh linens I brought with me, I decided to take a shower to freshen up in the rather thoroughly cleaned bathroom—thanks, Turner.
And that's when hell broke loose. I had just showered, smothered my skin in lotion, and put on a set of underwear when I saw it on my bed, nestled among my faux fur throws. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, so I touched it.
I've never, in all my life, come across a damp, black, beady-eyed creature with long, stiff whiskers and a hoarse battle cry that looked as if it would devour me whole if I didn't act first.
The monster had snuggled onto my freshly made bed with my clean linen, lounging like a king. Then it attacked me. The door handle broke, and I was trapped inside with it. It was either going to be me or it.
Which is why I'm here, in a holding cell, not even an hour into arriving in Candy Creek.
Then there's the sheriff: Zephyr Smith. Infuriating man. Also, unbelievably arrogant and hopelessly...attractive. Okay, no. I need to stick with words like "exasperating," "obstinate," and "aggravating." And not words like "hot," "sexy," and "mind-bogglingly gorgeous." Ugh, I need to get a grip.
But I can't—not fully. My mind is all over the place, and my body remains acutely aware of the places he touched.
His arm under my breasts, his hand on my butt as he lifted me higher off the floor while I kicked and raved for him to use his gun.
Then I made a grab for it myself and got an overflowing handful of man balls.
Oh god.
My palm blisters at the thought of touching him there, of all places, and heat travels to my face. And other parts of my body.
Nope. I turn my thoughts away from the bearish man to my problem at hand. Not that hand. I'm not doing enough to help myself be set free, so I spring into action immediately as he dumps a blanket and a pillow onto the cot in the corner of the cell, then locks me up again.
"I'm supposed to sleep here?" No. I can't. Fine, maybe I need a few hours to calm down, but I can't sleep here.
"That's what the blanket and pillow are for, ma'am. Best get to it. You're going to need your beauty sleep for Judge Jenkins tomorrow morning."
"I didn't do anything wrong enough to warrant this—"
"Please don't make me repeat your misdemeanors again. The list is long, and it's late. I'd like to get some rest." He turns and leaves.
He really is going to keep me here all night. I pace the floor for maybe five minutes before I start going out of my mind.
"Hello," I shout, rattling the bars of the cell. "Hello," I add more volume to my voice. "Hello, hello, hello, hello."
After a full five minutes of me yelling at the top of my lungs, the grumpy county sheriff makes an appearance.
He doesn't say anything, just gives me an annoyed look.
His eyes, hard like granite, green like emeralds, and as dark as a storm, are softened only a little by the thick layer of long, glossy eyelashes.
The symmetry of his jaw could be studied to determine the ratio for the most attractive man alive today, and while his lips are set into a tight line, they're just full enough to make a girl's knees go weak.
He is beyond conventionally beautiful, with a hardness that had the power to make my breath catch at first sight of him, despite the risk of being mauled by a deranged beast, so I couldn't exactly swoon over his good looks.
I'd only noticed the other human being present when he managed to fix the door and the otter hightailed out of there. Coward. Although I hope I never run into Benjamin Lawrence again.
I did, for a second, think I was looking at some Adonis come to my rescue, but then he basically favored the nationally treasured vermin and arrested me.
"I'm hungry," I say with exaggerated entitlement, hoping he'd decide I wasn't worth his time and let me out.
"Of course you are," he mumbles and strides away.
I didn't mean to watch his exit. For the second time tonight.
My gaze slides down from the impressive width of his shoulders all the way down the curve of his back, his muscles clearly visible even from under the fabric of his shirt.
My cheeks flame red as they bounce over his backside and down the length of his thighs, both visibly molded with muscles.
Does the man have an ounce of fat on him?
"Well, I at least need a glass of water," I shout into the void. Ugh, what a cranky man.