Chapter Eight
Marlowe
I can't believe it, and yet, with everything else that has happened, this is totally par for the course. Why am I still stuck with the sheriff?
"Well, that backfired in your face, didn't it, Sheriff Zephyr Smith?" I whisper as he ushers me out of the courtroom, but we're not alone.
Everyone who was in the gallery follows us out. All I can hear are the words "hullabaloo," "too pretty," "a danger to society," and even the word "charlatan." I beg your pardon—a charlatan?
"All right, that's enough, folks," Sheriff Smith says. "Everyone back to work." He uses a voice so strict that it makes me want to go back to work—until I realize I'm unemployed, but gainfully so. "Now," he adds, and the last bit of stubborn people disperses too.
"I'm only taking the positive out of it. I'm sure I heard them say I was pretty. Crazy, but pretty," I say haughtily, though I might just cry. "So now what?"
We're standing on the sidewalk of Main Street, and it's barely seven in the morning. He's not particularly happy to be near me, and it shows.
"Look, this isn't exactly a picnic for me either.
I would rather never see you again. Also, this is all your fault.
If you'd fined me, you wouldn't be stuck with me.
But I plan to stay, so I'm going to follow the rules.
Now tell me about your town, Sheriff Smith," I say sweetly. "I want to know everything."
He sighs.
"That's Archie's," he says, pointing to a building with a sign of a beer bottle topped with a cowboy hat as he starts walking.
"It's the town's only bar. Archie only serves beer, lagers, and ales.
Before it was Archie's, it was Murphy's, but a rejected suitor burned it down with a lantern because the woman he loved chose Murphy instead.
It was rebuilt in the 1900s by Archie's family and has served two kings from two different countries: Thailand and Denmark. "
"That's the clinic and post office," he adds, jerking his chin at the buildings as we walk further down the street.
He may be pointing things out to me in his grumpy manner, but as I try to keep up with his long strides, I can't help but be charmed by the sheer prettiness of Candy Creek.
It's quaint and cozy—small and intimate. The buildings have a curious character that makes me want to smile.
The clinic is actually a Tudor-style building with its timber-framed exterior and tall, narrow windows. The post office is sturdy and square, built with orange brick, and there are little garden beds below the open windows.
"Fire station," the sheriff says next. "Veterinary. The supermarket. And the library."
I don't know what surprises me more: the fact that the library, with a fountain shaped like an otter in front, has a keypad instead of a good old-fashioned key, or that the sheriff just punched in the code himself.
"You have the keys to the city—well, the codes at least?" I ask as he ushers me inside.
"I'm the sheriff," he replies, which explains everything.
"Were you born here?" I ask, curious about this man when I have no business being curious about him at all.
"Yes."
"And you've lived here all your life?"
"Except when I was in the military."
"What about your parents?" I'm just being nosy as heck.
"My mother ran away with a clown when I was three years old. She never came back. My dad raised me."
"A clown?"
"He worked for a traveling circus."
"Oh. I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it.
"I'm not," he replies, and he means it.
"You're such an open book," I mumble. Why does he make it sound like asking innocent questions is the same as me extracting his teeth with my tweezers?
He steers me inside the library, and it's as cozy as the courtroom and looks more like someone's personal library than a public one.
As I take in the surroundings, charmed all over again, the sheriff disappears into an aisle, and I don't see him for a moment.
When he returns, he hands me a tome.
"Read this. Memorize everything in here. Don't fail the damn exam."
I almost want to spite him, and yes, I don't care that my level of pettiness will screw me over as well, as long as it screws him over too.
I guess he's not going to be a hands-on tutor. I should be grateful I won't be seeing him anymore. Actually, I am.
As soon as we step back out of the library, I'm bombarded with a symphony of beauty so captivating that I barely hear the sheriff's groan. A group of girls approaches, and I'm immediately surrounded.
"Oh, you poor thing," they all say before branching off to say different things.
"This is not how we welcome newcomers."
"Shame on you, Sheriff Smith."
"Please don't think we're all like this."
"Have you had breakfast already?"
"Come with us; we've got you."
They drag me off in a girl-power cocoon, and I feel like a queen. I do turn around to wave at the sheriff, giving him a smile worth the middle finger.
I'm taken to what looks like a warehouse with one of those roll-up doors, smack between a diner and a laundromat.
Except inside, it's nothing like a warehouse.
It's beautiful. The decor is stylish yet homely, with lots of bean bags and comfortable sofas.
Decorative cushions fill the whole area; the carpet is thick and plush.
The dining room table has that old peeling paint look, and the chairs are cute and vintage.
I quickly learn everyone's names, and it's easy to remember them all: Zoe St. John, Elora Tapp, Violet Castillo, Hollyn Harvey, Priya Das, Eloise Wellington, and Brenna James. When I say they are beautiful, it's an understatement. Better still, I liked each one of them at first sight.
They're appalled at what the sheriff did, and not even his good looks can excuse him this time, according to their words.
"So, this is our little hangout," Elora says.
"And our book club," Priya adds.
"And where we come to complain about men, PMS, or anything in between," Violet says.
"It's just our home away from home," Hollyn gestures to the entire area.
"Or we'd go insane in this town," Eloise laughs.
"So, with all that said, would you like to join our book-reading, home-away-from-home, everything-goes club?" Brenna asks.
"Well, that depends. Is Benjamin Lawrence an otter?"
I get squeals and hugs and learn quite a bit about all my new friends.
And the best part of all? They have breakfast specially set up for me to make up for my crappy welcome into Candy Creek. I already love them.
I stuff my face with cinnamon French toast, warm maple syrup, cream, and pecan nuts. Blueberry muffins and croissants. Fluffy eggs, cheesy hash browns, the tastiest sausages I've ever had, and bacon so crispy I get a thrill from biting into it.
The girls talk nonstop, but the most discussed topic today is Zoe, who has made it her sole purpose to lose her virginity and is currently going through a list of all the eligible men in Candy Creek before she casts her net wider and has to venture into the city.
The first name listed and scratched off is the sheriff, then the doctor, the veterinarian, and a farmer. She has two question marks next to the fireman.
I don't know why seeing the sheriff removed from the candidate list makes me feel a certain way.
Not because I like him—absolutely not—but because, I tell myself, Zoe is stunning, and she didn't choose him.
So it's more like, haha, you lose, sheriff.
Also, obviously, the sheriff isn't married or doesn't have a girlfriend, or he wouldn't have made it onto the list in the first place.
My morning may have been disastrous, but as I sit here with the girls, a wave of contentment washes over me. Yes, Candy Creek is going to be my home. I'm going to ace that exam just to prove to the sheriff I belong here now.