9. Sophie
SOPHIE
By the time the last vendor had stopped asking questions, the sun had slipped low over Maplewood Falls, turning the ocean beyond the harbor into a sheet of molten gold.
The afternoon crowd had long since disappeared, replaced by volunteers wandering around with staple guns, ladders, extension cords, and varying levels of confidence.
Somebody had found an old portable speaker, and soft country music drifted lazily across the square, mixing with the cries of gulls and the steady rhythm of waves rolling against the docks.
The whole place looked… hopeful. Which was strange. Yesterday it had looked like the opening scene of a documentary called How Festivals Die.
Now people were laughing, working, and hammering signs into place. Someone had already strung flowers around the gazebo. Somehow we’d gone from complete disaster to organized panic.
I wasn’t na?ve enough to think we were out of the woods.
We were probably still standing in the middle of them, surrounded by angry bears.
But at least everyone had stopped screaming.
Nobody was threatening legal action. Nobody was chasing livestock.
Almost like the universe was taking a coffee break before deciding what fresh horror to throw at me next.
I looked around the square and tightened my grip on the ladder. “You can do this.”
Yes, I was talking to myself. And no, I didn’t care who heard me.
“I had to do this.”
This wasn’t just about the Summer Festival anymore. It wasn’t even about Helen. Or the paycheck.
This was my chance.
My one chance to prove—to Helen… to Sarah… to Margo… and maybe most of all to myself—that I wasn’t the woman who always quit. The one who bounced from job to job collecting awkward exit stories like loyalty cards.
I’d spent years telling myself I’d eventually figure life out. Eventually had started feeling alarmingly overdue.
But I wasn’t walking away. Not this time. Even if tomorrow brought escaped llamas. Actually… scratch that. If tomorrow brought llamas, I might cry first.
Then I would deal with the llamas.
See? This was growth.
I balanced on the second rung of a ladder, stretching on my tiptoes to hook another strand of white café lights between two wooden poles.
Whoever invented decorative lighting had clearly never been five-foot-five with average upper-body strength.
The lights refused to cooperate, tangling around my wrist like creepy glowing snakes.
“Come on,” I hissed. “We’re literally on the same team.”
One end slipped free, and then the entire strand slithered off the ladder and landed in a heap around my feet.
Naturally.
I stared at it. One tiny motivational speech to myself about becoming a capable adult and the universe responded with, That’s adorable. Here’s some electrical spaghetti.
“I saw none of that.”
Captain Competent’s voice floated up from somewhere below.
I flinched, and then I turned.
Sheriff Eric Walker stood on the opposite side of the ladder with both hands tucked casually into the front pockets of his jeans, looking infuriatingly relaxed.
His uniform shirt was gone now, replaced by a dark charcoal T-shirt that fit his shoulders far better than any piece of fabric had a right to.
The badge was gone too, but somehow he still looked every bit the sheriff.
“Good,” I said, trying to reel the strand back onto the ladder with as much dignity as someone who’d just lost a wrestling match to decorative lighting possibly could.
“Because I almost had them.” Which, technically, wasn’t a lie.
Another five seconds and I absolutely could’ve…
continued making the knot significantly worse. Progress comes in many forms.
“You were winning,” he said, looking up at me.
“I was. I totally was.” And then I wasn’t. “They lulled me into a false sense of security. I got cocky. Rookie mistake.”
“They surrendered,” he added.
“They staged a tactical retreat.” I glanced down at the tangled pile wrapped around one of my ankles. “They’re regrouping. You watch. They’ll be back.”
One corner of his mouth moved, like his face had briefly considered trying to smile before deciding it might set a dangerous precedent.
I squinted at him, imagining what his face would look like with a genuine, full smile. It had to be spectacular. Like stop-traffic spectacular. Like rip-off-your-clothes-and-jump-him—
The ladder shifted, jolting me back to reality. I hadn’t even realized I’d been leaning toward him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked quickly, trying to cover it up.
Weird. Shouldn’t he be at home resting with his wife or girlfriend?
Or fiancée? Surely a man who looked like that didn’t just spend Thursday nights wandering around festival grounds checking extension cords.
Maybe he was here to make sure I wasn’t about to screw up again.
Honestly, statistically speaking, that was a reasonable assumption.
He glanced around the square. “Checking on the festival.”
Ah. I looked at the empty streets, the volunteers hanging banners, and Dottie several yards away enthusiastically arguing with someone about flower pots. She was waving a geranium around like it was compelling evidence in a court case. “At eight thirty at night?”
“I told you.” He looked back at me. “I’m always the sheriff.”
I hated how attractive I found that sentence.
That’s right. Words were making me horny.
Not abs. Not forearms. Not the whole rugged-lawman thing. A sentence.
I clearly needed more sleep.
But in my defense, those words were responsible. Dependable. Solid. Exactly the kind of thing that made sensible women fall in love.
I had never once accused myself of being sensible. My dating history alone should qualify as supporting documentation.
I climbed down another rung, reminding myself to focus on the ladder instead of the sheriff standing beneath it.
My face heated.
Was he staring at my ass? Oh, god. I bet he was. It was practically at eye level. Did he like it? Why did I care if he liked it? Why was this even a thought I was having?
The ladder wobbled dangerously, and I righted myself.
“So…” I said, trying not to think of him staring at my butt. “Did any of the animals escape tonight?”
“Not yet.”
“I appreciate the optimism.”
“I’ve learned not to rule anything out where you’re concerned.”
I laughed. “In my defense, nobody tells you miniature donkeys have that much confidence.”
For a second, neither of us said anything. We just smiled at each other. It should’ve been awkward, but it wasn’t.
Somewhere farther down Main Road, someone laughed. The music drifted toward us again, softer now. A couple wandered hand in hand past the bookstore carrying ice cream cones while farther along the boardwalk a little girl spun in circles until she fell onto the grass giggling.
Maplewood Falls felt different at night. Smaller. Slower. Like everyone collectively agreed the day had worked hard enough.
The sheriff crouched and reached for the tangled knot of lights around the base of the ladder, working patiently through the mess with quick, practiced fingers.
Such lovely fingers. Lovely strong fingers.
And this was how people ended up pregnant after discussing Christmas lights.
“You’ve done this before?” I asked, blinking rapidly and dragging my brain back where it belonged.
“My dad hated crooked Christmas lights.”
I laughed. “That’s oddly specific.”
“He believed they were a reflection of character.”
My lips parted. “Seriously?”
“No.”
I stared at him. He kept a perfectly straight face, and I pointed at him. “That sheriff face is becoming a real problem.”
He looked almost amused. “It seems to bother you.”
“It does,” I told him. “I never know if you’re joking.”
“I usually am.”
“See? That’s exactly the problem.”
He handed me the now perfectly untangled strand. “You’re clear.”
“Thanks.” Feeling rather pleased with myself for surviving another ladder-related incident, I carefully climbed down.
One step.
Another.
Only one left.
Easy peasy.
I started to step off the last rung when something tugged around my ankle.
The next series of events happened in slow motion. I shit you not.
First, I looked down at another strand of café lights wrapped around my foot. Then my balance shifted. Then the ladder wobbled.
“Oh crap.” I reached for absolutely nothing useful.
This was going to hurt.
The world tilted and then—stopped.
Strong hands caught me around the waist before I hit the ground, lifting me so effortlessly that I barely noticed my feet finding the ground again.
For one suspended heartbeat, everything else disappeared.
I looked up, and Sheriff Walker was standing impossibly close, one arm still around my waist with the other steadying my shoulder.
He smelled ridiculously good. Clean, woodsy, and entirely too distracting for someone who’d just saved me from face-planting into the grass.
His eyes searched my face, serious now, all traces of teasing gone.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I…” Brilliant. An excellent start. “Yes.”
He didn’t let go. His gaze flicked down to the lights still wrapped around my ankle before meeting my eyes again. “I think,” he said, “the festival decorations are becoming possessive.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “I was winning.” But then my brain went Please don’t fart. Please don’t fart.
After a beat, he loosened his grip just enough to make sure I could stand on my own, and a selfish, hormonal part of me wished he hadn’t.
My knees, traitorous things that they were, briefly considered forgetting how to function. I decided right then and there that falling for Sheriff Walker was probably every bit as dangerous as falling off ladders.
Possibly more.
“You’re safe now, no breaks.” His eyes met mine, and a smile materialized on his face.
For just a second, neither of us moved.