17. Eric
ERIC
Istood exactly where I was, watching Hartwell move through the crowd. Her hips swayed as she hurried away, like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
But she kissed me.
And I kissed her back.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. The strange part wasn’t the kiss. It was how right it had felt. And how much I wanted more of that.
I hadn’t planned on kissing Hartwell. I’d thought about it more than once. Yet the second she’d reached up and touched my face, I’d stopped thinking.
That wasn’t like me. Not even a little.
I let out a slow breath. This wasn’t the time to get involved with anyone. I had a job to do, and I needed to stay focused on it. That had always been easier when my personal life stayed exactly that—personal.
Kissing Hartwell had blurred that line in about three seconds.
And I definitely shouldn’t be kissing women while I was still on the clock. The sheriff making out with the festival organizer in the middle of Main Road probably wasn’t covered in the employee handbook, but somehow I doubted it would’ve been encouraged.
The problem was... I wasn’t sorry it had happened.
When I finally looked around, I saw them. The faces.
An older couple walking past had slowed to glance my way before exchanging the kind of knowing smile that came from fifty years of marriage.
Two teenage girls standing near the lemonade stand were pretending to study the festival map while very obviously whispering behind it.
One volunteer paused halfway through stacking folding chairs, blinked twice, and then decided with remarkable professionalism to mind his own business.
Another wasn’t nearly as disciplined, his grin stretching a little wider as he carried a box of supplies toward the storage trailer.
Hell. Small towns didn’t need newspapers. They had eyeballs. And excellent memories.
By tomorrow morning, this story would probably have evolved from Sophie kissed the sheriff into The sheriff proposed on the dance floor.
That’s how Maplewood Falls worked.
People noticed everything. A new truck parked outside someone’s house. A stranger walking down Main Road. A conversation that lasted thirty seconds longer than usual. Give them a kiss in the middle of the Summer Festival, and there wouldn’t be much left to the imagination.
Tomorrow morning, the coffee crowd at Murphy’s would be discussing it before I’d even had my first cup.
I rubbed the back of my neck and turned around, my gaze going toward the petting zoo. Sophie had already slipped through the temporary gate. The little goat lifted up its head at her and then bounded across the pen so enthusiastically all four feet seemed to leave the ground at once.
She laughed, the same laugh she’d tried so hard to hide earlier. And even through the music and the voices of the crowd, I could hear it.
I watched as she dropped into a crouch. The goat practically climbed into her lap demanding attention.
“There you are,” I heard her say. She scratched behind his ears.
Then the alpacas and a miniature donkey followed a moment later. Within thirty seconds every animal in the pen had gathered around her like she’d become the center of gravity.
I’d spent enough years around animals to know the difference. Trust couldn’t be faked. Dogs, horses, goats… they either liked someone or they didn’t.
Especially that goat. That little menace had chewed my card. I wondered if she kept it or tossed it.
She laughed again as one of the alpacas insisted on resting his head against her shoulder. She rubbed its head and kept talking to it like it had just shared something important.
She looked happy. Genuinely happy.
It suited her.
I stayed where I was a little longer, watching her. I’d spent the last few days seeing her stressed, exhausted, second-guessing every decision she made. This was different. The worry was gone, if only for a minute.
And I liked seeing her like that more than I probably should have.
When I realized I’d been standing there watching her for entirely too long, I pulled myself away.
I got back to work, walking the festival to make sure everything was running smoothly and everyone stayed safe.
I stopped at the main entrance to answer a tourist’s question about parking, helped an elderly man carry two folding chairs closer to the stage, and pointed three different families toward the public washrooms. One little girl proudly held up the oversized stuffed bear she’d won at one of the midway games and insisted I admire it before she’d let her parents continue walking.
A vendor selling homemade fudge asked whether he could start packing up early while another wanted to know where to leave tomorrow morning’s extra supplies.
Near the information booth, I checked in with two of my deputies, who reported nothing more serious than a missing wallet that had already been returned and one teenager who’d climbed onto the gazebo roof for a better view of the band before being politely convinced that gravity wasn’t a suggestion.
Exactly the sort of problems I liked. Ordinary ones.
The kind that meant people were busy making memories instead of emergency calls.
By a little after ten, families began drifting toward their cars.
Children clutched oversized cotton candy that had somehow survived the entire evening and stuffed animals tucked beneath sleepy arms while parents negotiated the familiar balancing act of carrying exhausted kids, leftover funnel cakes, and souvenir bags all at once.
Couples lingered around the stage for one last song before slowly making their way toward the parking lot.
The whole festival settled into that contented rhythm that only came after a genuinely good day, when nobody seemed particularly eager to leave because everyone knew they’d be talking about it tomorrow anyway.
The Riverstone Ramblers finished their last song to loud applause, the lead singer tipping the brim of his cowboy hat as whistles and cheers echoed across the square.
The fiddle player gave one last playful flourish before lowering his bow, and the drummer stood to wave at the crowd while children near the front enthusiastically clapped long after the music had ended.
One by one, microphone stands disappeared, guitar cases snapped shut, and thick black cables were neatly coiled across the stage.
Food trucks closed their serving windows. Volunteers folded tables, stacked chairs in neat towers, rolled up extension cords, and gathered overflowing garbage bags. They removed temporary barricades as Main Road gradually transformed from festival grounds back into an ordinary small-town street.
I helped where I could, moving fencing, loading traffic cones into the back of a town pickup, and answering three last-minute questions about parking.
I gave directions to a family looking for the quickest route back to the highway and helped one exhausted vendor wrestle a stubborn canopy back into its storage bag before it won the fight.
One elderly couple insisted on thanking every deputy individually before they left.
The husband shook each of our hands with both of his while his wife hugged anyone who stood still long enough.
It took nearly ten minutes, but not one of us minded waiting.
I found myself looking over my shoulder, searching. I could try and lie to myself, saying I was just checking up on things. But I wasn’t. I was looking for Hartwell.
I spotted her. She was still here, helping volunteers clean the petting zoo while laughing with Dottie and Helen.
Two volunteers waved as they climbed into the back of an old pickup. A middle-aged man stretched his back with a groan while the woman beside him tucked a bag under her arm.
“We’ll pick up the rest tomorrow morning,” called out the man.
“See you tomorrow,” Hartwell said with a wave.
“Great job today,” said the woman. “Best festival we’ve had in years.”
Hartwell smiled, that little surprised smile I’d seen earlier, like she still wasn’t used to people saying nice things to her.
I turned away and walked over to my SUV. I couldn’t really do anything else, and hanging around like a fucking stalker wasn’t my style. I didn’t want to creep her out.
I climbed in, closed the door, and sat there for a moment. I should have started the engine. Instead, I replayed the kiss.
I couldn’t get it out of my head. The way she’d looked at me. The hesitation. The courage. The complete panic afterward.
I laughed quietly. “I definitely didn’t see that coming.”
No. That wasn’t true. The kiss itself surprised me. The fact that I’d kissed her back didn’t.
Somewhere within the last few days, without noticing, I’d started looking for her, watching for her, and wondering what she’d do next.
The truth was, I’d wanted to kiss Hartwell longer than I’d been willing to admit.
I sat there for another minute with both hands resting on the steering wheel. The dashboard glowed softly in the darkness. Around me, engines started one by one as vendors and volunteers headed home, headlights sweeping across the square before disappearing down Main Road.
That was my cue to leave as well.
My SUV’s engine rumbled to life, and I eased out of the parking space, rolling past the last few food trucks loading supplies. A volunteer carrying an armful of folding chairs raised a hand in farewell. Someone laughed somewhere behind me. The festival was over.
My job was done. So why did it feel like I’d left something behind?
I turned onto Main Road. The truck settled into its familiar rhythm, tires humming over the pavement as the last of the festival lights disappeared in the rearview mirror.
Don’t think about Hartwell. Think about tomorrow’s paperwork. Traffic reports. Cleanup. Volunteer schedules. The budget meeting with the mayor next week. Anything.