18. Sophie
SOPHIE
Another sleepless night. It didn’t help that I was plagued with dreams—or rather nightmares—of Captain Competent running after me naked, because why not, shouting, “Come and give me a kiss!” Somehow Dream Sheriff didn’t seem remotely embarrassed about the whole nudity situation either.
Dream Me, on the other hand, was frantically trying to decide whether public indecency was technically still a crime if it happened entirely inside my subconscious.
Dream Me had actually considered it, which probably meant I should never be left alone with my own imagination again.
I’d woken up at least thirty times, sweaty with my heart trying to escape through my ribcage, convinced I’d somehow kissed him again.
But the worst thing? I was smiling. Grinning like a complete fool into my pillow. Every time I remembered, I’d tell myself to stop smiling… which, somehow, only made me smile harder. My own face had joined Team Sheriff without consulting the rest of me.
I was definitely in hell. Or the early stages of a hormonal breakdown. Possibly both. If there were circles of romantic embarrassment, I was fairly certain I’d skipped directly to Level Seven. Population: me.
So, at six fifteen, I swung my legs off the bed and dragged my tired ass to the shower. At this rate my body was moving on autopilot.
The hot water helped. But not nearly enough.
Nothing short of selective amnesia was going to help.
I washed my hair. Conditioned. Shaved one leg before realizing I’d already shaved that one and still had the other to go.
I stood there for a full ten seconds trying to remember whether I’d actually used shampoo yet or had merely been thinking about using shampoo while mentally making out with the sheriff.
Excellent. My coordination was thriving. At this rate I’d eventually leave the bathroom wearing one shoe and toothpaste instead of deodorant.
By the time I pulled on black jeans, a pale blue T-shirt, and my favorite white sneakers, I looked… functional. Emotionally? Absolutely not. If emotions had warning labels, mine would’ve been flashing bright orange with a helpful note reading: Contents under pressure. Open carefully.
I cracked open my bedroom door and peeked into the hallway. Nothing. Good. The coast appeared clear. My mission was simple. Avoid Sarah. Avoid Dottie. Avoid Lola at all costs. Especially Lola. I felt like a secret agent whose only assignment was escaping breakfast without discussing my love life.
She’d practically organized a parade celebrating my kiss with the sheriff. I still wanted to fake my own death over that.
I slipped out of my room as quietly as possible, easing the door shut behind me without letting it click, and then tiptoed across the hallway. Why I was tiptoeing, I wasn’t entirely sure. Nobody tiptoed successfully in sneakers. Still, it felt appropriately sneaky.
Halfway to the front desk, I froze. Voices. Kitchen. A man’s voice and a woman’s. The woman laughed. I recognized that laugh.
Lola.
Abort. Abort.
I ducked behind the grandfather clock. Why? No idea. It was approximately six inches wide.
I was not.
If anyone walked into the lobby, they’d see two sneakers, one elbow, and most of my ponytail sticking out from behind two hundred pounds of antique furniture. I was essentially hiding the way toddlers hide by putting both hands over their own eyes and assuming invisibility naturally followed.
I darted across the lobby like a burglar with excellent intentions. The dining room sat empty. Thank heavens. Someone had already laid out breakfast.
“Thank you, Dottie,” I whispered. Sincerely. That woman deserved some sort of humanitarian award for keeping people alive via baked goods alone.
A basket of still-warm blueberry muffins rested in the center of one table beneath a clean linen napkin, and beside it sat a fresh pot of coffee, sending glorious curls of steam into the air. The smell alone nearly restored my faith in humanity. Nearly.
I could’ve cried. Instead, I poured myself a mug and drank as much as I could without burning my throat. I grabbed a muffin and then… after a brief internal debate lasting almost three full seconds, snatched up a second one.
Insurance muffin.
Every successful woman needed an emergency muffin.
I stuffed it into my tote bag. Future Sophie would thank me around eleven thirty when panic inevitably burned through breakfast. Past Sophie was really trying to start looking out for Future Sophie.
It was about time. Usually Past Sophie just left little surprises like overdue parking tickets and emotional crises.
With a last sip of coffee, I wandered over to the front desk. Sarah’s car keys sat exactly where they always did in the little ceramic bowl.
I glanced toward the kitchen. Still talking. Perfect.
“I’ll bring it back,” I whispered to absolutely nobody. Which, considering the previous twenty-four hours, was becoming a worrying habit. First livestock. Now decorative bowls.
I slipped the keys into my pocket, took one last glorious sip of coffee, and headed out the front door before Lola could emerge and start making kissing noises at me at sunrise.
The cool morning air hit my face. I breathed.
Better. Marginally. Sarah’s old Jetta started on the second turn of the key.
I backed out of the parking lot and headed toward downtown while the town slowly woke around me.
The streets still had that quiet early-morning feeling, when everything seemed to stretch before beginning another day.
A bakery delivery truck rolled past. Mr. Patterson watered the flowers outside his hardware store. Someone walked a golden cocker spaniel who looked considerably more rested than I felt. The dog glanced at me with bright, happy eyes.
I broke off a piece of muffin and shoved it in my mouth at the stop sign. Blueberries exploded onto my shirt.
Fantastic.
Then, naturally, my brain replayed the kiss. Again.
“What were you thinking?” I muttered to myself.
I’d kissed the sheriff. Captain Competent. I’d just leaned in, grabbed his face, and planted a big one on his lips.
“Since when did I become this person? This isn’t me? I’m not brave. I’m not spontaneous. I don’t kiss sheriffs.”
But I had. I’d just done it. One minute we were dancing, and the next I’d become the sort of woman who launched herself at emotionally unavailable law enforcement officers.
Except, he’d kissed me back. Really kissed me. And then he’d admitted he’d wanted to.
That part refused to leave my head. Maybe I’d imagined the look on his face.
Maybe I’d imagined the way he’d looked at me afterward.
Maybe sleep deprivation had finally reached the hallucination stage.
Except… no. He’d said it. I’d heard it. I wanted to kiss you.
My stupid heart replayed those five words for what was probably the eight hundredth time while my equally stupid brain insisted on adding the next sentence.
This was probably a bad idea. Honestly, the man had managed to hand me hope and confusion in the same conversation.
That had to be some sort of sheriff training.
“No.” I shook my head. “He said it. Clear as day.”
I wanted to kiss you.
But then…
This was probably a bad idea.
I sighed. Men. Could they not issue one complete emotional statement before changing directions?
What exactly was I supposed to do with that?
Was there a secret manual somewhere? Chapter Four: Deliver Mixed Signals with Maximum Efficiency.
They said one thing. Then qualified it. Then somehow expected women not to spend the next forty-eight hours conducting a full forensic investigation into every syllable.
Congratulations, Sophie. Here’s hope. Now here’s confusion. Enjoy. Complimentary emotional whiplash included at no extra charge. No refunds.
By the time I pulled into the festival parking lot, my muffin had mysteriously disappeared somewhere between the inn and the marina.
“It was a good muffin.” It really was. I’d practically inhaled it.
I climbed out of the car expecting another busy morning.
Instead the petting zoo gates stood open and a livestock trailer was backed up beside the enclosure.
The cheerful festival banners still fluttered lazily overhead, leftovers from yesterday’s excitement, but suddenly they looked strangely out of place.
The square felt quieter than it should have, like the party had ended while nobody was paying attention.
An animal caretaker was gently guiding a goat up the ramp.
My heart squeezed as Bandit protested loudly, planting all four tiny hooves with remarkable determination for someone whose legs were approximately the length of baguettes.
Then, with one surprisingly nimble twist, he slipped free and bolted from the handler.
Theo spat in apparent confusion and fear. Daisy watched everyone with her usual quiet dignity, as though she’d expected humans to become disorganized eventually and had simply been waiting for us to prove her right. The miniature donkey just stood there, his eyes wide.
And standing right in the middle of it all was Dottie. And yup, she was barefoot. Because, why the hell not? At this point I was fairly convinced shoes and Dottie existed in entirely separate dimensions that occasionally acknowledged each other out of politeness.
My chest squeezed. I thought I’d have more time with the animals.
Thought I’d sit with them for at least an hour before they went back to their homes.
Maybe sneak Bandit one last scratch behind the ears.
Let Theo lean against me until my shoulder went numb.
Tell Daisy she was secretly my favorite, even though I wasn’t supposed to have favorites.
And finally give the donkey a name. He deserved one before he went home.
I hurried across the grass. “Dottie?” My sneakers sank slightly into the damp morning ground.