Chapter Two
BANANA HAMMOCK ANYBODY?
HENRY
“Got damn!” I hiss as hot coffee splashes down my arm and sears through the fabric of my shirt onto my stomach. My keys hit the pavement with a metallic clatter, and right on cue, the door to the sheriff’s office swings open like the universe timed it perfectly just to humble me.
Cece stands there, framed in the doorway like a damn sitcom entrance.
She’s been a permanent fixture in this place for as long as I can remember—sharp as a tack, quicker than a whip, and absolutely nobody’s fool.
If something came through this station, you could bet your ass Cece had already heard about it, filtered it through a cigarette break and a phone call, and filed it under “Handled.”
She’s the one who tracked Trent’s car through a string of traffic cams the night he ran off with Evie and Allison. Without her? I don’t even like to imagine where that would’ve ended.
She’s got that whole Peggy Bundy vibe going strong today—big red hair teased to heaven, enough perfume to make your eyes water, tight jeans, hot pink claws clicking against her phone case, and a leopard print blouse that practically announces her arrival before she does.
Cece doesn’t walk—she struts, chews gum like it owes her money, and has more ex-husbands than most people have houseplants.
“Door was open, Sheriff,” she says, smacking her gum as she steps inside.
“Could’ve fooled me. Lights were off,” I grumble, wiping at my shirt and checking the skin under it, already starting to go red. “Do I have any clean shirts?”
“Yep,” she says without missing a beat. “Hangin’ on the back of your bathroom door. Pressed and smellin’ like that expensive detergent I like. You’re welcome.”
I mutter a thanks and shake out my hand, eyeing her over my shoulder as she drops into her chair like she owns the building.
She probably does.
I head into the small bathroom attached to my office—though calling it a “bathroom” might be generous.
The whole station is stuck somewhere between retro charm and a fire hazard.
Built in the late fifties, patched up in the eighties, and barely touched since, it’s got all the ambiance of a low-budget sitcom set: cracked linoleum floors, avocado-green tiles, and flickering fluorescent lights that hum like they’re trying to whisper gossip from decades past.
I tug the door shut behind me and spot the shirt exactly where Cece said it’d be—hanging neatly on the back of the door, smelling faintly of lavender and sass. I strip off the coffee-soaked one with a grimace, hissing as the fabric brushes over the burn on my stomach.
Then I catch my reflection.
I pause, eyes locking on the man staring back at me.
Hair a little too long at the edges, jaw clenched a little too tight, and a faint crease between my brows that never really goes away anymore.
The mustache—thicker than it probably needs to be and absolutely hated by my mama—sits smug on my upper lip.
I run a hand over my face and let out a slow breath, thinking about yesterday.
The baby shower.
I can still see Maddox standing there, frozen in the middle of that fairy light-lit backyard, pink confetti drifting around him like snow.
That look on his face when he realized he was having a daughter—again.
That mix of fear, hope, and grief that cracked something open in him for all of us to see.
It damn near undid me. Mama biting her fist, Mercy wiping at his eyes like it wasn’t happening, and Evie…
Lord, Evie holding him like he was the only thing that mattered.
It wasn’t just a party. It was a resurrection.
I shake my head and pull on a clean shirt, buttoning it up slowly.
No matter how many cases I close or fires I put out in this town, it’s the quiet, gut-punch moments that linger—the ones that remind me just how hard and beautiful it is to keep moving forward, even with ghosts clinging to your shoulders.
But something in me has shifted. I am done carrying the weight of what-ifs, done standing by and hoping the universe will hand me the life I want.
I’ve spent ten years waiting for a miracle, for some hail mary to make it all fall into place.
But lately, I’ve come to understand the universe doesn’t give you a damn thing—you’ve got to go out and take it.
And I’m going to fucking do just that.
Wildflower better get ready because I am coming for her, and this time I’m not walking away.
I quickly button my shirt, the fabric pulling a little too tight across my chest as I hurry to get myself together. There’s no time to second-guess my appearance, no time to smooth over the chaos in my mind. But Cece’s desk? That’s my last stop before the real mess begins.
I already know what she’s done—hell, she’s probably read through every damn message, every piece of mail I’ve received, from the local complaints to the bullshit updates I’ve ignored.
But that doesn’t stop me from propping myself up on her desk, trying to give the impression of someone in control when, in reality, I’m barely holding it together.
She doesn’t look up immediately, her fingers still dancing across her keyboard, clicking away as if I’m just another distraction, but I know she’s aware.
She’s always aware. Cece’s sharp like that.
She knows what I need before I do, and right now?
I need her to tell me what the hell is going on, even though I already have a damn good idea.
“Cece,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be, but she doesn’t flinch.
Finally, she looks up, her expression neutral, like she’s been waiting for me to get it together long enough to make my move.
“You’ve read everything, haven’t you?” I ask, though it’s more of a statement than a question. She doesn’t need to answer. I can already see it in her eyes.
She nods, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, her gaze never leaving mine.
"Give me the rundown," I mutter, though I already know. I know that I’m behind on a hundred different things, paperwork has been rough fucking me like a cucumber passed around a women’s prison, and that the only thing keeping this ship afloat is Cece’s relentless ability to keep the chaos at bay.
Her lips twitch, and for a split second, I think she might crack a smile. But then, she straightens up and folds her arms, pushing her fake boobs to her throat.
"Yeah," she says, her voice sharp and calculated. "Where do you want me to start?"
I take a breath, fighting the urge to snap at her. But damn it, I’m not in the mood to play games anymore. This has gone on long enough.
"Start with the shit that matters," I growl, the weight of everything pressing down on me.
She tilts her head, considering me for a moment before launching into the rundown. And for the first time today, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I’m not completely fucked.
Cece’s “important shit”? Are you kidding?
She sent Johnson and me to the retirement home to investigate some alleged embezzlement.
Spoiler alert: the only thing getting embezzled was Martha from room 2C’s dignity, as Mr. Lankford from 4E snuck in and helped himself to her underwear like it was the God damn clearance rack at Macy’s.
Next thing I know, Martha’s boyfriend—who honestly looked like he could’ve been the lovechild of a raisin and a wet paper towel—comes charging in, ready to throw down.
And there I am, in the middle of this tragic senior citizen showdown, trying to pull two old men apart who are basically swinging around like wind-up dolls in nothing but a pair of fucking banana hammocks.
Now, I’ve seen some shit in my time, but never once did I think I’d be refereeing a geriatric grudge match over a pair of stolen fucking panties.
Seriously, this wasn’t on my bingo card.
Once we settle that shitshow down and we both curse Cece a few good times, we head to the Wild Whisk for some much-needed breakfast.
“Oh my God!” Evie laughs so hard she has to lean on Johnson for support.
I knew I made the right call hiring him.
Stone-faced as ever, even while Evie’s dying of laughter at the mess we got into this morning.
Same guy who didn’t flinch when Mr. Lankford stood there, hands on hips, swinging his banana hammock in his face while he tried to get Ms. Martha’s statement.
Deadpan through the whole thing. Either he’s seen some serious shit, or he has no soul. Either way, he’s a keeper.
“Super fucking funny, sunshine,” I growl into my coffee.
“What’s funny?”
I didn’t hear her breeze in but God damn if her presence doesn’t hit me like a freight train. Then she rounds the corner and all is right in my world…until she opens her fucking mouth.
“So, you're going to be like Joe? Let anyone through the door aren’t ya Eve’s?” Her amber eyes never leave mine, all that damn venom makes her bites so much sweeter. Too bad for her, I’ve already had one hell of a morning and am not in the mood to spar with the mouthy knockout.
“I got a few things I’d like to do to you behind a locked door, wildflower.”
“Like what? Leave me unsatisfied wishing you’d leave so I can finally come?” She rolls her eyes as Johnson locks on me waiting for my reaction.
I stand to my full height. “No—absolutely fucking wrecked and begging me for more.” I boop her nose, toss a few twenties on the table, and stroll over to Evie.
Evie gives me that knowing look. “You damn Wilder men are all the same.”
I grin. “And yet, you keep us around.”
She rolls her eyes and starts down the hall, but halfway there, she spins around and tosses something at me. I catch it without thinking.
A banana.
“Figure you burned enough calories mouthing off,” she calls, that wicked grin pulling at the corner of her mouth.
I stare at the damn fruit like it personally offended me. After the morning I’ve had—banana hammocks, swinging anatomy, the kind of trauma that should come with hazard pay—I’m instantly transported back to Mr. Lankford’s hips of horror.
Evie cackles from her desk, watching my soul leave my body.
I peel the banana with the enthusiasm of a man on the brink and mutter, “You’re just as bad as fucking Merc.”
Evie laughs harder. “Cece really sent y’all to war this morning.”
I take a bite and grumble, “And I still didn’t get hazard pay.”