Chapter Three
LOOK FOR THE GIRL WITH A brOKEN SMILE
HENRY
“Well, don’t you look like hell, Sheriff,” a teasing voice calls out as I step into Bangers.
“Where is she at?” I grumble, running my hand down my haggard face. It has been a damn day. From fighting banana hammocks this morning to chasing livestock down mainstreet. I am exhausted.
Crow clears his throat drawing me to the present, gives me a once over before nodding to the end of the bar.
I have known Crew and Crow Crosby for as long as I can remember, and for as long as I can remember, their eerie, ice-cold eyes—arctic blue like something from another world—have sent a shiver through my very soul.
Mercy swears it’s the damn Romani blood they have.
I turn my eyes to the end of the bar—and there she is.
Absolutely lit. Hair thrown on top of her head like it lost the will to live, and she’s wearing—Lord help me—those damn chicken-print pajamas with Pluck Me stretched proudly across her thighs.
She’s belting out what might’ve once been Mama Said Knock You Out, but honestly?
Mama should’ve stayed home. Her pitch is so off it’s got dogs howling outside and probably a few ghosts rolling over in their graves.
She’s swaying like a leaf in a breeze, completely soused, and to anyone else, she’d look like a walking, talking disaster.
And okay—maybe she does. Hair a mess, outfit questionable at best, not a single note on key.
But damn if I’m not still staring.
That sharp tongue and fiery sass she’d thrown at me this morning?
Gone. Completely gone. It has taken a backseat somewhere between her third drink and that karaoke mic.
And seeing her like this—unguarded, ridiculous, a little broken, and not trying to hide a single damn bit of it—only makes me love her more.
Every slurred lyric, every off-key note, every time she yells “MAMA SAID” like she is throwing punches at the air—it all just makes her more her.
Still, this mess of a woman is still the most beautiful damn thing I’d ever seen.
I give Crow a quick nod before slowly making my way to the end of the bar. She’s still mid-warble—if you could call it that—and for a second, she doesn’t see me.
I always live for that fleeting moment. Before the scowl. Before the steel curtain drops.
Then, like clockwork, the scowl hits. Right on cue. Every damn time. And every damn time, it slices through me like a blade.
“Alright, Lou, let’s get you home,” I say gently.
She hiccups a loud no and immediately starts calling for Crow, dragging his name out like it’s some magical incantation that’ll save her from my very reasonable request.
While she hollers, I quietly gather her purse, her car keys, and her phone. She’s still pawing at the air and calling his name like he’s her damn fairy god-brother when Crow finally appears behind the bar.
He gives her a soft smile. That smile. The one that makes me want to smash his face into the sticky wood countertop. I don't, obviously, but I think about it.
I know both Crosby brothers see Lou like a little sister. But still—does he really need to look that damn charming while doing it?
“You called for me, beauty?” Crow leans forward on his elbows, voice dipped in that smooth-as-sin Crosby drawl.
Lou points a wobbly finger in my direction. “Why’d you call him?”
“Because you’ve had enough for one night, and he lives right next door to you.” His tone is half-chastising, like she’s a toddler who drank from their bath water.
She squints at me suspiciously, then sways a little as she dramatically whispers, “You know what he wants to do”—hiccup—“behind closed doors?”
Crow tries, God bless him, to hold a straight face. I just close my eyes and sigh.
“Lou…” I murmur, as the blush starts climbing my neck.
She points at me again like she’s about to drop the scandal of the century. “He wants to rearrange my guts,” she stage-whispers. “With his nightstick.”
Crow loses it.
I just shake my head and scoop her gently off the barstool like the absolute handful she is.
Thankfully, she's pretty intoxicated, so when she starts to resist, her movements are sluggish and weak. If she were sober, she’d definitely give me a harder time, and I’d have to brace myself for a few solid blows.
“Put me down! I don’t wanna”—hiccup—“go with you,” she slurs stubbornly even as she tucks her head under my chin and her breathing evens out.
Crow called me not just because I am the hellion’s neighbor, but because this month marks the anniversary of her father's death.
Twelve years he has been gone, but I know that hurt is still as fresh to her as the day he died.
Murphy Wright had been her one source of unconditional love and belonging and when he died we all watched how she wilted beneath that grief.
Her mother left when she and Sophie were young, and her father, Murphy, had died before she graduated high school.
This time of year is always tough for her, but after Evie’s near-death experience, she seems to be falling apart.
It had been absolute hell on us all, but Lou took it the hardest. Because under her prickly demeanor, that’s who the fuck she is.
A woman who loves with every fiber of her broken heart.
She feels she has been abandoned by everyone she loves minus Sophie and the thought of losing Evie had shaken her to the core. She can’t be another person to abandon me here.
Her words from that day in the hospital keep swirling through my head.
Now, I’m man enough to admit that I played a huge role in the rift between us.
I’m the one who had sex with her on the day of her father’s funeral and then told her what a mistake it was—or more cruelly, how much of a mistake she was.
I left her there, sitting on the edge of the tub, her clothes in disarray and my cum running down her legs, adding to her grief and confusion.
The weight of my actions is a constant reminder of how I deepened her pain and shattered any remaining trust between us.
I see now how my selfishness only left her with yet another scar to carry.
At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing. I was about to leave for the police academy, and I wanted to give her the chance to break free, to live life for herself, to finally have a moment where she wasn’t just holding everything together for everyone else.
How fucking wrong I was.
Then I was a stupid kid, now I’m a man starved for just a glimpse of her.
I might take my sweet ass time making my way out of the bar, down the steps, to the parking lot where I parked my blacked-out SUV. Sober, Lou would never let me touch her which is fair, but right now she is out, and I finally get to savor the feel of her in my arms.
I quickly unlock the passenger door and gently sit her inside, buckling her up before setting her things in her lap. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “If only you were this docile all the time.”
Twenty minutes later, I pull into my driveway and kill the engine. The silence settles in thick, broken only by the soft sound of her snoring beside me.
At some point, she’d shifted in her seat and looped her pinky through mine—like muscle memory, like some part of her still remembered what it is to reach for me.
It guts me. Quietly. Completely.
I sit there, letting the weight of her presence sink in, the warmth of her so close without the usual sting of her glare. Let her scent soak into every square inch of the space we are sharing, praying like a mad man it lingers long after she leaves.
I take a minute to just enjoy her presence without the venomous glare she usually reserves for just me.
We only live thirty-six yards apart, but it feels like six million.
If I am outside and she comes out, she acts as if I’m not even there.
One time she lost power in the middle of winter and damn nearly froze instead of just coming to me.
My mama called and chewed my ass out good for that one.
Like I am the one who chose pride over survival.
But that’s who Lou is. Stubborn as hell. Proud in ways that cut.
Still—here she is. Pinky looped in mine like she never left.
I sit there just letting it be until my ass is numb and my legs fall asleep.
Sighing, I pull myself out of the car and open her door. I unbuckle her quietly as I can before gathering her in my arms. She wraps her arms tightly around my neck and begins to softly cry.
“I can’t sleep there tonight. Please let me stay with you.” Her soft lips graze my neck as she speaks.
I freeze mid-step, my heart beating like that damn drum in Jumanji. She’s drunk, she doesn’t know what she’s even saying.
When she’s sober, she wouldn’t let me near her or let alone even touch her. So, over the years, I’ve taken to provoking her. That fierce fire of hers burns so intensely that I found its heat oddly comforting. I am a dog starved for a fucking bone, taking any and all scraps she gives me.
“Oh, come on Lou. I’m taking you home where you can sleep in your own bed.”
“Henny, please.”
Henny. That playful nickname cuts deeper than any blade. I can still picture a younger Lou, her golden hair spilling like a halo around her as we lay in the back of my truck, gazing up at the stars. Those moments felt eternal, yet now they haunt me like a memory too perfect to hold.
“One day, Henny, we’re going to build a big house with a wrap-around porch and swing big enough for us to lay in. Then while our kids sleep, we’re going to sneak out and still come look for these damn falling stars to wish on.”
Louisiana Rose is every wish whispered to the stars, every hope I dare to hold close, and every dream I’ve ever woven in the quiet corners of my heart.
She is the embodiment of all I have ever longed for, a living, breathing manifestation of the desires I’d once thought too far away to touch.
In her presence, my world becomes something more—something enchanted, as if every unspoken yearning has finally found its voice.
And just like that, I’m yanked back in time—the same lovesick idiot who trailed after her like it was instinct, walking her to every class, standing guard like she needed protecting.
Louisiana Wright with long blonde hair that shimmered like silk in the sun, a mouth made for war, and a chip on her shoulder so damn big it could level a man.
She was standing there that day—backpack slung over one shoulder, wildflowers at her feet, wind tugging strands of her hair loose like it knew it didn’t stand a chance of taming her.
She looked like chaos the earth had learned to bloom from.
Untamed. Unapologetic. Beautiful in a way that didn’t ask for permission.
Then she looked at me, eyes sharp enough to cut through armor, and let it fly.
“Don’t you ever get sick of it?” she bit out.
“Always playing the hero. Always holding everyone else up like the whole damn world would fall apart without you. Newsflash—no one asked you to. And when you finally shatter, don’t go looking for someone to save you.
You’ve been too busy bleeding out for everybody else to even notice you were the one dying. ”
It hit like a damn lightning strike. No pity. No soft landing. Just the truth—raw and ruthless.
Right then, standing in the middle of that field, gutted by her words and leveled by who she was, I decided I'd never call her anything but Wildflower. Because she bloomed where she wasn’t supposed to. Because she was soft and sharp all at once. Because even fury looked beautiful on her.
But what hit me hardest was that she saw me—really saw me. Everyone else thought I was untouchable, the strong one. But she saw the weight I carried, how close I was to breaking. She didn’t try to fix me. She just let me know I wasn't fooling anyone.
That was when I knew—with her, I didn’t have to be strong all the time. Hell, I didn’t have to be anything. I could just be. Her soft snore beside me pulls me back to the present, grounding me in a way that only she can.
One look at her sleeping face and I decide to say fuck it all. I know this is going to piss her off, but she asked to stay with me and wish fucking granted.
I watch her breathe, feeling the weight of every year we’ve lost, every moment we’ve let slip by.
But now, in this moment, I’m not going to let her slip away again.
She asked to stay, and I’m done pretending I don’t want this.
I tuck her into my bed, set a bottle of water and ibuprofen on the nightstand, and let myself finally breathe her in.
Tomorrow will bring all the fire she has to offer, all that sass and heat.
But tonight? It’s just us. And for the first time in years, that’s more than enough to make me burn for her all over again.
Too bad for me, she’ll stomp that fire right out when the hellion wakes.