Chapter 4
Megan
Touring Arrhythmia with the Sheriff isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.
Sure, I still feel like I’ve been dropped into some paranormal Twilight Zone, and yeah, the naked Gnome incident is going to haunt me for life—but overall?
This place? It’s actually kinda charming.
In a lawless, magical misfit kind of way, of course.
Our first stop is a café called Bean Me Up, and I’m already judging it for the pun.
But the second I take a sip of my latte, I change my mind. I mean, I nearly moan because it’s that freaking good.
“This is fantastic,” I murmur, holding the warm cup in both hands like it might tell me all its secrets.
“Yeah, Jenny does a great job,” Owen says, nodding toward the counter like it’s no big deal.
I follow his gaze and—okay, I blink.
Hard.
Because behind the espresso machine is a barista with six arms, glowing turquoise eyes, and a golden aura like she walked straight out of a Renaissance painting done on acid.
Two arms froth milk. One waves at me. Another gives Owen a thumbs up.
The last two are apparently plating pastries and tapping on the register at the same time.
She winks at me.
Right. Of course she does.
Demi-goddess barista.
Totally normal.
I look back at Owen, who’s sipping from a large, iced espresso like the world isn’t absolutely bonkers.
“What’s in that?” I ask.
He swallows, sets the glass down.
“Triple espresso. Three sugars. Lemon rind.”
My eyebrow lifts.
“Lemon rind?”
“It’s refreshing,” he says with a little shrug and a grin that should be illegal.
I smirk.
“No, I know, I just didn’t peg you for the espresso-with-a-twist type, Sheriff. I figured you for the black coffee, burnt-toast breakfast kind of man.”
“We got culture in the sticks, Agent, don’t you worry yer perty little head none,” he says, thickening his drawl so much it could butter a biscuit.
My mouth falls open, and he laughs—really laughs.
Deep and gravelly, like distant thunder rolling over sunbaked hills. It vibrates straight through me and settles somewhere dangerous.
I shift in my seat, squeeze my thighs together, and pray to literally any benevolent entity that he doesn’t notice.
So he definitely notices.
But to his credit, he just sips his ridiculous coffee again, growls softly, and changes the subject.
“So, I understand from your letter you require accommodations?”
“Yeah,” I say, grateful for the pivot even as heat creeps up my neck. “Figured I’d check into a motel?”
“In Arrhythmia?” he snorts. “Agent, we’re not exactly a tourist destination. Closest motel shut down after an angry Kitchen Witch hexed the plumbing. Tried to turn it into a spa. Didn’t end well.”
“Oh.”
“But,” he says, stretching the word like honey, “I know somewhere you can stay.”
Cue ominous music.
Which is how I find myself standing at the bottom of a very narrow staircase, watching the very large and very hot Sheriff Owen Randall haul my very pink, very obvious suitcase up to the so-called “only vacancy in town.”
Guess where?
Above his garage.
That’s right. I’m staying at the hot, broody Shifter Sheriff’s house.
In a guest room that smells like cedarwood, testosterone, and something a little darker I can’t quite name.
Kill me now.
He reaches the top, glances over the railing, and grins.
“You coming?”
Oh, I just bet you think you can make me come, cocky little Wolf, I think, then mentally slap myself.
Focus, Megan.
But I can’t help the tug in my chest as I follow him up, soaking in every quirky, otherworldly inch of this place.
Arrhythmia is weird.
Like, objectively weird.
But it’s also kind of wonderful.
No one stares at you for talking about supernatural energy.
No one rolls their eyes when you mention ghosts or visions.
No one tries to sedate you or call your dad in a panic.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m hiding half of who I am.
And that thought sneaks up on me, burrows deep.
Maybe monsters aren’t always the problem.
Maybe they’re not monsters at all.
Maybe the scariest thing isn’t what people are, but who they pretend to be.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Owen glances back at me.
“There you are. I see that look, Agent,” he rumbles.
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re either going to bolt or stay forever. But before you decide, let me share something my mama always says,” he begins.
“Your mama?”
“Yep. And before you judge, a man who has a good enough relationship with his mama to quote her might be worth listening to. Anyway, she always says it doesn’t matter where you go or where you end up because in the end, there you are.”
“What?”
“You’re still you. You can still be you anywhere at all.”
“Oh.” I shrug and pretend what he says didn’t just shake me to the core.
“Well, I’m just here on assignment. It’s not like I’ve made long term plans, so.”
“Take your time,” he says, and damn if his voice isn’t soft now. “We move slow here.”
My heart jumps. “Really? From what I’ve seen, this place runs on coffee, chaos, and naked Gnome scandals.”
He chuckles.
“Welcome to Arrhythmia, Agent.”
And just like that, I think I might not want to leave after all.
“This doesn’t feel appropriate,” I say, following him up the creaky steps.
“This?” He pauses at the top, looking back with one brow raised. “Nah. I mean, if I’d put your suitcase in my bedroom, maybe. But I swear, Agent, this is strictly on the up and up.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
I know I’m not imagining the way he keeps glancing at me when he thinks I’m not looking.
I’m definitely not imagining the way his voice drops an octave every single time he calls me Agent.
It makes me wonder how good he’ll sound when he says my actual name.
And if I’m being real here, then I’m absolutely not imagining the fact that I can’t stop ogling him.
Not for a minute.
The man is pure walking temptation—beard, muscles, tattoos peeking out from under his sleeve, that rough-around-the-edges cowboy vibe that practically screams, “Lick him, he’s mine.”
Nope. Not today, Satan.
I clear my throat and say, “Look, Sheriff—”
“Call me Owen.”
“Okay, Owen,” I say and have to close my eyes a second, because holy shiznit his name feels way too nice on my tongue.
“I like the way you say that, Megan. I can call you Megan, can’t I?”
Oh dammit. He said my name.
And yep, it does sound super sexy with that Texas twang of his.
“Um, look, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but this is just business between us. Okay?”
His eyes gleam with mischief as he leans a little too close, voice smooth as sin.
“Now, Agent—I mean, Megan,” he corrects himself, “what makes you think I’m thinking anything?”
That grin of his is criminal.
And my body?
It completely betrays me.
Because the second he’s close enough to scent me—close enough for his shoulder to brush mine and that ridiculous aftershave-meets-forest scent of his to cloud my brain—I freeze.
He sniffs.
Casual. Subtle. But I know.
My cheeks heat like I’ve been caught red-handed.
And suddenly, I’m wondering if Owen here is trying to find me out.
Can he smell my attraction?
Does he know my panties are wet?
Shit.
I straighten my spine and grab the handle of my suitcase like it’s a weapon.
“I’ll settle in and then I’ll meet you in an hour or so. You’ve got a town to babysit, right?” I say, lifting my chin.
He steps back with a knowing smile and a mock salute.
“Yes, ma’am, I sure do. But, um, you can call me if you need anything.”
“Is that right?” I murmur, and I grin at the humor twinkling in his hypnotic gaze.
He nods.
“Day or night, I live to serve. So if you need something, or you know, if Gerry the Gnome shows up through the ductwork, just gimme a holler, yeah?”
I don’t answer. I just bite my lip and raise my eyebrow, and he chuckles. Damn sound should come with a warning.
Whoops. There go my panties!
He dips his chin then steps out. I just shut the door after him, and lean against it, trying to breathe.
Professional. Focused. Detached.
That’s me.
So why the hell does the thought of Sheriff Owen Randall sniffing me again make my knees go weak?