Chapter 8
Megan
It only takes a few minutes to get back to the station, but it feels longer with Owen sitting beside me, all brooding silence and slow glances.
Now I’m in his office—his actual office, which smells like spice, old leather, gun oil, and him—and I’m trying to focus on the task at hand.
Trying being the operative word.
I’m hunched over the computer, scrolling through the digital archives on the Crypt Mansion, and so far, it’s a snooze fest.
Dry historical records, property disputes, one suspicious fire that no one seems to want to talk about, and a few old newspaper clippings mentioning strange noises and disappearing pets.
It’s a lot. It’s also dull.
And if I’m being honest, I can’t seem to focus.
Because the Sheriff is standing a few feet away.
On the phone. Pacing. Smelling like pine trees and man and something deeper—something wild that hums under my skin like a secret.
Geezus.
It’s like the man bathes in enchanted forest soap.
Or maybe this is just some unfair Wolf Shifter pheromone thing.
Whatever it is, it’s nice.
Too nice.
Distractingly nice.
I’m not here to get distracted.
But every time he moves, I look. Every time he mutters something under his breath or runs a hand through that thick, dark hair, my eyes drift over like they’ve been trained.
Like I’m hypnotized.
Like I’m twelve seconds from doing something really dumb.
Because look—let’s not pretend.
I’ve thought about it.
Sleeping with him.
Hell, I’ve been thinking about it since I saw him.
What it would be like to have that massive body pinning mine down, all muscle and heat and growl.
What his beard would feel like against my neck.
What those golden eyes would look like right before he lost control.
Yeah, I’ve imagined it. More than once.
And I know he’s thought about it too.
I see it in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. Hear it in the way his voice drops when he says my name like it means something.
But here’s the problem—scratch that, there are multiple problems.
One, this is my first solo DPCA field assignment.
I’m here to evaluate whether this weird little town full of magical misfits gets to stay on the map or gets decommissioned like a broken-down amusement park.
My report could literally decide the fate of Arrhythmia.
And that’s not small.
Two, I have a job to do.
A serious one.
That does not involve riding the Sheriff’s D-Train like it's part of the local attractions.
And three?
I have sort of a history with men.
Not the good kind.
It’s the kind where I’ve always been the fun one, the spicy one, the one they want to hook up with in secret—but never the one they want to keep. Never the one they want to come home to.
So, I live with it. Not like there’s any other choice.
I’m just not happy ending material—not the hearts-and-flowers, sunset-kisses, Disney-plus-princess kind of girl.
I’m more the plot twist you survive.
The messy chapter before the credits roll.
The “hot but complicated” side character that readers either love or want to slap.
Let’s be real here. I’m a curvy Jersey girl with a resting bitch face, a sharp tongue, and thighs that start brush fires if I walk too fast in cheap leggings.
I drink my coffee black, my tequila neat, and I’ve got zero patience for bullshit—or beige.
Do I love my body?
Hell yes, I do.
I’ve earned every damn inch of it—hips made for slaying in wrap dresses, arms strong from carrying grief and groceries, and a rack that could silence Congress if I tried hard enough. If someone doesn’t like it?
That’s a them problem.
But I’m not delusional.
I’m also a realist. And realists know the game.
Men who look like Sheriff Owen Randall?
With that rough-hewn, broad-shouldered, flannel-and-forearms thing going on? That slow, dangerous smile? Those golden eyes that look like they’ve seen the underworld and decided to stay and build a house?
Yeah. Men like that?
They don’t fall for women like me.
They fuck women like me.
Happily. Eagerly. With the kind of enthusiasm that makes a girl forget her Wi-Fi password for a week.
But then they go off and marry someone appropriate—you know, a quiet little Pilates instructor named Brielle or something, with a perfect middle part and a capsule wardrobe curated by Gwyneth Paltrow’s ghost.
Meanwhile, girls like me?
We’re the cautionary tale.
The lesson. The detour.
The she was wild, but I wasn’t ready chapter in his goddamn memoir.
So, yeah. I want him.
Desperately. Inconveniently.
My body is one crooked Sheriff’s smirk away from throwing my self-respect out the window like a glitter bomb.
But attraction isn’t enough.
It fizzles. It fades. It lies.
And I’m not about to torch my career—or what’s left of my dignity—for a man who might kiss like sin and look at me like I’m the last piece of chocolate in the goddamn box, but who still sees me as temporary.
Not this time.
I know better.
Even if every molecule in my traitorous body is begging me not to.
So I close the tab, exhale through my nose, and mutter to myself, “Focus, DiNapoli. Save the town first. Then maybe you can daydream about Sheriff Tall-Dark-and-Wolfy.”
Maybe.
Probably.
Shit—I forgot he’s still here.