6. Luke
SIX
LUKE
Bacon sizzled in the frying pan, the aroma reviving me after another unexpected late night involving a dually truck from Oklahoma and a highly hormonal, testosterone-fueled elk.
The bull was unscathed.
The truck, however, was totaled. By some miracle, the rattled driver and his girlfriend only had a few minor scratches. A complete fucking miracle considering the stupidity of the situation. One I still had to put into words on the report I’d yet to even start.
Just another item on my never-ending to-do list.
I could pawn it off on Hudson, the officer who responded to the scene last night. She offered to take care of it more than once, considering I was just assisting. But she had enough on her plate with her grandma’s recent knee replacement, so I sent her home once the scene was cleaned up.
“Damn tourists,” I grumbled under my breath, flipping the bacon with a pair of tongs. There wouldn’t be a report to write if they respected the wildlife.
Locals knew better than to fuck with a bull during rutting season. But out-of-towners were so damned determined to get the perfect video to post on social media that they pushed aside all common sense in the process.
Thankfully, the only price tonight had been monetary. A truck could be replaced. A life? That was a void that could never be filled. I was reminded of that every day I drove past Brenda’s Book Nook.
Splatters of grease bounced in the pan, one jumping out and sizzling my forearm. “Fuck,” I grumbled, jumping back.
I should probably put on a shirt, but even a simple pair of pajama pants felt like too many layers after being trapped in my uniform for another twenty-four-hour stretch.
I stripped the second I walked through the door.
Hell, the only reason I wasn’t strutting around in my birthday suit was because I didn’t trust Miss Mayhem not to come knocking on my door with some demand or another.
I checked my phone on the counter, but the messaging app had gone quiet since her DEFCON level one comment.
Before I could set it back down, a text from my brother came through.
Connor: You still helping with inventory?
Luke: Yep.
Connor: Heard you had a late night. No one will blame you if you skip.
Luke: I said I’ll be there.
A yawn assaulted me as I flipped the burner to off, as if I needed the reminder that I was running on fumes.
I should take the out my younger brother was offering.
Today was my only scheduled day off for a week.
Inventory at Dad’s hardware store would take the three of us most of the day, and I was already dead on my feet.
But the only acceptable excuse to bail on family was a police emergency. For everything else, there was coffee.
I plated the bacon next to a pair of sunny-side-up eggs and a lightly buttered piece of toast. The only thing missing was some fresh melon from the local farm stand.
Maybe I’d pick some up later, when we were finished at the store.
I felt a second yawn down to the fucking tips of my toes. Melon tomorrow, then.
Pulling the silverware drawer open, I froze.
The hairs stood on my arms.
A familiar sensation of being watched made me stiffen, mentally clocking how many steps I needed to take to retrieve my nine mil. Too many. I motionlessly scanned the counter for the nearest weapon, should I need it.
But half a second after deciding on the butcher knife, something black and furry came into focus in my peripherals. My tight shoulders instantly sagged with the releasing tension.
The dog I guessed was some kind of Bernese mountain dog/border collie mix sat right inside my open sliding-glass door, head tilted in curiosity. A pink and gray sock hung from her mouth. Her tail lightly swished against the hardwood when I made eye contact.
“Ellie, what are you doing here?” I tensed once again, my gaze lifting. “And where’s your mom?”
I waited for Miss Mayhem to parade through the opening, ready to give her a lecture about keeping to her side of the deck. But after several seconds, no one came.
I relaxed once again.
“You smelled bacon, huh?” I guessed.
Ellie’s tail swished a little quicker, and she trotted closer.
“What’s with the sock?”
Sitting, she looked up at me expectantly.
“Do you want bacon?”
After letting out one of the most dramatic doggie sighs I’d ever witnessed, she nosed my hand.
“You want to play tug of war?” Wicket’s favorite game was tug. He could play for hours and never tire of it.
But when I tugged on the sock, it fell from Ellie’s mouth and dropped into my palm. I stared at the raccoons reading books, and one corner of my mouth rose in amusement. Were all Maggie’s socks so whimsical?
“If your mom blames me for stealing her sock, you know I’m ratting you out, right?” I said, scrubbing my hand behind her head. She gave my hand a lick, and then her gaze traveled toward the plate resting on the counter.
“Oh, I see. You came prepared to barter.” I broke off the tip of one of the smaller strips of bacon and offered it to her.
She took the offering gingerly, as though the treat was fragile.
“We used to have to lock Wicket out of the kitchen until we were finished cooking if bacon was involved,” I told her, taking my plate to the nearby table tucked in the corner of the kitchen.
She trotted after me, sitting obediently nearby, but not too close.
A pang of guilt for my obvious overreaction hit me square in the chest. The hours-long argument I had with Maggie seemed foolish now.
Ellie was nothing like the dog my previous tenants had—not that it was even the pup’s fault.
Dogs required exercise, stimulation, and attention.
None of which her owners provided enough of.
I could count the number of walks they took her on during their year-long lease on one hand.
Which was why, I suspected, she quietly but studiously chewed through every inch of wood she could find.
I tore off another piece of bacon and handed it over. “For a dog who dropped out of school, I thought you’d be more . . . mischievous.”
Ellie gave me a steadfast look, one that seemed to say well, that was stupid of you, wasn’t it?
“Eleanor Suzette Holland, what are you doing over here?”
My pulse tripped at the sight of Maggie Holland standing in my doorway, sheer curtain fluttering in the morning breeze behind her. An oversized hoodie hid all but a sliver of her bright pink shorts, making it all too easy to picture her with no shorts at all.
Fuck me.
Ellie dipped her head, caught.
“This is your fault, really,” she directed at me, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Bacon’s one of her weaknesses.”
I was staring.
Stop fucking staring.
“You left the gate open.”
The terse words fell out of my mouth before I could pull them back. Something I regretted as the bright expression on her face evaporated in two seconds flat. Why was jackass my default setting around this woman?
“I haven’t even been outside until just now,” she said. “It looks like you left the gate open, Officer.”
“I’m not on duty,” I pointed out, stashing the pink sock beneath my thigh for reasons I didn’t even want to attempt to deconstruct. “Just call me Luke.”
“I know how this works. You’re always on duty.”
“You a cop or something?”
“Or something.”
It was clear she wasn’t going to elaborate. It was sheer stubbornness that kept me from asking, because the rest of me wanted to know the answer. I wanted to know how she took her coffee, what she was running from, and how many layers were missing beneath that hoodie.
So naturally, I chose to double down. “Make sure you keep the gate locked.”
“I didn’t open it.”
“Right,” I mumbled, focusing on my plate so I’d stop fucking staring at those bare legs.
“C’mon, Ellie. We’re not welcome here.”
“I didn’t mean—” By the time I looked up from my plate, both Maggie and Ellie were gone.
The sliding door next door opened and shut, and then, silence.