Page 9 of Love Under Snowfall

It wasn’t the wildest idea. If she felt professional—paired with punctuality and a solid grasp of the material—she might just survive Professor Clark’s class.

“You’re right,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll add clothes shopping to my list right after ‘find a tutor’ and ‘understand the law.’”

“Haven’t you already learned that I’m always right?” He winked, ignoring her sarcasm, and squeezed Frankie’s shoulder. “I’ll take you to the mall tomorrow after you treat me to brunch.”

Exhausted from another few hours of studying, Frankie flopped on her bed and burritoed herself in her favorite quilt. The heft of the patchwork flannel and corduroy, along with the homey scent of lavender dryer sheets, quieted her mind. She turned off the lamp on the side table and tunneled further into the familiar comfort. But before drifting off, her phone lit up, emitting a low buzz.

She sighed, already knowing full well who it was.

Again.

Sheriff Howards:

You wouldn’t be avoiding me, would you?

Leave it to a dude in law enforcement to finally put the clues together. She swallowed her guilt and typed out the lie anyway.

Frankie:

Of course not, Clint.

Sheriff Howards:

Haven’t heard from you since Thursday. Forget about me already?

Frankie:

How could I possibly forget about you?

Sheriff Howards:

Aw, shucks.

When are you home next?

Frankie:

Not sure, Thanksgiving?

Sheriff Howards:

Yikes, that long? Will my rain check still be valid?

Sheriff Clint Howards, Chelan County’s finest.

Frankie had met him the year before when Jonathan and Lucy had gone missing on Mount Stuart. She’d been a frazzled mess, and the good sheriff getting in her way didn’t help matters. They’d exchanged numbers, at his request, to stay in better contact throughout the whole ordeal. It wasn’t until after the hikers had been found that Clint’s primary motivation became clear. And something about him laying the foundation for some kind of romantic interlude while Frankie was losing her mind worrying about her brother pissed her off.

It took him a while—unanswered phone calls, texts left on read, and one explosive run-in at a local bar—but eventually, the self-assured, presumptuous sheriff got the message.

Then, a few weeks before leaving for Seattle, Frankie ran intoClint after finishing up a rafting job on the Wenatchee River. While her participants huddled together eating sack lunches and jabbering excitedly about the run, Frankie stood near the bank, assisting other rafting guides and kayakers as they slid ashore at the busy take-out spot.

While helping lug a massive raft ashore, a flash of teal and yellow caught her eye. She could barely keep hold of the slippery boat’s handles as a shredded Hercules strode by, kayak hefted on one shoulder, neoprene wet suit unzipped and dangling off his hips. She hungrily perused the sheriff from his wet, wavy blond hair to his abs, which boasted aneight-pack. How was that even possible?

Once done lending a hand, she casually ambled over and stood beside him at his truck while he chugged water from an old, banged-up Nalgene.

“How does someone with a sheriff’s salary afford a sixteen hundred dollar boat?” She tilted her head toward the flashy Gnarvana kayak perched in the truck bed.

Water ran off his chin, dribbling down his dinner plate-sized pecks and ridiculously wash-boarded belly. His cocked eyebrow and one-sided grin weakened Frankie’s knees. “When you’ve been single for a year, you tend to save up a little pocket change.”

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