Page 60 of Kings of Sherwood

I take a bite of cornbread and let the silence stretch.

Zayn clears his throat. “Anyway. I think the sheriff’s mostly spooked because he’s up this year.

“Up?” Tuck asks.

“Reelection,” Rob answers. “So what? He’s never lost before.”

“Is anyone even running against him?” Will asks.

“Nah.” Zayn shakes his head. “But that’s kinda the thing. With Guy off the ballot, there’s no real reason for people to turn out anymore unless they want to voteagainstsomeone. And sheriff’s race is so small it’d be easy to knock him out as a write-in. Only take like, two neighborhoods worth of people.”

Tuck points his fork at him, all lit up. “Youshould run.”

“Serious?” Zayn barks a laugh. “Politics? Thanks, but no thanks.”

Finally, the man says something I agree with. I tip my beer in a toast.

“According to Plato, the best man to be king is the man who leastwantsto be king,” Will says, swirling his own bottle thoughtfully. “Or something like that. Been a while since I read it.”

“Best king isnofucking king,” I mutter.

Zayn purses his lips. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind the pay bump. Or getting to crack some skulls in the department. Did Plato say anything about petty embezzlement? ‘Cause if so...”

Maren laughs, low and bright. I glance at her again and she catches me, smiling like she knows exactly what she’s doing without actually looking my way. She licks a drop of honey off her thumb.

Yeah. She knows.

The bear in me is wide awake again.

“Point is.” Zayn picks up his drink again and glances toward Rob. “He’s looking for a PR win. And I guess he figures that’s your head on damn platter.”

Rob doesn’t answer right away. But I can see his jaw working, his mind turning. Wheels already in motion.

Maren turns her head, eyes flicking from Rob to Zayn to me—for a half fucking second.

And then she looks away.

I give her a slow, deliberate once-over, from her bare feet to her long legs to the little peek of her low back and that fiery waterfall of hair.

And I swear to God, she smiles like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

I stand up abruptly. “Trash,” I announce, and take plates from anyone who offers. Hands full, I stride off past the kitchen and right down to the back patio, dumping it all in the big bin—because I truly do not give a fuck about what’s recyclable or compostable—and when I turn around, my legs buckle under me.

“Fuck,” I grunt, and brace myself just in time to break my fall instead of break a front tooth. “What the shit—”

A whirlwind of red-gold hair and lightly freckled skin spins me to the ground.

“Gotcha.”

Maren scoops loose strands out of her face, grinning. One knee planted on either side of me. A mount—sloppy, but effective enough.

“When you least expect it,” she says. “That’s whatIcall leverage.”

She doesn’t weigh a ton, but the press of her on top of me has me locked in place all the same. I flex my fingers, clamp on hand on each bare thigh.

God, she’s soft.

“Did I win?” she prompts.

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