Page 8 of Daddy's Heart

"You look like dessert."

She flushes. Starts gathering her things, but I’m not done.

"Emery."

She pauses, and I let my voice drop, a growl that lives in my chest.

I step in, real close. "You gonna sing tonight?"

"Maybe. Haven't in a while."

"I want to hear it."

She looks at me. Really looks. And there’s something there. Hunger in her eyes. Doubt fighting desire. That first flicker of a girl about to give in. And she hates how much she wants to.

"You’re not the only one who gets to give orders, Sheriff."

I grin.

She turns for the door. Stops. "Thanks for not being a total caveman today."

"Don’t thank me. You have no idea what kind of man you’re teasing, sweetheart. But you keep testing me, and I’ll show you real fast."

She goes. I let her.

For now.

But the second she’s out of sight, I grab my keys.

Because there’s not a damn chance in hell I’m letting her sing for anyone else before she sings for me.

Three

Colt

Ipark a block from the bar, kill the engine on my cruiser, and crack the window. She hasn’t even made it inside yet, and I’m already keyed up like I ran ten miles uphill.

She steps out of Logan’s car in that damn outfit. Baby blue tank top, denim skirt knee-length, thank God, and her hair is down.

My brain is on fire because everyone in that bar is about to see what should only be mine. She laughs at something one of her friends says, bounces once, her fucking tits jiggle and I damn near break the steering wheel in half.

I know she’s not with Logan like that. Not his type. No woman is. I know. Ifucking know. Still don’t like him near her. If he so much as glances at her the wrong way, I’ll remind him I don’t need a badge to shoot him.

Outside my car, I nod to a couple locals that recognize me making my way to the back door where Murry Wetmore is standing, smoking a cigarette.

“Sheriff? Problem?” He’s owned this place for a decade. Good guy. Runs a pretty clean operation.

“I hope not.” I pause for a second, hands on the thick leather of my service belt, the cool steel of my sidearm pressing into my wrist. “Just gonna keep an eye on someone inside.”

He scratches his forehead but waves me through the back door.

“Mi casa es su casa. Lemme know if you need anything.”

I give him another nod before I disappear inside, wind my way through the back hall then out into the main bar area, tucking into a shadowed corner in the back, watching.

The place is classic small-town chaos. String lights and off-key singing, sticky floors and overpoured drinks. I melt into the wall. She doesn’t see me—but I see everything.

Room’s pretty busy tonight. I spot my deputy sitting a few tables over, but he doesn’t see me. Just as well, since he’d be asking questions about where I was all day, and that’s a conversation I don’t want to get into right now.

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