Page 12 of Her Dirty Defender

“Looks that way.” His jaw tightens. “Whoever’s behind it knows how to cover their tracks.”

I file that away because I don’t believe in coincidences.

Emmett glances at the clock on the wall. “I gotta head out. Early patrol tomorrow.”

I nod. “I might need your skills at some point while I’m here.”

He taps the counter once before heading toward the door. “You know where I am,” he tosses over his shoulder before disappearing into the night.

I barely get my hand back around my glass when the front entrance swings open,letting in a rush of cool air and a woman who doesn’t so much walk in as claim the space around her.

She moves like she has shit to do and no patience for anything in her way. Chestnut hair pulled into a messy braid. Blue tank top that molds to a curvy frame built for work, not decoration. Ripped jeans that showcase a spectacular ass. Boots that have seen more dirt than pavement.

And then there’s her face.

Stubborn chin, full lips, eyes like a damn storm. Not soft. Not delicate. Striking. Breathtaking.

A jolt low in my gut knocks me back.

Because I know her type.

Not the beauty—that’s secondary. I know the energy. The way she moves. The tension in her shoulders and the weight in her stance.As if she’s always ready for a fight, even if she doesn’t want one.

I know it because I carry that same weight.

She doesn’t see me yet. She doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t hesitate. She marches straight toward the bar, dropping onto a stool like the weight of the world just got a little heavier.

“Whiskey,” she mutters. “And keep it coming.”

The bartender smirks. “Rough night?”

“Rough life,” she mutters.

Something in my chest shifts. Clicks. Tightens.

And just like that, I know I’m in trouble.

Chapter3

George

The whiskey burns a path down my throat, hitting my empty stomach like liquid fire. But it isn’t enough to drown out my troubled thoughts.

Tonight, I don’t want to think about my dad controlling my every move like I’m a damn fugitive. Or the deputy he thinks is the perfect match for me.

I slam the glass onto the sticky bar top and nod at the bartender for another.

The Honey Pot in Silverpaw Hollow is a good place to blend in, and it’s far enough from Clover Canyon that I won't run into anyone who will report back to my father. Exactly what I need.

A strong, capable hand slides a tumbler of whiskey beside my empty glass. “You look like you need this more than I do.”

The deep, steady baritone slides over my skin like warm molasses.

Don’t encourage him.

“I don't need saving,” I say, already planning my comeback for his next cheesy line.

Except when I turn, my carefully crafted snark dies in my throat.

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