Page 135 of Found by the Pack
“Exactly.” He taps a pen against the desk. “The beautification is working better than I expected. Sadie’s murals, the boardwalk refurbishing, the new shops. Driftwood looks alive again. But I’ll be honest—I didn’t expect the side effects. More people, more problems. Before I take this to the town hall, I want a plan.”
I nod slowly. “You’re right. If you want to stay ahead of it, a sheriff’s a good move. Gives the town structure, presence.”
Jake exhales, relief crossing his face. “Glad you think so. I value your opinion, Gabe. People trust you. When you back something, they listen.”
The words hit something inside me I don’t like to acknowledge. I’ve spent years burying myself in this job, carrying it like penance. Hearing someone call it trust feels heavy. I just nod again. “Then do it. Before things get worse.”
“Good.” He scribbles a note. “We’ll put together a proposal. Keep it quiet until I’m ready to call the meeting.”
The rest of the talk winds down, logistics, paperwork, timelines. My head’s already out the door before it’s officially over.
I shake his hand, step out into the sharp morning air, and head down Main Street. The smell of fresh bread and coffee pulls me toward Cora’s. I grab a bag with a breakfast sandwich and coffee, exchanging quick greetings with the staff before heading back toward the station.
I’m halfway across the square when I stop dead.
She’s there. Sadie. Balanced on a ladder right outside the firehouse, hair falling loose around her face, one hand steadying herself as the other moves across the brick with a stick of chalk. My chest seizes at the sight of her, sunlight catching the faint streaks of pink in her hair.
And just like that, the memory slams into me again—the way she tasted when my mouth was between her thighs, the way she clutched at my hair, gasping my name.
I force the thoughts down, hard, and clear my throat. “Hey.”
She looks down. Her eyes brighten when she sees me, her smile wide and easy. “Hey.”
I step closer, tilting my head back to see the faint outlines she’s been sketching. “What are you doing?”
“Tracing some ideas.” She gestures with the chalk, the faint lines taking shape across the wall. “I want this one to be different. I was thinking… a compass, maybe. Something that ties people to the idea of direction, home, safety. Anchors matter here.”
Her words settle something in me. “That sounds amazing.”
She glances down, eyes shining. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say firmly. “Exactly what this place needs.”
Her smile softens. “Thanks.”
I shift the bag in my hand. “I was about to have breakfast. Maybe you can join me.”
Her eyes flicker, a hint of surprise before she nods. “Sure. Just give me a second.”
She tucks the chalk into her pocket, wipes her hands against her skirt, and climbs down. The ladder creaks but holds steady. When she reaches the ground, she brushes her palms against each other, looking at me with a spark I don’t let myself examine too closely.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready.”
We walk side by side into the fire station, the familiar smell of smoke and soap wrapping around me. She looks around as though seeing it with new eyes, her gaze tracing the framed photos on the wall, the awards in their dusty cases, the scuffed tile beneath our feet.
I watch her take it all in, the way she tilts her head slightly, studying, cataloging, already weaving her art into it.
My stomach tightens, because I know the truth. The station has always been mine—my pride, my burden. And now, somehow, she belongs in it too.
We walk straight through the bay, past the ladder truck and the lockers, to my office in the back. I push the door open and let her in first. The room isn’t much—four walls, a desk scarred with years of paperwork and late-night reports, a couple of chairs.
She glances around curiously, like she’s stepping into a place she’s not sure she belongs. I drop the bag and coffee on the table, then cross to the shutters. The morning sun is too sharp, too exposing. I pull them down, softening the light until the room feels smaller, more private.
When I turn back, she’s still standing near the desk, her hand brushing over the edge as if memorizing the grain of the wood.
I clear my throat. “How are you? With everything. Your ex.”
