Page 5

Four

Emery

“ I still can’t believe you survived Sheriff Grumpypants without getting arrested,” Logan says, uncapping a blue pen for morning appointments. Green is for afternoon. Red is reserved for emergencies. The schedule for the next week is a color-coded masterpiece of passive aggression.

“He wasn’t that bad,” I lie, glancing into my medical bag for the third time even though I know it’s fully stocked.

Logan arches an eyebrow like I’ve insulted his intelligence and his skincare routine in one breath. “You’ve been humming Les Mis all afternoon and jumping every time your phone buzzes.”

I sigh. Busted.

I have been humming. And every notification has made my stomach twist, hoping it’s him. Colt. Even though I have no idea what I’d do if it actually were.

“So what’s the deal? Big, brooding, and built like a tank got you all twisted up?”

“He’s my patient, Logan.”

“And I’m a nun,” he says, clicking his red pen into place. “Spill.”

I open my mouth. Close it. How do I explain that Sheriff Colt Boone makes me feel seventeen again, like my body has betrayed me with nerves and heat and daydreams I have no business entertaining?

How do I admit that I’ve replayed our conversation about kids at least seventeen times, and every time it hits harder?

How do I tell my best friend that the nickname baby girl wrecked me in a way that should not be possible?

“He’s just... intense.”

“Intense how?” Logan leans in, voice going low and dangerous. “Serial killer intense or climb-you-like-a-tree intense?”

“Logan.”

“I’m assessing the situation. Do I need to sign you up for Krav Maga or get you new lingerie?”

Heat rushes up my neck. “Neither. You’re impossible.”

“No. I’m correct. You’ve been alone too long, Em. You’ve been momming so hard you forgot you’re also a woman. With hormones and crushes and needs.”

I roll my eyes, but the truth hits harder than I want to admit. Because he’s right. When’s the last time I let myself want something just because it felt good? Not for Legend. Not because it made sense. Just because it was mine.

And now what I want is six and a half feet of solid man with steel eyes and rough hands that make me feel like the most fragile thing in the world. And the safest.

“It’s complicated,” I mumble.

“The best things usually are. I’m making coffee. You want one?”

“Yeah, just don’t forget this time.”

“One time, Emmy. Anyone would think I almost killed you.”

“You have no idea how bad my allergy is. If I have dairy, Logan…”

“I get it.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I promise I will never again forget the oat milk.”

The front door creaks open without a knock, like the air knows exactly who’s coming.

Sheriff Colt Boone steps inside the clinic, full uniform, duty belt hanging heavy at his hips. The same man who flipped a heckler into a wall last night like it was nothing. The same man whose voice had the whole bar silent.

And the town? It hasn’t shut up since. Wildfire’s group chat is buzzing. Logan showed me three separate memes of Colt with the caption "The only Daddy I listen to." One of them was from a PTA mom.

Colt looks at me like nothing’s changed.

“Hey,” I breathe.

He nods once. “You off soon?” He doesn't wait for my answer, looks at Logan. "She's done for the day, isn't she?"

“Well, we were about to have coffee, actually. See, when you walked in we were just discussing her dairy allergy and—”

“She’s done for the day. I’ll make sure she gets coffee if she wants one.”

Logan shrugs. "I'm not taking any of that Daddy danger like I saw last night. Take her. Get her out of here. Just don’t forget the vanilla oat milk, or you’ll never hear the end of it."

Colt gives him a nod while I throw my hands up.

“Where's your bag?" Colt asks, already rooting around my desk. "I'm walking you home. Saw your van still in your driveway."

"Jesus."

My cheeks turn to fire as Logan stomps his feet on a manic guffaw, clapping like a maniac. “Be still my heart. A gentleman escort? Can I pick your wedding colors?”

“Logan,” I snap.

He’s laughing as he heads into the back, leaving me to Colt and his unreadable stare, my purse already on his shoulder.

"Doesn't match." I give him an irritated exhale.

"Don't care. You match me just fine. Come on, before my stupid radio goes off."

The walk is quiet. He doesn’t touch me, but his presence is so heavy it feels like protection. A truck slows down beside us, the driver hollering something about leggings and ex-wives.

Colt doesn’t flinch.

“Keep driving,” he says, low and final. “Just my brother. One of them.”

They peel away.

“Brothers?” I ask.

He grunts. “Unfortunately.”

“He seems nice.”

“They’re not.”

At my front steps, I fumble the keys. He catches them. Then his radio buzzes. He listens, jaw tightening.

“Domestic dispute. I have to go,” he mutters, frustration radiating off him.

He grabs my chin gently, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“This is the last time I walk away without coming back the same night.”

Then he’s gone.