Page 1 of Falling for the Sheriff

Alice

The alarm shrieks at my side, a merciless sound that yanks me from a world of heat and shadow. I’m awake instantly, my heart drumming against my ribs as I attempt to steady my breathing. The sheets are in a desperate knot around my ankles from what must’ve been from jerking around.

A low groan escapes me as I shift and feel the warmth collecting between my thighs.

I don’t need to think too deeply to know what scene was occupying my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to claw my way back into the silence of the dream, to steal just one more minute under that heavy-lidded gaze of the man who has haunted me for months now.

But then, the second alarm blares, a final verdict. The dream is gone. He is gone. Right out of my reach, just as he always has been.

The man without a name.

Outside, the birds are chirping with obnoxious, sunny cheer. My teeth dig into my tongue to stop me from yanking open my bedroom window and yelling at them, from ruining my neighbors’ peaceful morning with the sounds of my sleepless night.

He picked the worst possible time to haunt me. I’m furious that it was a good haunting. A breathtaking one. It wasn’t a memory; it was a relapse.

The Hollow Oak was a terrible, perfect place to choose a stranger.

And he was just that. Terribly perfect. He gave me exactly what I asked for and then gave me something I had never experienced before.

A single, toe-curling, world-ending orgasm that has become the benchmark for every lonely moment since.

Maybe it was because I was a hopeful virgin who had no previous experience, but the bar was set impossibly high for my fingers to compete with ever since.

Was it worth it?

With another sigh, I push myself out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom. The cool tiles are a shock under my feet. Peeling off my sleep shirt, my eyes drift unwillingly to the mirror.

It’s not the purple bruises of sleeplessness under my eyes that make me grimace. It’s my stomach. Softly rounded, like I’ve just finished a big meal. I try to suck it in, a futile gesture. Nothing happens. It just is.

Pursing my lips, I lay a hand on the curve, my fingers splayed. A part of me still expects something—a kick, a flutter, some proof of the life that’s rewriting mine. I guess in a few more weeks, something will.

It was one night. One incredible, impulsive night. Why would I have stopped to get a name? A number? I was there to shed a title, not collect new contacts. I didn’t know that the one and only time in my entire life would be the time that counted.

Now, there’s a man out there who doesn’t know that our rushed, passionate failure to use protection has a consequence. A permanent, life-altering consequence.

I really shot myself in the foot. Then again, the gun was his, too. He was just like me—a willing conspirator in a night of addictive passion. He didn’t ask for more.

Sighing for the last time, I step out of my pajama pants and into the shower, hoping the water is hot enough to scald his memory away once again.

* * *

The bell above the door of Daisy’s Blossom Boutique jingles a cheerful welcome that feels like a personal attack. I step inside and a wall of natural perfume hits me—a cloying, suffocating symphony of lilies, roses, and freesia.

My stomach lurches, a violent, rolling tide that has me slapping a hand over my mouth and the other splayed across the swell of my belly, a silent, desperate plea to the tiny tenant within.

Not now. Please, not already.

I swallow back the acrid taste of bile, forcing a deep breath that only makes it worse.

Reassuring myself that I can handle this, that today is just a bad day, I push a smile to my lips and clock in to start my shift of assorting flowers and packaging vases for whatever celebration is in order.

It takes exactly thirty minutes before I hit my limit. I barely make it to the employee bathroom, my knees hitting the cool tile as I abandon this morning’s breakfast.

Thanks, pal.

“I’m so sorry, Daisy.” The apology is a ragged groan into the countertop once I make it back. I’m hunched over the register, willing the cool laminate to leech the nausea from my skin. “It’s never been this bad before.”

My boss, a woman with a heart as soft as peony petals, smiles and rubs circles on my back. Her touch is calm and steady. “Would you like to take the delivery route today? You can get off your feet and hang your head out the window if you need to.”

She’s joking about the last part, but the image is dangerously appealing. Fresh air. Open space. Anything to get out from under this fragrant, heavy air.

“I’m sure Jonah will be thrilled to take a break from the van.

He’s been asking to work alongside Maya for weeks now.

” Her voice dips into a playful whisper, her gaze drifting toward the back where the red-haired woman is crafting an arrangement, her laughter a soft melody against the rustle of cellophane.

“Unless you need his help carrying things? He wouldn’t mind. ”

The thought is a swift, sharp panic. No.

The last thing I need is a witness to my misery, a poor, awkward guy watching me heave on the shoulder of some suburban street.

And worse, the idea of being trapped in the small space of the van with anyone makes my skin prickle. I need to be alone with this sickness.

“I’ll be fine,” I insist, squeezing her hand in gratitude. My voice is stronger now, firmer. “Thank you. I swear, I’ll stop being such a pain eventually.”

She swats my hand away with a fond eye-roll, already reciting her familiar mantra about how she’d be lost without me, before drifting off to print the list of delivery addresses.

Ever since Daisy expanded, the business has rocketed. From funeral homes to weddings to nursing homes, our arrangements are all over the town. I don’t care if the list is a mile long. I’m happy to take on each stop.

When she returns, I thank her again, more than happy to accept her keys.

Jonah’s happy to help load up the back, giving me a quick rundown on what goes to whom.

He makes it easy, leaving little confusion.

Before he slips back into the shop, he makes sure to ask once more if I’m sure I want to go alone.

From the way he rubs the back of his neck, I know he’s doing it out of obligation.

The poor guy really wants to work with the woman he’s crushing on.

“Trust me, you’ll be better off in there.” Thanking him for the help, I’m off.

The first stop is the hospital. The sterile air is a blessed relief after the van’s floral confinement. I deliver a massive, exuberant “Get Well Soon” bouquet to the reception desk for a poor fellow with a broken leg.

Next, the nursing home. Mrs. Williams is waiting by the door of her room, her face lighting up at the sight of the simple daisy arrangement her son sends every week.

She pulls me aside, her papery hand on my arm. “Let me tell you about Katie’s ballet recital,” she insists, and I stand captive as she details every plié and pirouette, her pride a tangible thing. Talking to me like I’m another one of her grandchildren, she’s happy to ask about my pregnancy.

Perks of living in a small town, I suppose.

Another stop is the local grocery store. I’m supposed to leave the cheerful sunflower basket for a woman named Joey to celebrate her anniversary.

Since I’m already here, I grab a small bag of chips to snack on. While I’m ringing out, it’s the sound of an excited giggle that has me pausing as I dig around in my wallet.

Something strikes at my chest as I watch the woman I assume is Joey throw herself at one of her coworkers with a beaming smile.

It’s easier to assort flowers or run the register. Watching the kind of love I’ve longed for is hard.

Well, at least I can drown this emptiness in salty, oily chips.

My next stop is a little less romantic.

The Willowbrook Ridge Police Department is a stark, utilitarian block of concrete and glass.

I’m grateful for its unfamiliarity; my own life has never intersected with this kind of place. Yet, a strange, low-grade anxiety hums under my skin as I park the van. It’s not like I’ve done anything illegal or caused any trouble. They’re not going to just throw handcuffs on me.

I’ll treat it like any other stop. Get in, drop off, get out.

I lift the arrangement—a sophisticated burst of color with a core of deep red carnations, my favorite, their spiced, clove-like scent usually a comfort. Now, it feels overwhelming.

A small card is nestled among the blooms, the name Atlas drawn in Maya’s pretty handwriting. “ To seventeen years on the force.” Not a romantic gesture, but a professional tribute. Someone must really love this job to stick it out for so long.

The plastic wrap crinkles in my sweaty grip as I push through the heavy glass doors. The air inside is stale, smelling of old coffee and industrial cleaner.

A woman with a kind face is behind the front desk, her attention locked on a computer that looks like a relic from my childhood with a blocky phone pressed to her ear.

I shift my weight from heel to heel, the seconds stretching.

Finally, she hangs up and turns to me, her smile a genuine beam of warmth that momentarily cuts through my unease.

“Hello! I’m just here to deliver these,” I say, my voice a little too bright, ready to hand them off and escape.

“Those are gorgeous!” she exclaims, standing. “Hang on one second, let me grab him. He hates gifts from us, but he can’t refuse a pretty delivery girl.” She winks, her compliment making heat flicker against my cheeks.

“Oh, uh… right. Sure.” My stomach plummets. I don’t know if Jonah has to deal with this kind of stuff, but I’m making a mental note to tell Daisy that he may need a raise. The awkwardness feels like a physical weight when one is forced to be included.

As she disappears into the bowels of the station, I hug the flowers closer, their scent now cloying and suffocating. My heart isn’t just beating; it’s pounding. I’m not feeling so well.

Breathe , I command myself. Do not throw up in a police station.

From the other side of the room, a low, resonant voice cuts through the buzz of the fluorescent lights, a voice I’ve only ever heard in the dark, murmuring against my skin.

“You’re all killing me. What did I tell you? Which one of you fools ordered these?”

I turn, my body moving on a stiff, rusty pivot, ready to thrust the bouquet into this complaining officer’s arms and flee.

Then the room stops spinning. No, the world. Everything goes still.

My stomach doesn’t clench from nausea. It freezes solid. The air vanishes from my lungs because I’m not looking at a stranger.

I am staring directly into the same deep-forest green eyes that haunted my dreams last night. The same eyes that watched me, intense and focused, in the dimmed light of The Hollow Oak before whisking me to a random motel room.

It’s him.

The man who threw my entire life into chaos stands before me in a crisp tan uniform, his nameplate gleaming under the harsh lights. WILLIAMS.

Atlas Williams. The man who does have a name.