Page 15 of Seducing the Sheriff (Charming Butte #2)

Chapter Eight

Cash

We’d taken an hour out at a roadside diner just outside the city limits recommended by Sam to have lunch before we headed back to Charming.

It turned out that Santa Maria did have a historical society which, according to Sam, had set up a small museum in the old courthouse, and “…did you know there’s a historical society in Charming? ” he’d asked seriously.

I bit my lip as I had to admit, I’d no idea it existed. Greg kept a diplomatic silence. I felt the amusement rolling off him in waves. I shoved him as we walked out onto the sidewalk and couldn’t help grinning at his mocking but affectionate laughter.

Here we were now, relaxing with strong, hot coffee as we indulged in playful bickering over the menu. Could one man have so many opinions about bell peppers? Greg could.

Somewhere between choosing the homemade soup and the massive, overloaded sandwiches, I caught myself staring at Greg while he was focused on the menu. Not in a casual, buddy way. Not in the way a man checks for a smudge on someone’s cheek or a weird stain on their shirt. This was something else.

It was the way the sunlight hit his face through the diner window, how he squinted at the menu like it held the secrets of the universe. The way his lip curled slightly when he was deciding. Focused, thoughtful, and so easy to be around.

And then it hit me. Right there, next to the specials board and the laminated placemats, I realized there were butterflies in my damn belly.

Butterflies.

I’m a big, gruff sheriff. In the past six months, I’ve stared down drunks with shotguns, wrangled more than one farmyard animal, and carried injured men through flash floods without blinking.

My stomach’s handled a lot over the years—bad gas station coffee, nerves before raids, the aftermath of a case that left my heart, and all the other first responders, crushed in its brutality, but not this.

Never just this.

Not the quiet thrill of being around him. Not the heat in my chest every time he looked at me with that easy grin, as if I was someone worth knowing. It was so easy being around Greg. I felt more relaxed than I had in weeks, even with the butterflies.

This was not normal.

Not for me.

But there they were, fluttering traitors in my gut, every time he laughed, every time his knee brushed mine under the table like it was nothing.

And suddenly, lunch didn’t feel so casual anymore.

“What about the blue corn enchiladas?” Greg said.

I blinked, realizing he’d spoken to me. “Huh?”

“Blue corn enchiladas. Chicken?”

“Oh, yeah, sounds good.”

I’d intended to have soup or sandwiches, or both, however enchiladas sounded perfect. It would save me cooking later. I put the menu down, relaxed in the booth, and looked at him. “So now we have a lead to find our body’s identity.”

Greg leaned back as he sighed, and I felt his calf against mine for a second as he relaxed. He took a long swallow of coffee before he said, “Who would have thought the former fire chief was a closet historian. Do you know Jim Brannigan?”

“I do. He was Meyer’s boss and he’s his stepdad, almost. Jim is courting Lindy Jones.”

“Is that why Meyer got the chief’s job?”

I shook my head. “Meyer applied for the assistant chief’s job when he heard his mom was ill. He lived in Chicago. Jim wanted to retire so Meyer’s application was like an answer to his prayers. Meyer didn’t know Jim and Lindy were stepping out.”

Greg chuckled. “Courting and stepping out. Old-fashioned words.”

I shrugged. ‘I’m an old-fashioned kinda guy.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that. No one wants an old stick-in-the-mud for a boy…friend. Friend, that’s what I meant.

The pang in my gut was unexpected. I wanted Greg to be my friend, but I couldn’t deny I wanted more than that.

I glanced up and caught him watching me. His cheeks pinked as he realized he’d been caught staring. Then our gazes locked in some kind of crazy staring competition. Thank goodness one of the wait staff came along to take our order, and Greg turned to her, looking almost relieved.

I chewed on my bottom lip, hoping I hadn’t made him feel uncomfortable.

Greg leaned forward when she left and grinned at me. “The last time I did a stare-off like that, a bottle of Jack was at stake.”

“The last time I stared so hard, I was facing off old Buttercup.”

Greg wrinkled his nose. “Buttercup?”

“You remember, the runaway cow on the highway.”

“Ah.” He smirked.

“I needed a bottle of Jack after that,” I admitted.

“Instead, you helped deliver a baby.”

“I did the handholding. Someone else was down the business end.”

“I’ll buy you the Jack for being an all-round hero.”

I scoffed, bristling as it sounded like a jibe. “I was just doing my job.”

“From wrangling old Buttercup to comforting a woman in labor. I think you’re a hero.”

I regarded Greg for a moment. His voice was soft and his expression kind. I’d been accused of having a hero complex before and that hadn’t been a compliment. This was different. He seemed genuine.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling embarrassed at my initial reaction. “Make it a good malt whisky and you’re on.”

“Top shelf, huh?”

“Only the best.”

Greg chuckled and that seemed to ease the awkward tension between us. I shifted in my seat and our legs brushed again. For a second I was tempted to leave my leg pressed up against his, but then someone walked past our table and Greg sat up, breaking the contact.

I sighed inwardly.

This isn’t meant to be, Cash. Quit projecting your feelings on him.

“So who won the bourbon?” I asked when the silence started to get awkward.

“He did.” Greg grinned ruefully. “I was taken down by a feral cat being chased by a stray dog. Paolo said he won by default.”

I squinted at him. “Did that really happen?” That sounded like a shaggy dog story.

Greg pushed up the sleeve on his left arm and pointed to two short, barely visible white lines breaking up the tan. “I have the scars to prove it. Paolo was a good guy. He doctored me up and split the Jack. It was a good night.” His eyes unfocused for a moment, lost in his memories.

Our enchiladas arrived, sizzling in the dish, and Greg tugged down his sleeve.

I focused on my food, trying not to think how envious I was of the man who’d had his hands on Greg.

* * *

I called Jim Brannigan before we left the diner, but his phone went straight to voicemail and when I tried Lindy’s number, hers did too.

I grimaced when I disconnected the call. “That stymies our plans for the afternoon.”

“No worries. Why don’t we look round the historical society here? Unless you want to get back to Charming.” His tone was light, like it didn’t matter what I decided, but I noticed him watching me again.

Playing hooky from Charming sounded like a great idea. I knew from experience that if anyone saw me out and about, someone would want me to cancel their parking tickets or find their lost cat.

I nodded, not hiding my enthusiasm for the idea. “You know, I’ve lived in this county for years, but I still don’t know much about the area.”

He grinned at me. “Let’s go.”

It turned out the museum was for the county, not just the city, and was housed in the old courthouse, not far from City Hall.

If that building had looked early twentieth century, the Old Courthouse could have come straight out of an old western.

It was larger than I expected, a single-story building with whitewashed stucco walls and a red-tiled roof.

I admired the imposing, ornately carved wooden doors.

“I’d kill for those doors,” Greg murmured, jogging forward to study them in more detail.

“So, if the doors are stolen, I’ll know where to look,” I assured him as I joined him at a slower pace.

“Well, I know where to hide the bodies now.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Greg blinked and turned to me. “That’s awkward. I’ve given away my nefarious plan.”

I waved a hand. “People do it all the time. They forget who they’re talking to.”

“They do?” He looked dubious.

“No,” I confessed. “They shut the heck up when I join the conversation, just in case they drop something that might be vaguely, kinda, walking on the dark side.”

Greg snorted. “I guess chit chat can be difficult.”

“You have no idea,” I said ruefully.

“I promise not to censor myself around you.”

I inclined my head. “That would be appreciated.”

Then we grinned like loons at each other.

“Let’s see if the museum is open,” Greg suggested, already heading for the steps like this was a normal thing people did on a Wednesday.

I beat him to the door and held it open. I figured it was polite. Also, it gave me something to do other than run my hand down that mighty fine back and butt.

He hesitated at the threshold and muttered, “I’m still not used to that.”

“Used to what?” I asked, squinting at him. He didn’t elaborate, which meant I’d obsess about it for the rest of the day because that was the way my brain worked.

I blinked as my eyes readjusted to the low light inside the building after the bright sunshine outside.

Before I could ask again, a woman popped up like a jack-in-the-box from behind the visitor’s desk.

She looked to be about seventy, give or take a decade with a snowy white perm that could have come straight out of the eighties.

I’ve seen the movies. Her smile was the kind of enthusiastic that usually came with a tray of lemon bars.

She reminded me of an old neighbor, who supplied me with cakes like I was junkie and needing a post-school fix.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” she chirped, hands clasped like she was announcing bingo night. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“This is our first time,” Greg said warmly.

I wish it was.

And that was it. That was the moment my brain did a full somersault into the gutter, rolled around a bit, and set up camp, complete with an X-rated reel running through my head.