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Chapter One

GEORGIA

T he problem with living in a small town is never finding what you need. There are only so many resources, and as the sheriff of this town, I need to do my job productively. Also, I should probably double-check a map because I may be responsible for some surrounding areas too.

“I'm sorry, Georgia.”

“It's Sheriff,” I correct and point to the badge on my chest.

“Your badge is on the other side.”

“Oh shit.” When I glance down, I realize I was right, but Mr. Saunders boops my nose.

“Made you look,” he chuckles.

I do my best to keep a straight face, but a small laugh escapes.

“All right, this is serious.” I smack my hand down semi-forcefully on the counter to make sure I have his full attention. “You own the local grocery store, which means you should have all the things the citizens of Cottonwood need.”

“You tell them,” I hear Mrs. Betty say from somewhere behind me. I swear that woman is everywhere. She moves fast for being in her late seventies.

“Bubbles aren't something people are in dire need of, Georgia.”

“Sheriff,” I huff, not really that annoyed. I'm not sure how I'm the sheriff either, so I can't be mad if half the town isn't taking me seriously.

“Sheriff Georgia.” At least Mr. Saunders is entertaining my nonsense.

“What's the problem?” Mrs. Betty comes to stand next to me at the checkout.

“We're out of bubbles,” he informs her.

“You know you can simply make bubbles,” Mrs. Betty lets me know.

“Oh, right.” Why hadn't I thought of that?

“Why do you need all these bubbles? What are you doing with them?” Mr. Saunders asks.

“I’m the one asking the questions around here,” I say a bit too defensively.

Not everyone needs to know that my gun is fake and that I stole it from the prop department at the high school. It looks real, but when you fire it, bubbles come out. Pretty freaking cool if you ask me.

When I get bored, because there isn’t any real sheriffing to do around here unless you count that one dead guy, I might entertain myself with the bubble gun.

I also might have knocked a bottle of bubbles off my desk, and it spilled everywhere.

Who knew bubble batter would make such a mess?

Wait, is it bubble sauce? Nope, that's not it either. Maybe it’s bubble juice, but that sounds gross.

“Bubble liquid!” I snap my fingers when I get it.

“Bubble liquid?” Mr. Saunders tilts his head, not getting it.

“Never mind.” I tap the counter. “Your next order better have bubbles.”

“Or what?” Mr. Saunders challenges.

“Maybe I won't investigate the next time your house gets TP’d.”

“I have a doorbell camera, Georgia, and last time you helped those little bastards.”

“Don't talk about the girls' tennis team like that. They almost won state.”

“Fifth place isn't almost,” Mrs. Betty chimes in.

“Rude,” I huff at her. “Be careful, Mrs. Betty. Your house might be next.”

“Bring it on.” Mrs. Betty sounds too excited about the prospect of being TP’d, and I have no comeback for that.

“Wait, was that…? My radio.” I go to grab my walkie-talkie off my hip, but it's not there. Shit, I left it in my cruiser.

“Even if you had it, who would be calling it?” Mrs. Betty asks.

“Fair point.” I grab my hat off the counter. “I'll see you fine folks around.”

After I spin on my heels and head back out of the grocery store, I make my way over to my cruiser. Before I get in, I see a black sedan parked nearby, and I pause to look at it. It’s the same one that keeps popping up around town, and I swear I think it’s following me.

I watch the vehicle start up, and when it pulls out of the parking lot, I hop in my cruiser to follow.

This time I'm going to get that license plate. The vehicle makes a left and then another and the whole time I’m wondering where the heck they are going.

Again, they make another left and then a fourth, returning to where we started.

Okay, so I believe I was just played. Joke's on them, because I got the license plate. I quickly jot it down and then try to look inside the vehicle, but the windows are too dark. That can't be legal. I'm guessing, but I jot down to check into that too.

“Oh shit.” I duck down when the driver opens their door.

Wait, why am I ducking? I'm the police. I pop back up as the man steps out and shuts the door. Then he leans up against the vehicle, staring right at me.

The man is a giant. How freaking tall is he? He's built broadly too, and his all-black suit makes him look intimidating. It's summer, why is he wearing a full suit? I jot it down as suspicious. My notes are coming along, and I kind of feel professional right now. Heck, I might do a report later.

I grab my radio and clip it onto my belt before I step out. “Is there a reason you're following me, Sheriff?” the man asks before I can close my car door.

“I wasn't following you,” I scoff and pat my gun. “I’m doing my rounds to keep this town safe.”

“Safe, you say?” He pushes off the car. “People are getting shot and killed in your town.”

“It wasn't me.” His brows lift, and I know that's the wrong response. “That issue has been handled. Case closed.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it is. I'm working on a new case.” I make my way toward him, and close up, he's even bigger. “Jesus, how tall are you?”

“Six four.”

“Couldn't leave any inches for the rest of us?”

“No.” He doesn't crack a smile. Tough crowd.

“Maybe we should talk about this tint job.”

“Tint job?” His brows pull together in confusion.

“Tint job,” I confirm, knocking on one of the windows. “My new case.”

“Your new case is my tint job?”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “Maybe not.”

“Well, I assure you, it’s legal.”

“Hey, I’m the cop here,” I remind him.

Dang, he’s good-looking, but that’s not going to give him a pass. Maybe I should lock him up for a few hours. I know that the cell works at the station. I learned that the hard way when I got myself locked inside it.

“You got me there. I’m not a cop.” He reaches into the front pocket of his suit and pulls out a black wallet. When he flips it open, it reveals a badge. “I’m an FBI agent.”

“Fine,” I sigh dramatically. “I’ll let the tint job slide, but you’re on thin ice.”

He doesn’t seem the least bit fazed. Maybe I’m the one on thin ice and I don’t know it. Meh, I don’t know a lot of things.