“You don’t trust Jerry?”

  “I don’t know Jerry, and neither do you. I like him and he seems like a perfectly nice guy, but be sure you two are on the same page. Sometimes men are grand at making promises and become much smaller when it’s time to follow through.”

  “Will do, boss,” she says with a dreamy smile that tells me my advice has landed on deaf ears.

  I go back to my room and let myself fall onto the bed. I so miss my best friends and our outings in Manhattan.

  “Nope, I’m all alone,” I tell the ceiling.

  “Meow,” a ball of fur disagrees from the dresser chair.

  I pull myself up on my elbows. “How did you get in?” The door was locked. “Is there a secret passage somewhere?”

  The cat doesn’t respond, only eyes me cryptically.

  “No, you’re right, I shouldn’t sit here feeling sorry for myself.”

  If cats had eyebrows, he’d be raising one. With one last look of contempt my way, Fluffy starts licking himself.

  Even if Emerald Creek doesn’t offer much in the way of entertainment, I’m positive there’s a pub in town. Time to check it out. And since tonight will be my only social outing of the week, I decide to pull out all the stops when I get ready. Same as if I was going out in Manhattan. I shave my legs, redo my nail polish, do my makeup with painstaking care, and dress to the nines. I pick a dark-green dress with white heart polka dots and oversized, see-through sleeves. The skirt starts at the waist and flares out—short and playful. As for shoes, now that my full travel closet has arrived, I’ve plenty of choices.

  The winners are nude suede sandals with a thin toe strap, even thinner ankle straps, and the cutest pert bow at the heel. I match the ensemble with a suede clutch big enough just for my keys, phone, and credit card.

  But as I go to say goodbye to the cat with an ear scratch, my eyes fall on the pile of flyers on my desk. The design team did a stellar job with the graphics to attract volunteers for next week’s beach cleanup. Should I combine business with pleasure and post a few in town?

  Regretfully, I drop my clutch and opt for a larger bag. One last stop in Celia’s room to ask for some Scotch tape—she keeps all the office supplies—and I’m ready to go.

  When I get downstairs, Willette is coming out of the kitchen, and we almost collide.

  Travis’s mother takes me in and does a double-take. “Is someone getting married?”

  “No, I’ve just decided to go out tonight, check out the local pub.”

  “I’m not sure that attire…” she starts, then stops. “I mean, the pub is more of a casual hangout.”

  “Don’t worry, a little fashion won’t kill anyone.” I breathe a happy, “See you later,” and leave the house.

  Fifteen minutes later, I park the pickup on Market Street. I get out of the truck and check the parking rules on an overhead sign—at least at night, there’s free parking. I fish a flyer out of my bag and tape it to the sign pole. Next, I head for the town square and, as I pass City Hall, I stick my tongue out at the building, then tape a flyer on each side of the double front doors.

  The mayor will be thrilled when he walks in tomorrow morning. I drop a few more flyers around the square and then head toward the pub. Being the only lit building in town, it’s easy to find. Music is blasting out of its doors, as well as a few patrons holding beers. They definitely look like a casual bunch, all boots, jeans, and checkered shirts. No suits here, but I expected that. The wooden board above the entrance spells the words White Hart in white-flecked paint.

  I walk past the outside drinkers, making heads turn, and push my way past the heavy wooden and colored-glass doors. As I step in, I feel catapulted into one of those movie moments. The dramatic scene of a villain who appears on-screen accompanied by a bolt of lightning and a clap of thunder, with the room going eerily quiet in response. Just as now, in the real world, all the chatter in the pub dies while all eyes turn on me.

  Well, I always knew how to make an entrance. I ignore the startled stares and even a few slacked jaws and head straight for the bar to sit on one of the tall, wood-and-leather stools. Behind the counter, a young woman with strawberry-red hair held up in a ponytail is wearing a black T-shirt with the White Hart logo and taking orders. The barmaid finishes serving beers to two other customers and comes my way.

  “Hi.” She smiles. “Are you with the movie crowd?”

  “What makes you say that?” I ask, wondering if I have a ‘Hollywood Producer’ sign stuck to my forehead and never noticed.

  “Oh, everybody knows everyone around here, and even if we get a lot of tourists lately, none look as stylish as you. Cute dress.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “And, yes, I’m with the movie production.”

  “I knew it. You guys have brought this town back to life.” Her smile brightens. “You know I even saw Christian Slade twice. He came here with his girlfriend for beers a few times, but then word spread and the fans arrived, and I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Christian isn’t a fan of the crowds.”

  “I’m Amber, by the way.”

  “Samantha.”

  The woman nods. “Nice to meet you. What are you having?”

  “A Cosmopolitan, please.”

  The barmaid looks at me as if I’ve spurted a second head. “Sorry, we don’t have triple sec—there are few fancy orders around here.”

  “No, it’s okay. Can I have an espresso martini, then?”

  Amber shakes her head. “No coffee machine either, sorry.”

  Disheartened, I ask, “Do you have a cocktail menu I can look at, or a wine list?”

  “We don’t serve wine,” the barmaid says. “But I’ll check in the back and tell you what I can manage for cocktails.”

  “Thank you, that’d be wonderful.”

  The moment Amber goes away, someone drops a half-empty beer mug on the wooden counter and sits on the stool next to mine. I turn and meet amused, hazel-green eyes.

  “Did you just try to order an espresso martini?” Travis asks. He’s in his cowboy costume: boots, worn-out jeans, unbuttoned checkered shirt. Underneath the shirt, he’s wearing a black T-shirt with a scruffy old Metallica logo that’s thankfully a little looser on the muscles than the white piece from this morning.

  “Is it against the law to order a good cocktail in this town, Mr. Mayor?”

  “I wouldn’t call a mix of sugar, coffee, syrup, and alcohol good.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “From your sophisticated order of a beer I hadn’t deduced I was in the presence of a connoisseur.”

  Whatever answer he was about to give, gets cut off by a tall, dark-haired man taking the stool next to him, one over from me. “Vis-Vis, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” And before the mayor can say anything, the man offers me his hand. “Duncan West, the town sheriff.”

  The newcomer’s style is still rustic, but a bit more refined than the off-duty mayor’s. His jeans are less worn, he has a newer white T-shirt on that showcases his sculpted chest and he isn’t wearing boots.

  Also, when we shake hands, he doesn’t crush mine. It’s a firm but gentle grip.

  “Samantha Baker,” I say. “I believe we have a meeting scheduled for next Tuesday at ten.”

  Duncan does a double-take. “You’re the gal from New York?” Then, turning toward Travis, he adds, “You didn’t tell me she was so good-looking. You told me she was a—”

  Travis kicks him in the shin.

  “—a very nice lady,” Duncan catches himself.

  I’ll never know what Travis actually told him about me. But I can make an educated guess: annoying, pedantic, haughty?

  The embarrassing moment is broken by Amber coming back with her findings. “So… err…” She falters in her speech as she throws Travis a quick side-glance and blushes, but then recovers quickly. “I can make you a regular martini—without olives, sorry—or a Moscow Mule.”

  I’m not a fan of plain martinis and I have never had a Moscow Mule. “Can you make the martini a lemon drop?”

  “No, sorry,” she says, embarrassed. I’m not sure if the sudden shyness is prompted by the lack of drinking options or by the clear crush she has on the mayor. “Again, we don’t have triple sec or lemon juice.”

  Resigned, I go with the only remaining option. “I’ll try the Moscow Mule, thank you.”

  With a big smile and one last furtive peek at Travis, Amber disappears again into the kitchen.

  Duncan watches her go and pats Travis’s back. “Man, that filly is eager to take you for a ride.”

  The mayor shakes his head as if he was dealing with a boisterous child instead of a grown man and the chief law enforcement officer in town, no less.

  “Oh, come on, man,” Duncan continues, squeezing Travis’s bicep. “I don’t waste three afternoons a week providing you free training for all these good muscles to go to waste.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You’re a sheriff and a personal trainer?”

  Travis replies, “The sheriff kindly lets me join him and the other officers at the station’s gym every once in a while.”

  “Yes,” Duncan agrees. “And all my generosity is going to waste. If you don’t jump on that horse somebody else will… and how long has it been since you went for a”—Duncan waggles his eyebrows and leans his head close to his friend’s—“wild ride?”

  My ears prickle at this last question. I suppose in Emerald Creek even the number of Tinder users must be limited. Makes me wonder about the mayor’s romantic life. Does he have one?

  Travis pushes the sheriff away from his face. “None of your business.”

  “It’s been too long,” Duncan replies, nonplussed. “Man, you need a little female affection, trust me. And Amber would be perfect; she has such a crush on you.” The sheriff closes his eyes and wraps his arms around himself, pretending to be two people kissing. In a fake shrill voice, he says, “Oh, Travis, yes,” and makes smooching sounds.

  Amber comes back in time for the second part of the show as Duncan, in a mock deep tone, replies to himself, “Yeah, Amber, just like that, baby.” And back to the falsetto and smooches. “Oh, Travis. Ride me. Ride me.”

  Wordlessly, Amber drops my cocktail on the counter and fills up a huge beer jug at the water sprinkle faucet. She jerks her head at Travis to move aside and while Duncan is still busy making love to himself, she empties the jug square onto his head.

  The sheriff ends up soaking wet and sputtering.

  Eyes blazing, Amber calmly drops the jug onto the counter and points at the door with her thumb. “You’d better take a ride outside, Sheriff West, and cool down.”

  Duncan pushes his wet hair away from his forehead. “Shoot, Amber.”

  “Yeah, shoot,” the bartender echoes.

  “I meant, I’m sorry,” Duncan says. “It was a joke.”

  “In very poor taste, now go.”

  The sheriff pats Travis’s shoulder. “Come on, Hunt, tell her it was meant as a compliment.”

  With a dashing smile, Travis turns to Amber. “I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

  “Hunt, you coward,” Duncan says. The sheriff is wringing his soaked T-shirt as he talks, but he’s also smiling. “What’s your favorite flower, sweetheart?” he asks Amber.

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “Well, I’ll find out and send you a bouquet.”

  Travis finishes his beer in one long gulp and retrieves his cowboy hat from a nearby stool, then he grabs Duncan’s elbow. “Come on, man, I’d better give you a ride home. Even after the cold shower, I’m not sure you’re entirely sober.”

  “It’s my night off,” Duncan protests.

  Travis ignores him and with his Duncan-free hand tips his hat at us. “Ladies.”

  As they head for the door, Duncan turns back. “Forgive me, angel,” he shouts at Amber. “I won’t sleep tonight if I know you’re angry at me.” He blows her a kiss.

  I can tell that, despite herself, Amber smiles at the sheriff, and he leaves the pub a happier man.

  “What a man-child,” Amber comments as she rounds the bar to mop the wet floor. “You must think we’re all nuts in this town with our lack of sophisticated cocktails and me throwing water on unsuspecting customers.”

  “Actually,” I say, taking my first sip of Moscow Mule—not bad. “I was thinking we could become best friends.”

  11

  DREAMS ARE WISHES THE HEART MAKES

  A new friend and a few Moscow Mules aren’t enough to shake off the jinx the Sunday morning shower started. Bad luck keeps close on my heels all of the following week.

  No matter what I do, or where I go, I’m constantly running into the mayor. Monday it happens at the farm. Celia and I are on our way to work when we pass him on the road, busy poking around the barbed wire fence that borders the ranch.

  As soon as he sees us, he takes off his hat and approaches the truck.

  Despite myself, I roll down the window. “You have no more out of towners to extort this morning, Mr. Mayor?”

  He grins. “No, I set all my despoiling meetings for after ten.” Travis jerks the pliers in his hands toward the property border. “And the fence needed fixing now, so…” He shrugs. “Ladies, let me get the gate for you.”

  He pats the roof of the truck and moves ahead to open the gate. As he walks past the truck, I try really hard not to notice how nice those jeans stretch on his bum.

  Tuesday, I’m unsuspectingly sitting in the sheriff’s office, discussing traffic stoppages and possible re-routings to accommodate the filming schedule when the mayor barges in, uninvited. Today he’s in a suit again and the effect is breathtaking.

  “Mayor Hunt,” Duncan greets him. “To what do we owe the unexpected pleasure?”

  “Just one of my regular rounds to check how our law enforcement department is doing.”

  “Cut the crap, Vis-Vis, you never show up in my office unless someone has died.” The sheriff looks between me and the mayor and narrows his eyes. “Or perhaps, could you be checking on Miss Baker, protecting her from my undeniable charm?”

  “More to protect you from her.” Travis leans against the doorframe with a devil-may-care attitude, making my heart thump a thousand beats per minute—out of sheer irritation, I’m sure.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “I’ve been advised city girls bite.”

  “Forgive me, but when someone sticks his boots into my business, I get a little squirrelly…”

  The sheriff cuts in, “Should I leave you the office? You two seem to have a lot to sort.” I’m actually thinking Duncan is being serious when he adds, “The blinders come down for privacy, but you shouldn’t get too loud in your sorting.”

  “No,” I say. “We still have a ton of work to do, and I’m sure the mayor was about to leave.” I turn to Travis. “Weren’t you?”

  “If my input isn’t needed.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Travis finally leaves, and with no more distractions, the sheriff and I can finalize our traffic plan.

  By the time the meeting is over, I’m starving, so I opt for a minor detour to a bookstore doubling as a coffee shop Amber recommended. She assured me they make cappuccinos. On foot, I follow her directions to a small court nestled near the city park. The shop is impossible to miss, and I immediately fall in love with the quiet old building with its extensive selection of titles, comfy, mismatched furniture, and a small espresso bar. I decide to treat myself to a sandwich and a cappuccino and perhaps a good book to absorb over the weekend. I’m not sure I’ll be returning to the White Hart anytime soon. As I sit at one of the vacant outdoor tables, the mayor comes up to me with a grin on his face.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asks, pointing at the chair opposite me.

  “Are you following me?”

  “I could ask the same. This is my favorite lunch spot, and I arrived first.”

  I throw a pointed look at the empty table next to mine, but he’s already sitting down, making himself comfortable.

  “And do you always harass patrons of this establishment with your unrequested company?”

  “Only the ones who wear ridiculous shoes.” Travis grins again, glancing at my feet under the table.

  Nuh-uh, no one makes fun of my pink and aquamarine faux-fur slingbacks. I reach for my wrapped sandwich, ready to take my lunch somewhere else, but Travis stops me with a raised hand. “Please don’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “We might’ve started off on the wrong foot, but we don’t need to be enemies.”

  “I didn’t start this,” I say.

  “Fair enough,” he says, baring a set of perfect pearly whites. “Let me apologize on my behalf and that of the entire city for…” He pauses.

  “Threatening my livelihood, shaking down my business?” I offer.

  “…for forcing your hand a little in collaborating with us.”

  “Ah, now I finally see the politician.” I grab my sandwich, my paper cup, and stand up. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Wednesday at least I have a precise place and hour for when my path will cross with the mayor’s: 10:30 a.m. at the Wilkins Mill Bridge.

  Cliff made good on his promise, and today is the official inauguration of the restored bridge.

  Two police cars are holding back traffic from both directions for the ceremony. In front of a small crowd, the mayor waits behind a golden ribbon tied to both ends of the bridge with a ridiculously large pair of scissors in his hands. As the official sponsor of the project, I have to stand next to Travis the whole time and smile as he hands me a golden engraved plaque that immortalizes Denouement Studios’ generous donation to the city of Emerald Creek.

  To add insult to injury, I have to wear one of those unfashionable yellow hard hats and screw the plaque to the center of the bridge’s railing myself. What an honor, right?

  “Need a hand with those tools?” a teasing voice asks in my ear as I struggle to half-squat in my tight pencil skirt. No one had informed me of the screw-in or I would’ve worn pants.