“So, you’re a brewer?” somebody asked. “Is it true that craft beers get you drunk quicker?”

  Marianne managed a laugh at that, and then she launched into a quick explanation of alcohol content levels and legal limits, one that seemed surprisingly accessible to those who didn’t know the first thing about brewing. Her passion was clear, and Trent wondered again why didn’t she go for it? Why didn’t she go all in? She claimed to be on a budget, but she could always apply for a small business loan. If she wanted to open a brewpub, surely she could make it happen.

  Trent listened as Marianne fielded questions. Every positive response from the audience seemed to loosen her grip on the mic; every smiling face seemed to relax her posture just a little more.

  “Can my son’s band still play Fridays?” someone asked.

  “Hell, yes they can,” Trent interjected before he could stop himself. Marianne’s boot heel suddenly found his foot and dug itself discreetly into his toe.

  Trent looked on with pride as Marianne wrapped up her presentation, yielding the room to the town meeting. A good portion of the audience dispersed, now that the fun part was done, but Trent followed Marianne upstairs. She headed out to the balcony and plopped down, breathing hard. Trent sat beside her, on the warm wooden boards.

  “You did great,” he said.

  “You think?” Marianne’s laugh came out shaky. “It’s all a blur to me, from the moment I took the mic.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have guessed it. Your passion really shone through. In fact, I was thinking—”

  “There you guys are!” Sabrina came bouncing through the wide double doors. Trent jerked back, guilty, though he hadn’t been doing anything he wouldn’t have wanted Sabrina to see. Not yet, anyway. In his head, he’d already been going in for the kiss, tangling his fingers in Marianne’s silky curls.

  “Phil Hicks is the worst,” said Sabrina, plumping down beside them.

  “He’s a son of a bitch,” Trent confirmed. The two women laughed at his directness. Some of the tightness around Marianne’s eyes softened, and she looked at him in a way that made him feel suddenly weightless—like he could do anything and would do anything for her. And maybe there was something he could do, a way he could help. A way Marianne could have options, when it came to the Honky-Tonk’s future—assuming her hang-up really was with her budget.

  “He’s this way at every town hall,” Sabrina went on. “Complaining about whatever issue they’ve got on the table. I should have warned you he might show up.”

  Marianne shook her head. “No. No, that was…good for me. I’ve never been great at the whole public speaking thing.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, a habit of hers that Trent found more endearing than he’d realized. “I guess the more curveballs I get thrown now, the better I’ll handle the ones yet to come.”

  “You threw a few of your own up there,” Trent said approvingly. “Hey, you busy tomorrow?”

  Marianne cocked a brow. “I’ve got my grocery run in the morning, then I’ll be here all afternoon. But I’m all yours after five or so. What’d you have in mind?”

  “Ooh, is this a first date?” Sabrina clapped her hands. Trent could’ve throttled her, but he just smiled.

  “It’s a surprise,” he said. “Call it…inspiration.”

  Marianne’s brow furrowed, but she looked intrigued. “Surprises scare me,” she said. “But I love to be inspired.”

  “So, is that a yes?”

  Sabrina leaned forward. “Say yes, say yes.”

  “Yes,” said Marianne.

  “Then I’ll pick you up at five.” Trent grinned, and his pulse picked up. His plan was only half-formed, and it was a risk—but if this went like he hoped it would, Marianne’s eyes would be opened. She’d see what he saw, and she’d see how to fix it, and best of all, she’d get there herself.

  “Tomorrow, then,” said Marianne, and she leaned in just slightly. An electrical thrill ran down Trent’s spine, and then she was standing, walking away.

  Tomorrow—tomorrow. He couldn’t wait.

  7

  MARIANNE

  Marianne knelt in a heap of churned-up soil, sifting through the ruins of hours of hard work.

  “I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.” The words left her lips in a steady stream as Marianne crouched in the remains of her torn-up herb garden. Tattered bits of rosemary and coriander lay strewn around her. Fragrant sprigs of lavender stretched out across the lawn. Whoever had done this had absolutely gone to town, turning her herb patch into potpourri.

  “Marianne?” a voice called from the parking lot. “Hey, you out back?”

  “Shit!” Marianne shot up and glanced about herself quickly. In her dismay, she’d forgotten Trent was coming, and now here she was, grubby and tearstained. Trent hadn’t said whether this was a date, but it sure as hell felt like one, and she wasn’t ready. She pushed back her hair and smeared dirt on her face, then brushed it off, cursing. Could nothing go right?

  Trent came around the corner in full police uniform. His crisp khaki outfit presented a stark contrast to her bedraggled appearance. Trent paused when he saw her, and let his eyes drop to the wasted garden at her feet. His expression revealed nothing, carefully neutral, almost passive.

  “It’s not funny,” said Marianne.

  Trent frowned. “I’m not laughing.”

  But part of you wants to, Marianne thought. He’d never been behind her plans for the Tonk, and now she swore she could see a sly glint of mirth in his eyes. Did he think this was funny, watching her fail? This place meant something to her, whatever he thought. She’d put her all into it, and she’d messed up somewhere, and her mistake had cost her the life of every plant in her garden.

  “Just tell me you know what did this, Trent. Please.”

  “Jackrabbits,” he said with conviction. “Little fuckers get into everything over at Wildhorse. Sorry, I meant ‘buggers.’”

  “Rabbits did this?” Marianne cried. She gestured at the carnage that surrounded her. “Little fluffy rabbits? How did they even get in? Isn’t that what the fence is for?”

  “Not little. Not fluffy,” he corrected. “And jackrabbits dig. They’re not pet store bunnies, if that’s what you’re imagining.”

  He must have seen the dismay in her face, because he hurried on quickly. “You’re not the only one struggling with them, Marianne, I promise you. They even get the better of Trevor on occasion, and he’s been living here his whole life. Hell, Grandma used to rave against them—she called them varmints, and she went after them with my grandpa’s shotgun until he took it away.” Trent smiled at the memory, but Marianne couldn’t bring herself to share in his nostalgia. “We’ll just have to plant your fence a little deeper. Maybe lay down some tarp.”

  “‘We’?” She hated the way the word sounded when she echoed it: choked, angry, almost mocking. “Trent, this is my garden. Aunt Celia entrusted the Honky-Tonk to me. There is no we in this scenario.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” Trent’s expression soured. “I’m not trying to invade your space. I’m not trying to plant a flag and take the Honky-Tonk from you. I’m trying to offer you a solution to your problem. I’ve been living in Lockhart Bend all my life, Marianne—you don’t think what I have to say, what knowledge I might have to offer, might be worth something?”

  “You’re right, Trent!” she fired back with a harsh laugh. She threw up her hands. “What do I know? I’m just some dumb out-of-towner who doesn’t get Lockhart Bend. I should just sell the Honky-Tonk, let them knock it down and put up a Walgreen’s instead.”

  Trent looked like he was about to snap back, but he sighed instead. “Marianne, this isn’t an attack on you. You couldn’t have known this would happen!”

  “I could have gone online.” Marianne stared at the damage, all her herbs torn to shreds. “If I’d searched ‘Texas garden pests,’ if I’d just done that… But I let myself get distracted, and now look at this.” She kicked a clump of dirt. “This is a compost pile!”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Trent said. “It takes experience to know the right questions to ask. You can’t blame yourself for not knowing what you don’t know.” He reached for her shoulder, and Marianne flinched away. She immediately regretted it—she hadn’t meant to do that. She had been operating on an old instinct long past its expiration date.

  Trent withdrew his hand and took a wary step back. “Do you ever let down your guard?” he asked. “It’s okay to let someone help you once in a while.”

  “I don’t need help,” said Marianne, but her words lacked conviction. She didn’t need Trent to save her, but she had to admit it felt good, knowing he wanted to try. But if she let him, how long would that last?

  “This isn’t a failure.” Trent gestured to the once-living wreckage strewn around her. “This is a setback on the road to success. Everyone has them, but this can be fixed—and you don’t have to do it alone.”

  Tattered shoots, wilted plant roots, and turned dirt sure as hell didn’t look like a roaring success to Marianne. She ran a hand through her snarled hair as she took it all in again, trying to see it from Trent’s perspective. “You must think I’m a control freak,” she said.

  Trent surprised her by removing his hat and stepping into the carnage with her. “Thought it didn’t matter to you what I think,” he murmured. Marianne glanced up at him. The look was meant to be fleeting, to take in any details of his expression and divine the intent behind his words. She had gotten good at doing that with Simon toward the end…or so she had thought.

  But their eyes held, and Marianne found she didn’t want to look away from Trent. She didn’t want to have to tackle everything on her own. “I never used to be like this.” She didn’t mean to say the words out loud.

  “I like you just fine the way you are,” Trent replied. “Hell, I more than like you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping.” Now that the floodgates had opened, her own confessions came pouring out. “Knowing you’re right next door.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Maybe I should move out.”

  “Maybe you should stop talking.”

  Trent dropped his hat and wrapped her in his arms. Marianne pushed up onto her toes to meet him, her own arms lacing around his neck, her fingers taking hold of his short black hair as best they could as Trent ducked his head and caught her mouth with his.

  The kiss was hot and forceful. It was everything that had kept Marianne awake late into the night, restless and bothered, every intangible and unattainable fantasy she had entertained about Trent rolled into one. There was no cherry lip balm to tease her taste buds this time. Instead she savored the sheer heat of him, the commanding pressure, the strength of his lust for her conveyed in every insistent inch of his kiss.

  His tongue darted between her lips to dance with her own. Marianne had forgotten how much she loved kissing, and she was determined now to make up for lost time.

  The tension that had ruled her body since moving to Lockhart Bend was fast easing out of her. A tingling warmth flooded her all the way to her bones, replacing all the cold, brittle anxiety that had plagued her since day one.

  Trent’s hand came up to cup the back of her head, and Marianne sighed with bliss as he pulled her close. She didn’t spare a thought for the dirt on her shirt, the dirt now all over Trent’s clean uniform. She didn’t let her thoughts wander to jackrabbits and how she might evict them. She thought only of Trent’s warm body, and the way his taller form fit so perfectly against her own.

  Just as she had imagined it would.

  It was over too soon. One minute their lips were in complete collusion, and Trent’s fingers were sliding up beneath her shirt, and the next moment he was pulling away. Marianne blinked at the sudden reversal. She yearned for him on a deep, instinctive level. She would have let him take her right then and there if he’d wanted—parsley and sage and rosemary be damned.

  “C’mon.” He grabbed her hand and drew her away from the mess. Her head was spinning so wildly in the aftermath of their make-out session that she followed without protest.

  “What? Where?”

  “On our date,” said Trent. “Or did you forget?”

  Marianne’s pulse fluttered—so it was a date. She wished she could physically tamp her heart back down and tell it not to get so excited. How long had it been since anyone made her feel this way?

  Since Simon. Since the beginning, when things had been good…or at least, when she had still been in the dark.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. She didn’t think Trent would tell her, but she may as well try.

  “I told you, it’s a surprise.” Trent pulled her toward the parking lot. “I’ll take you home to change.”

  Marianne followed, her curiosity brimming over despite herself. The disastrous garden was all but forgotten. She could begin replanting tomorrow, when there wasn’t a sexy sheriff around to distract her with baffling riddles.

  8

  TRENT

  “My competition?” Marianne’s voice was all trepidation as Trent ushered her into the Boot Stomper. To her credit, however nervous she felt in that moment, she hid it well. She strutted into the establishment with studied poise, and every male eye that wasn’t occupied with a drink fixed on her in an instant.

  “When’s the last time you were inside a place like this?” Trent asked.

  “What?” Marianne cupped her ear to hear over the music.

  “I said, when’s the last time you—”

  “Oh! Does the Honky-Tonk count?”

  “That depends,” said Trent, half-yelling. “Did you see it in full swing, on a busy night?” He already knew the answer to that. The Tonk hadn’t been busy since Marianne came of age.

  “For the Stomper, this is a slow night.” Trent leaned in as the music swelled. He grinned as a pair of cowboys staggered by, drunk. “It’s out of my jurisdiction, which means anything that goes wrong isn’t my problem.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second,” Marianne muttered. She pulled a face, and Trent raised his eyebrow in question. Marianne’s sour look gave way to a grin. “I don’t believe for a second that you could keep your nose out of anything, even if it didn’t directly concern you. Hell, the less it concerns you, the more interested you get.”

  “Makes me a damn fine sheriff,” Trent agreed. “But I save my meddling for Lockhart Bend.” He took her by the hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

  Marianne hung back at first, and Trent thought she might refuse. But then the tune changed, and her eyes lit up.

  “Oh, I love this song.”

  “Then come on. Or are you chicken?”

  Marianne rose to the challenge, half-dragging him onto the crowded dance floor. Trent figured he’d have to teach her the basics, but she proved him wrong: the woman had moves. She knew her two-step, her sweetheart, even her pretzel. She could stomp with the best of them, and shimmy and glide. Her dark hair caught the light, and her eyes sparkled and shone. Trent caught her and dipped her, and spun her in his arms.

  “Trent!”

  “What?” He spun her back the other way, finishing cheek to cheek. He could feel her quick breathing, and the heat of her skin. She smelled faintly of cherries and fresh garden herbs, and Trent breathed deep, intoxicated and wanting more.

  “The room’s spinning,” she gasped.

  Trent laughed. “No, you are.” He spun her out more gently and she wiggled her hips, inviting him closer with a smile and a wink. Trent boogied up to her and took her in his arms, leaning in close to murmur in her ear.

  “Who taught you to dance this way?”

  “Aunt Celia. Who else?” She bumped Trent’s hip with her own and danced away, circling around him too nimble to catch. Only when the tune changed did she let him reel her back in, and dip her and swing her till they both glistened with sweat.

  Marianne’s hair flew wild about her shoulders, as dark and untamed as Marianne herself. Trent felt light-headed, and he held her for balance.

  “I’m about danced out,” she gasped, barely audible over the music.

  “Me too,” said Trent. “Want to take the dime tour?”

  Marianne nodded. “Might as well scope out the competition. Though, from what I’ve seen so far, it isn’t so stiff.”

  Trent turned away so she wouldn’t catch his grimace. True, the Stomper’s dance floor wasn’t so special, nothing you wouldn’t find in a thousand honky-tonks. But as for the rest—well, she’d see soon enough.

  Trent gripped Marianne’s hand firmly as he led her away, mostly so she’d know he had her. He was there. She pulled back her hand as they headed for the back rooms, waving to disperse the cigarette smoke that hung in the air.

  “They’re smoking inside?”

  Trent shrugged. “We’re outside town limits. Lockhart Bend bylaws don’t apply.”

  Marianne coughed, but she let Trent lead her on, shouldering his way into the spacious game room. Poker tables crowded one end, pool tables the other, and half a dozen games were going, even this early. Another group squeezed past them and claimed a pool table.

  “Poker,” said Marianne. “Phil mentioned that. And pool tables—those are…”

  A cheer drowned her out. Trent found her hand again and gave it a squeeze. “Want to try a game? Or keep on with the tour?”

  “The tour,” she said, faintly. “How much more can there be? This place is like the TARDIS from Doctor Who. Bigger on the inside. Outside, I swear—”

  Another roar went up, cutting her off. Somebody shouted, and Trent heard glass smash. He took Marianne’s arm and led her outside, to the big back patio with its twinkling fairy lights. With the sun still out, the wires were all showing, a tangled net stretched over the flagstones. At the far end stood a ramshackle stage, currently empty but for a stack of beer crates.

  Marianne did a slow turn. “What is this place?”