9. Fire and Ice

FIRE AND ICE

Q uiet nights at home were rare enough that I should've known this one wouldn't last. My house - small, neat, and too empty most days - felt almost peaceful for once. No paperwork spread across the kitchen table, no radio chatter from my discarded uniform belt, just me and a plate of leftover lasagna Sarah had forced on me yesterday.

My phone's ring shattered the quiet, Nina's name lighting up the screen.

"Everything okay at the bar?" I already knew the answer. Nina never called this late unless she needed the badge, not the friend.

"Define okay." Her voice carried that mix of concern and exasperation I knew too well. "Got a situation here. Nothing dangerous, just complicated."

I set down my fork, dinner forgotten. "Complicated how?"

"New guy in town. Been here a few hours, working his way through my top shelf whiskey and having what sounds like a very intense phone conversation." She lowered her voice. "Usually I'd handle it myself, but he's getting loud and my regulars are starting to get uncomfortable."

"Anyone I know?"

"That's the thing - he's that fancy car guy from last night. The one you pulled over? Betty Henderson's been talking about nothing else all day."

My pulse jumped. Elliot. Of course it was. "He causing real trouble?"

"Not exactly. More like..." She paused, probably moving away from customers. "Look, Jake, I've seen that look before. Guy's carrying something heavy, and alcohol isn't helping. Might need a friendly figure more than a Sheriff, if you know what I mean."

I did know. Nina had a sixth sense about people in pain - she'd spotted mine easily enough when I first came back to town.

"Give me ten minutes," I said, already reaching for my keys.

"Thanks, honey. And Jake? Maybe leave the uniform at home for this one."

The line went dead, leaving me standing in my kitchen, suddenly very aware that I was looking forward to this call more than I should be.

The drive to The Watering Hole usually took twelve minutes. I made it in eight, telling myself it was professional concern that had me breaking my own speed limits. The streets were quiet, most of Oakwood Grove already settled in for the night. Only Nina's place showed real signs of life, warm light spilling from its windows onto the sidewalk where her fairy lights created shifting patterns.

I sat in my truck for a moment, watching shadows move behind the frosted glass. What was it about this guy that had me so off balance? Sure, he was attractive - anyone with eyes could see that. But I'd dealt with plenty of good-looking troublemakers before without this strange pull in my chest.

Maybe it was the way he'd looked last night, all sharp edges and hidden pain. Or how he'd softened slightly when I suggested staying in town, like someone who'd forgotten kindness existed without agenda.

"Get it together, Thompson," I muttered, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. I'd thrown on a clean henley and jeans after Nina's suggestion about the uniform, and now I felt weirdly self-conscious about it.

The bar's warmth hit me as I pushed through the door, along with the familiar mix of music, conversation, and Nina's signature lavender cleaning spray. My eyes found him immediately - slouched at the far end of the bar, phone pressed to his ear, jacket discarded and sleeve rolled up to show tensed forearms.

"No, Cassidy, you don't understand." His voice carried clearly, anger barely contained. "I'm not doing another fucking interview. Let Vanessa have her spotlight. I'm done performing."

Nina caught my eye from behind the bar, relief clear on her face. She gestured subtly at the nearly empty bottle beside Elliot's glass. Expensive stuff, if I remembered the label right.

Something in my chest tightened watching him - this polished city guy coming apart at the seams in my quiet town. He looked simultaneously more vulnerable and more dangerous than last night, like a storm about to break.

I moved closer, noting how his shoulders tensed as he sensed someone approach. When he turned, those green eyes widened slightly in recognition. Something flashed across his face - surprise? Relief? - before his mask slipped back into place.

"I've got to go," he said into the phone, never breaking eye contact with me. "No, I mean it. I'm hanging up now."

That damned grin spread across his face - the same one from last night that had gotten under my skin. "Well, if it isn't Oakwood Grove's finest. Come to arrest me for disturbing the peace, Sheriff?"

Something about the way he said 'Sheriff' - half mocking, half something else - made my chest tight. I ignored it, settling onto the stool beside him. "Just Jake tonight. I'm off duty."

"Really?" His eyes swept over my casual clothes, lingering longer than necessary. "And here I was hoping for another lecture about proper small-town behavior."

Nina appeared with two glasses of water, giving Elliot a pointed look before retreating. Message received - she wanted him sobering up.

"Seems like you've had enough lectures for one night," I said, nodding toward his phone. "Rough call?"

"Trying to manage my image, apparently." He took a deliberately long sip of whiskey. "Because God forbid anyone see who I really am under all the PR bullshit."

"Must be exhausting."

"What?"

"Keeping up appearances all the time." I met his gaze steadily.

That caught him off guard. The cocky grin faltered, replaced by something more genuine. "Speaking from experience?"

"Small towns have their own kind of pressure." I accepted the beer Nina silently placed before me. "Everyone knows your history, remembers every mistake. You either let it break you or learn to live with it."

"And you chose to live with it?" His tone was challenging, but his eyes were curious. "Couldn't run away to the big city, start fresh?"

"Tried that. Turns out running doesn't fix what's broken." The words came easier than expected.

Elliot studied me, that sharp edge softening slightly. "Sounds suffocating."

"Sometimes," I admitted. "But it's real."

"Right." He snorted, but it lacked his earlier bite. "Because nothing says 'real life' like Mrs. Henderson's gossip network and fairy lights on a bar patio."

"Better than whatever it is you’re going through.”

His head snapped up, green eyes narrowing. "You don't know anything about my life."

"No," I agreed, taking a slow drink. "But I know what running looks like. Done enough of it myself."

Something shifted between us - the air getting thicker, charged with unspoken understanding. Elliot turned toward me fully, his knee brushing mine. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through my leg that I deliberately didn't analyze.

"So what made you stop running?" His voice had dropped lower, more intimate.

"Realized I was tired." I shrugged, hyper-aware of how close we were sitting. "Tired of pretending, tired of hiding. Found out it's easier to face your demons in a place where people actually give a damn about helping you fight them."

Elliot's laugh was soft, almost surprised. "And they say small towns don't have philosophers."

"We've got all types." I smiled despite myself. "Even reformed speed demons, if they stick around long enough."

"Is that an invitation, Sheriff?" The way he said it - playful but with an undercurrent of something else - made my pulse jump.

"Just an observation." I forced my voice to stay steady, ignoring whatever this tension was between us.

"Like moss?" But his smile had turned genuine, warming those green eyes in a way that definitely didn't make my stomach flip.

"More like roots." I stood up, needing some distance from the strange pull I felt toward him. "Give it a chance. You might be surprised."

He watched me move away, that intensity back in his gaze. "And if I don't want roots?"

"Then you're free to leave." I met his eyes one last time. "But something tells me you're tired of running too."

The words hung between us, heavy with meaning neither of us was ready to examine. Nina appeared with another water, breaking the moment.

"One more drink?" Elliot asked, leaning closer. The whiskey had softened his sharp edges, making him look younger, more vulnerable. "Keep the town sheriff company for a while?"

"Pretty sure you've had enough company from that bottle tonight." I tried to keep my voice professional despite the way his proximity made my skin buzz. What the hell was wrong with me?

"Afraid I'll corrupt your small-town virtue?" His grin turned wicked, green eyes sparkling with challenge. "Come on, Jake. Live a little."

The way he said my name - dropping the 'Sheriff' for the first time - shouldn't have affected me like it did. "My virtue's not the issue here. You've got somewhere to be tomorrow, I'm sure."

"Do I?" He shifted, his shoulder brushing mine. "Maybe I like it here. Maybe I'll stick around, become a model citizen. Learn to appreciate fairy lights and town gossip."

"Right now you need to appreciate some water and sleep."

"Always so responsible." He studied my face, too close for comfort. "Do you ever just... let go? Stop being the perfect sheriff for five minutes?"

"Someone's got to keep the peace."

"And that someone's always got to be you?" His voice softened, genuinely curious now. "Sounds lonely."

The observation hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. "Part of the job."

"Bullshit. That's not why you do it.”

"Caring's not a weakness, you know," I managed, trying to maintain some professional distance despite the heat of his leg against mine.

"Why do you care?" He wasn't challenging now, just curious. "I'm just another problem for you to solve, right?"

"Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it?" He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with whiskey. "The noble sheriff, saving another lost soul?"

Something in my chest tightened. "You don't need saving, Elliot. Just... direction maybe."

"And you're offering to point the way?" That teasing note was back in his voice, but underneath it, something more vulnerable lurked.

"I'm offering to make sure you get back to Clara's in one piece." I stood up, needing space from whatever was building between us. "Come on. I'll walk you."

"Such a gentleman." He rose too, swaying slightly. Before I could step back, his hand landed on my shoulder to steady himself. "Always doing the right thing."

The weight of his touch burned through my shirt. "Someone has to."

"Yeah?" His face was too close, green eyes intense despite the alcohol. "And what about what you want, Jake? Ever think about that?"

I didn't have an answer that felt safe. Not with him looking at me like that, not with his hand still on my shoulder, not with this strange electricity crackling between us.

"Right now I want to get you safely back to the inn." My voice came out rougher than intended.

"Always the protector." He finally stepped back, but his eyes held mine. "What if I don't want protection?"

"Tonight you're getting it anyway." I gestured toward the door, ignoring the way my skin still tingled where he'd touched me. "After you."

He moved past me, close enough that our arms brushed. "You know what your problem is, Sheriff? You're too good at taking care of everyone else. Who takes care of you?"

The question followed me into the night air, along with the unsettling realization that I wanted to keep talking to him, keep unraveling whatever mystery brought him to my town.

"I can walk," Elliot protested, but the slight sway in his step said otherwise.

"Sure you can. Get in the truck." I opened the passenger door, telling myself this was just part of the job. Looking after people, keeping them safe. Nothing more.

The cab of my truck felt smaller with him in it, his presence filling up the space in a way that made it hard to breathe normally. Streetlights painted stripes across his face as we drove, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the thoughtful set of his mouth.

"Your truck's cleaner than I expected," he said finally, breaking the comfortable silence. "No empty coffee cups or ticket books?"

"Unlike some people, I know how to maintain order."

His laugh was soft, genuine. "Always the perfect sheriff, aren't you?"

"Hardly." I turned onto Oak Street, the truck's headlights cutting through the darkness. "Just trying my best, like everyone else."

Elliot stared out the window, watching the sleeping town roll past. "Must be nice," he said quietly. "Knowing exactly who you are, what you're meant to do."

Something in his voice made me glance over. The cocky facade had slipped, leaving something raw and honest in its place.

"You'd be surprised," I found myself saying. "Took me a while to figure it out.”

"Well, shit." His grin returned, but softer now. "Who knew the stern Sheriff Thompson was actually a romantic at heart?"

"Romantic's got nothing to do with it." I kept my eyes on the road, ignoring how his teasing tone made my pulse jump. "Just speaking from experience."

"Yeah?" He shifted in his seat, turning toward me. "And what experience is that?"

"Let's just say I wasn't always the upstanding citizen you see before you."

"No?" His interest seemed genuine now. "Hard to picture you as anything but just that.”

"You'd be surprised." The words came easier in the dark cab, with him looking at me like that. "Took some wrong turns before I found my way here."

"And now you're what - the town's guardian angel?"

"Now I'm just trying to do right by the place that gave me a second chance."

He fell quiet at that, something crossing his face I couldn't quite read. "Tommy asked about the go-kart today," he said suddenly, the words coming out rushed. "We were building it together, before... well, before everything went to shit."

The admission hung in the air between us. I waited, sensing there was more.

"He's eight," Elliot continued, his voice softer. "Shouldn't have to wonder if his dad's going to disappear on him."

"Is that what you're doing? Disappearing?"

"Fuck, I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that definitely didn't make my fingers itch to smooth it back. "Just needed to breathe for a minute, you know? Figure out who I am without all the noise."

"Seems like a good enough reason to me."

He looked at me then, really looked, those green eyes intense even in the dim light. "You're not what I expected, Jake Thompson."

"No?" I pulled up to Clara's, killing the engine. "What did you expect?"

"Some small-town cop on a power trip, maybe. Not..." He gestured vaguely at me. "This."

"This?"

"Someone who actually gives a damn. Who sees more than just another drunk asshole causing problems in his town."

The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. "Maybe you're not what I expected either."

His smile turned knowing. "And what did you expect, Sheriff?"

"Just another rich guy running from his problems." I met his gaze steadily. "Instead I got..."

"Got what?"

The question hung between us, loaded with something I wasn't ready to name. The truck's cab felt too small suddenly, the air too thick with possibility.

"Someone worth helping," I finished lamely, breaking eye contact.

An unfamiliar urge to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort, swept through me. I gripped the steering wheel tighter instead, confused by my own reaction. Since when did I want to protect someone I barely knew?

"Let's get you inside," I managed, killing the engine. Before Elliot could protest, I was out and around to his door, pulling it open. Professional courtesy, I told myself. Nothing more.

He stepped out, stumbling slightly. My hands moved automatically to steady him, catching his shoulders. The contact sent a jolt through my arms that I deliberately ignored.

"Careful there, hotshot." My voice came out rougher than intended.

"My hero," Elliot murmured, but the usual sarcasm was missing. Instead, his green eyes met mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "Always ready to save the day."

We stood there too long, my hands still on his shoulders, the night air thick with something I couldn't name. Didn't want to name.

"Jake?" His voice was quiet, uncertain.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you really here? Nina didn't need a sheriff for this."

The question hit too close to home. Why was I here? Why did this stranger's pain feel personal somehow?

"Just doing my job," I said, finally dropping my hands. The loss of contact shouldn't have felt significant. It did anyway.

"Bullshit." But he smiled as he said it, soft and knowing.

"Try to stay out of trouble for one night, alright?"

His laugh was warm, genuine. "Now where's the fun in that?" He swayed toward me slightly, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with Nina's whiskey. "Besides, trouble seems to find me just fine in this town."

"Yeah, well, maybe that's not such a bad thing." The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Something flickered in his eyes - surprise, maybe, or recognition. For a moment, his carefully maintained facade cracked completely, showing something raw and honest underneath.

"Goodnight, Sheriff," he said finally, but my title had lost its mocking edge. Instead, it sounded almost like an endearment.

"Goodnight, Elliot." I watched him climb the inn's steps, fighting the urge to follow, to make sure he made it to his room okay. Since when was I so damn protective?

He paused at the door, looking back. "Hey Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For..." He gestured vaguely between us. "Whatever this is."

Before I could respond, he disappeared inside, leaving me standing in the quiet night with too many questions and no answers I was ready to face.

The drive home was a blur of confusion and denial. I told myself I was just doing my job - looking after a newcomer, maintaining peace in my town. But the memory of his eyes meeting mine, of that genuine smile breaking through his defenses, suggested something else entirely.

Something that made my chest tight and my thoughts scatter. Something I definitely wasn't equipped to handle.

Professional distance, Thompson. That's all this needs to be.

But as I pulled into my driveway, I couldn't shake the feeling that professional distance was already a lost cause.

Fuck.