Chapter 2

2

MELBOURNE

I was in trouble.

Not because of the temporary demise of my RV—though that was a problem and the amount it would cost to fix it would make my wallet weep.

No, my problem was six-foot-two or so of solid muscle with the cutest baby face ever, the bluest of blue eyes, and, as extra sauce on top, that deeply ingrained niceness and kindness. I thought men like that were extinct, gone the way of the dodos or vanished with the dinosaurs, but Waylon had proven me wrong.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to hug him or jump into bed with him. Maybe both?

Not that I was convinced Waylon was into men, though he had been checking me out. Or had that been his professional thoroughness, wanting to be able to give a good description of me if needed? Who the fuck knew at this point? The smartest course of action was to not say or do anything, which wouldn't be easy. When nervous, I tended to ramble. A lot.

ADHD, the gift that kept on giving. Even at my age.

"Home sweet home," Waylon said as we pulled up to the cutest little cottage on a quiet street. Light blue with dark blue shutters, it looked like a picture from a garden magazine with the abundance of flowers in the front yard in all colors of the rainbow. Zinnias, daisies, bee balm, some lavender and salvia, and in the back, towering sunflowers about to bloom.

"You have a green thumb," I said after we'd gotten out.

Sadness washed over his face. "That was my mom. She sowed and planted everything this spring…but sadly, she didn't make it to see it bloom."

Hug. I definitely wanted to hug him. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." He let out a sigh that seemed to come from deep inside him. "It's only been six weeks, so it's still fresh, you know?"

"Was she sick?"

"Cancer. It went fast, which was a blessing and a curse. I would've loved more time with her, but I'm glad she didn't suffer for long. I was able to take care of her."

How had this man survived with such a big, soft heart? How had the world not chewed him up and spit him out? "I'm glad you got to spend those last moments with her."

"Me too."

He opened the front door, and I followed him inside. His movements were precise, efficient, opening the front door to reveal an interior as tidy as the exterior promised. I'd always associated homey with clutter and mess, but this house proved me wrong. Not a speck of dust in sight, not a crumb on the floor, everything neat as a pin, yet it felt cozy and warm.

Colorful rugs adorned a shiny hardwood floor and comfortable couches and chairs were stacked with countless pillows. Two IKEA Billy bookcases held an assortment of books, and I immediately spotted my own, all hardbacks, neatly grouped together. The kitchen was open, transitioning into a dining area with a table and four chairs, the living room on the other side. It was small but perfect.

"Make yourself at home," Waylon said, gesturing toward the living room.

That wouldn't be hard here. The challenge would be to remember to clean up after myself, not let my usual sloppiness invade his pristine world. "Thank you."

"I'll show you the guest room. Just need to change the sheets real quick."

I followed him down the hallway, where he opened the second door on the right. The first was his room, I assumed. The guest room was spare but immaculate, with every piece of furniture in its rightful place, creating an almost sacred geometry. The bed was pristine, the corners of the sheets folded with such precision they could be used as a ruler.

"Here we are," he said, surveying the room with a quick, critical eye.

"Those sheets don't look like they need to be changed."

He shook his head, a slight smile on his lips. "They're not fresh. It'll only take a minute."

Before I could protest further, Waylon was already stripping the bed. His movements were practiced, each motion deliberate as he peeled away the sheets.

"Jeez, you do that with some kind of military precision," I remarked, leaning against the doorframe, unable to tear my eyes away from his fluid choreography.

"I did serve in the Army for four years, but I've always been disciplined and tidy, just like my mom. We're both neat freaks." He halted for a moment. "She was a neat freak."

Clearly, he hadn't grown fully accustomed to speaking of her in the past tense, and for a moment, his pain hung heavy in the air. Then he caught himself and continued with his domestic activity.

Competence was sexy. I'd never looked at it that way before, but watching Waylon unfold the fresh sheets with a snap that sent them billowing like sails in the wind was hot as fuck. Who knew? Underneath that structured exterior lay something beautifully human—a need to care for others, even when they didn't ask for it. Waylon was a caretaker, a fixer of broken things, and then there was me, someone perpetually on the verge of falling apart. And damn if that didn't stir something inside me.

"There, all done," he said, tucking in the last corner. "The bathroom is right across the hall, and you can find towels there as well."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure. I'm going to grab a drink and a snack, and then I have to head out again."

I trailed behind Waylon as he led the way from the guest room to the kitchen, my gaze lingering over his broad shoulders, appreciating the way his muscles flexed under the fabric of his uniform shirt with each step he took.

"Thirsty?" Waylon asked, opening the fridge and revealing shelves lined with an army of organized health foods and drinks.

I was. For him. "I'll take a seltzer."

As he handed me the can, our fingers brushed, sparking a jolt of electricity that ran up my arm. I caught his gaze for a moment, and there was a flicker there, something unreadable. Was it curiosity? Interest?

"Thanks." I cleared my throat, taking a sip and trying not to dwell on the warmth of his touch. But it wasn't easy when he stood so close, his presence filling the room like a tangible force.

As I drank, he moved around the kitchen, putting some almonds into a container with several compartments and then adding cheese and a handful of grapes. In between, he stole glances at me—quick, darting looks he probably thought I didn't notice. But I did, and each one sent a ripple of anticipation through me.

Deputy McSnack was definitely interested in men…and in me.

"Something on your mind?" Much to my surprise, I'd drank the entire can of seltzer. Maybe I'd been thirstier than I'd realized.

My question hung between us, a challenge wrapped in casual curiosity.

He gave a one-shoulder shrug. "Just making sure you're settling in."

"Settling and intrigued…"

Waylon paused, a dish towel in hand, and met my gaze. There was a depth to his blue eyes that suggested layers and mysteries, and I found myself wanting to explore every single one. He held my stare for what felt like minutes but must have only been seconds before he turned back to his task.

"Good to hear."

Could he hear how fast my heart was beating? Did he realize his effect on me?

Waylon glanced at the wall clock, his brows knitting together. "I gotta head back to work."

Hmm, maybe he wasn't as affected by me as vice versa. Pity. I wouldn't have minded exploring the chemistry between us.

"Please, make yourself at home." Waylon's voice pulled me back from my observations, his tone imbued with a trust that felt like it should have been earned over years rather than offered freely. "Seriously, you can use anything you need. There's food in the fridge and the freezer, the TV remote is on the coffee table, and the Wi-Fi password is on the yellow Post-it on the fridge."

"Thanks," I said, still processing the extent of his openness. It wasn't only his house he was sharing—it was a piece of himself, and that kind of vulnerability wasn't something I encountered often. It stirred something in me, a flicker of warmth in a place I'd long thought cold.

"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked, curiosity piquing as I imagined all the ways this could go wrong for him. "I mean, aren't you worried I might…I don't know, help myself to your stuff?"

His laugh was easy, unforced. "Melbourne, if you find anything in here worth stealing, I'd be shocked. I'm not exactly living a life of luxury."

"Nothing at all?" I teased, gesturing broadly to encompass the entire cottage. "Not even your collection of…well-pressed uniform shirts?"

"Especially not those," Waylon shot back with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look boyish. "But feel free to prove me wrong."

"Challenge accepted."

"Seriously, though." Waylon tossed me a spare key across the granite countertop. "I know who you are. If my well-pressed shirts go missing, I know who to track down." His tone was light, playful even, but a glint in his eye suggested he wasn't entirely joking.

"Is that a threat, Deputy Rozzell?" I asked, the key cool and heavy in my hand. It was a tangible symbol of trust—or maybe a clever ploy to keep me in line. Either way, it hooked me in ways I hadn't anticipated.

"Let's call it an insurance policy." The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Good thing I'm more of a lover than a thief then," I said, the words spilling out before I could rein them back. There was something about Waylon's calm assertiveness that made me want to push, to test the boundaries he effortlessly set.

"Is that so?" Waylon leaned against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. His tight uniform shirt did nothing to hide the sculpted muscles beneath. I indulged myself by allowing my gaze to linger.

"Absolutely. Besides, you'd probably handcuff me before I could make it past the driveway."

"Only if you're lucky," he shot back, and I swallowed hard, a surge of heat coursing through me at the unexpected innuendo.

"Maybe I am," I murmured, the air between us crackling with a tension that was new, intriguing, and made my dick perk up and take notice.

Waylon stood straight, breaking the momentary stand-off, and checked his watch. "I have to head back to work now. Help yourself to anything—except the shirts."

I gave him a halfhearted salute.

Waylon's smile lingered as he opened the door, the bright midday light spilling into the entranceway. "Lock up if you go out, okay? And there's beer in the fridge if you want one."

"Beer, check. Lock, double-check."

"See you tonight, Melbourne." And with that, he stepped out, closing the door behind him with a gentle click that resounded like the final note of a symphony, leaving me alone with the echo of our banter hanging in the air and the quiet hum of a house that already felt more welcoming than any place I'd called home in years.