“He’s fine,” April says. “There’s nothing wrong with mild acts of public affection.”
“Nah,” Dalton says, straightening. “There is when it’s the sheriff slobbering on his detective. And, yeah, you don’t need to talk about me in the third person. I’ve had more than I should, but I’m not that drunk.”
“Also, for the record,” I say, “there was no actual slobbering. You’re just very cuddly. As Will said, it is adorable but…”
I slide off his lap. He lets me go with reluctance and a last squeeze before saying, “Yeah, time to cut me off.”
“Unless you want the rest of your cider to-go.”
The slow smile that crosses Dalton’s face has Anders making gagging noises. April stops him with a sharp rap on the arm, which proves that her drink is indeed strong. Dalton gets to his feet.
“I’ll grab take-out cups,” he says.
“I thought we weren’t allowed take-out alcohol,” April says.
“Eric is special,” Anders says.
I give Storm a pat under the table as I watch Dalton cross to the bar. He’s walking steadily, no sign of inebriation in his gait or his stance. It’s still very obvious that he’s tipsy. Normally, even here socially, he carries himself with a certain stiffness. Tenser. Harder. Gaze constantly scanning for trouble, the set of his jaw warning that a wrong move could land the miscreant in the water trough outside.
Tonight he’s the guy I see at home. Relaxed. Calm. Happy. A slight bounce in his step and the ghost of a smile on his lips. He looks younger, too, and this is one of the reasons he doesn’t drink more than one beer in public. When he relaxes, the walls come down, his guard dropping, and people suddenly remember he’s only thirty-two, and they start to wonder why he holds so much power, or why a glare from him can have them straightening in their seat, their hearts beating faster.
Isabel fills two bottles with hot mulled cider, leaving them uncapped, steam rolling out. Someone cracks a joke about Dalton getting special privileges, and there’s a moment where I can tell Dalton’s ready to joke back, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Then he remembers himself and sobers. “You want my job? Privileges come with that, and I don’t think you want this”—he raises the bottles—“that badly.”
The resident should leave it at that, but Dalton isn’t the only one who’s had too much, and this guy is new, not yet accustomed to how things work in Rockton. He grins and hooks a thumb at me. “If she’s one of those privileges, I’ll take it.”
Silence drops so fast it ripples through the entire bar, those too far to hear the exchange noticing the hush and following it. A buzz of anticipation follows. A sense of schadenfreude that tells me that this guy has not made friends, no one even taking pity on him by leaping up to pull him back.
“She is our detective,” Dalton says, his voice tight with warning.
The man chuckles and thumps Dalton on the shoulder. “No offense, Sheriff. I’m just saying you’re a lucky guy. Hot booze. Hot chick. Gotta love a position with perks.”
Dalton reaches over and dumps the contents of one bottle down the guy’s shirt.
“Huh,” Dalton says as the guy lets out a high-pitched shriek. “You’re right. It is hot.” He looks at Isabel. “You heat it up a little extra for me?”
“I wouldn’t want your drink getting cold on the walk home.”
Dalton grabs the front of the guy’s shirt. “Special treatment from the barkeep? That’s a perk. Detective Butler? That’s a person. Learn the difference.”
“You—you burned—”
“First degree, if that. Lucky for you, the doc’s sitting right there.”
Anders rises. “I’ll get this one, April.” He puts an arm around the man’s shoulders, and the guy flinches, but Anders only gives him a friendly squeeze. “We’ll have a nice chat, too, while I’m looking at that burn.”
They nearly bump into Kenny, who’s just come into the Roc. He looks from Anders to the burned guy. Then he sees Dalton and nods, as if this is all the explanation he needs.
I wave Kenny to our table. “Perfect timing. We were about to abandon my sister.”
If it were anyone else, April would say that she’d been leaving. For Kenny, she’ll stick around.
Isabel holds out a fresh bottle of cider. Dalton takes it before I can, and he motions me to the door. Storm follows at our heels.
We’re outside and away from the Roc before I snatch one of the bottles and take a long draw from it.
My eyes water, and I gasp. “I think she made these even stronger than the ones we got inside.”
I take another gulp, and Dalton laughs at that. His gloves go around my hips, and he hoists me onto the railing of a shop, dark and closed for the day. Then he pushes between my knees, and I get a long, cider-sweet kiss.