“I’ll have to do a walk through to make sure everything is okay in here.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Would that be okay?” he asks for consent.
“Sure.” I wave my arm. I have nothing to hide. It’s not like I’m being held hostage in my own home.
He enters my apartment, and his eyes bounce around the place as he makes sure everything is okay. He’s like a hawk, scanning each corner as he walks through my home. When he heads to my bedroom, my eyes widen.
“Wait!” I call out as he turns the knob to my bedroom.
What lies beyond that door is a disaster. Hurricane level mess. Not only did I throw my laundry—more specifically my intimate items, which include the scrappy number my best friend got me as a joke on Valentine’s Day—on the bed after dropping it on the floor, but I also have a mess of paint supplies on my desk.
My attempt is futile, though, because Mr. Hot Deputy opens the door and walks in. Mortification hits me like a million-dollar punch, and my cheeks flame. They’re probably more red than that dainty piece of lace. Hopefully he doesn’t judge, but I stay behind anyway.
My mother always told me to be more orderly or this would happen. I’ll never admit to her that she was right.
My motto has always been: Love me at my worst and messiest or don’t love me at all.
I can’t be the only woman in the world who hates putting laundry away and lets it linger around the house for a few days.
Weeks.
Whatever.
“Everything seems to be in order here.”
I snort and cover my mouth with my hand so he can’t see me laughing. Laughing at inappropriate times is a sport I’d win consistent gold medals in. Too bad it doesn’t come with a hefty cash prize.
Instead, it’s paid with glares and uncomfortable situations.
“Is something funny?” He lifts his brows.
“No, sir.” I stand tall, shaking my head.
His eyebrow imperceptibly arches before he nods once.
This night is going worse than I imagined.
I walk him out of the apartment with a tight smile and expel a deep breath when I close the door. I can just imagine the entire apartment building talking about me calling the cops. Heck, the entire town will probably be talking about it come tomorrow morning.
I, on the other hand, am stuck on who that deputy was. I’ve never seen him before, and no one is a stranger in Emerald Bay. Our beach town is small, and everyone knows each other—we especially know when a newcomer is in town.
I startle when my phone rings, bringing me out of my thoughts. I sigh when I see my mom’s name on the screen and answer.
“Sweetheart, are you okay? What’s going on? Why did I hear that Roy was at your apartment?” That news traveled remarkably fast, even for our small town. Uncle Roy is our Sheriff, so him showing up to my home while on duty would cause her to be concerned.
I roll my eyes and sit on the sofa.
“It wasn’t Uncle Roy, Mom. It was a deputy, and I’m okay. It was a misunderstanding.” I talk her off the ledge.
“What kind of misunderstanding gets the police to your house?”
“An accidental call to 911.” I cringe because it’s a terrible excuse.
“Are you lying to me?”
“No!” I hop to my feet, pacing around my small living room.