If I was a stranger walking into this house, looking at all of those pictures, I would believe the fairytale. I would believe that the mayor of Bald Knob is a good man and a loving husband. I would believe that the smile on Emma Jo’s face in every photo is a real one. Looking at the handful of framed photos scattered around this room with the eye of a friend, even if I haven’t been here for all of those events, I can see that the smile never reaches her eyes. I can see that she always stands a few inches away from Jed like she’s afraid of touching him, and I can see the tight clench of his fingers wrapped around her hip, or her shoulder, or her side, letting her know with the pinch of his hold that he’s never going to let her go. And not in a devoted, caring way either.
A knock on the front door makes both of us jump and Emma Jo stares at me with wide, frightened eyes.
“It’s okay, it’s fine,” I reassure her with a pat on her thigh as I get up from the couch.
Even though I know it’s probably someone from the sheriff’s department, because I have a feeling when Jed comes home and finds the locks changed, he’ll be doing a lot more screaming than knocking, the look on Emma Jo’s face as her eyes dart back and forth between me and the front door makes my heart pound in my chest.
“Just in case,” I tell her with a reassuring smile as I grab a heavy glass object in the shape of a triangle from the side table, glancing at it as I move to the door.
“Number One Mayor and Number One in Our Hearts,” I read under my breath, rolling my eyes and raising my arm, bringing the stupid thing up above my head as I get to the door.
“Who is it?” I shout, looking back over my shoulder and giving Emma Jo a cheerful smile.
“Sheriff’s department,” a muffled voice calls back through the door.
With a relieved sigh, I unlock the new deadbolt and fling the door open.
“YOU!” I yell in shock, my eyes widening when I see who’s standing on the front porch.
“Me,” Hot Guy from the hospital replies, glancing up at the award I’m still wielding like a weapon over my head. “Can you put that thing down? I don’t know if you’ve had your coffee yet, and I don’t trust you.”
My arm drops from over my head, but I don’t put the heavy glass down. Instead, I aim the pointy end right at his uniform covered chest.
“Did you follow me here? What kind of creeper are you?” I ask, thrusting the award closer to him.
“Payton?” Emma Jo calls from the living room worriedly.
I lean back around the open door so she can see me, my eyes locked on Hot Guy, who I will now refer to as Hot Guy Creepy Stalker, as I answer her.
“Emma Jo, call the police. That guy from the hospital followed us here and stole a sheriff’s uniform,” I explain, bringing my weapon up higher and pointing it at his face.
The face, while still incredibly good-looking, wears a smirk and isn’t the least bit scared that I could shove this thing through his heart if I so choose. You know, if his chest wasn’t all muscly and made of steel. And he didn’t have at least five inches on me and a hundred pounds.
“You mean Hot Guy? The one with the super hero chest and cute dimples?” Emma Jo yells to me.
Hot Guy Creepy Stalker actually has the nerve to laugh.
“Super hero chest?” he asks with another damn smirk.
“You shut your mouth. You’re not allowed to laugh when you’re a stalker and I’m the one holding a weapon.”
With a raise of one eyebrow, he points to the gun on his holster by his hip and the Taser on his other hip, and then pulls a can of mace out of a front compartment of the holster, holding it up for me to see before quietly sliding it back in place.
“Ha! And that’s how I know you’re not really with the sheriff’s department. The worst crime that’s ever happened here in a hundred years was when Billy Snyder got drunk on homemade moonshine and accidentally shot his foot. Nice try there, slick,” I state smugly.
“Actually, I had to use the Taser three days ago when Mr. Snell wouldn’t stop kicking his cows,” Hot Guy Creepy Stalker informs me.
Damn, that chest looks even better in uniform than it did in a tight t-shirt. And those arms…they could crack a watermelon in half. He looks more like a stripper cop than an actual man in law enforcement.
“Mr. Snell was kicking his cows? PRINCIPAL Snell?” I ask distractedly, forcing myself to look away from how his uniform sleeves tighten around the thickness of his biceps when he crosses his arms in front of him.
Jethro Snell was the principal when Emma Jo and I were in school. He was always nice and I have a hard time picturing him doing something like this out on his farm at the edge of town, even if it has been twelve years since I saw him last.