Franny Mendleson: Of course what happened to Jed Jackson is serious and terrible, but I have complete faith in the competence of this wonderful law enforcement agency that has employed me for forty years. With only one raise. And two measly weeks of vacation. I’m sure I won’t make the same mistake again, or do something silly like contact the County Commissioner’s office and tell them what’s going on.
Deputy Lloyd: I’ll speak to the sheriff about getting you a raise and another week of vacation time.
Franny Mendleson: While you’re at it, make sure he answers those questions. The people of Bald Knob need to know.
CHAPTER 31
I love people who make me laugh, make me think, and make me coffee. Not necessarily in that order.
—Coffee Mug
My eyes fly open when I hear a noise, immediately regretting that decision when the morning sun blinds me and my head starts to pound, reminding me I once again drank too much wine last night. I’ve officially corrupted Emma Jo and turned her into a wino, bringing me down with her.
I groan in pain as I roll from my stomach to my side and turn my head away from the window.
“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!” I scream, bolting upright when I see Leo sitting silently on the edge of the bed, staring at me.
I bring my hand up to my aching head that hurts worse after being startled, sitting up too fast, and the ear-piercing sound of my own shout.
Thankfully, after Bettie, Emma Jo, and I disappeared into the house yesterday morning and started down the dark path of celebratory day drinking, Leo disposed of the dead raccoons and left without coming back in the house. He sent me several texts throughout the day and last night about how we were going to talk first thing in the morning, but I didn’t think he actually meant first-first thing in the morning. I thought he’d be nice enough to let me wake up first, grab some coffee, and get rid of my hangover like a decent human being. When I didn’t reply to any of his texts because…day drinking, which led to afternoon drinking, which then led to night drinking, followed up by a return of my guilty conscience, he sent one last cryptic text. Right before I dragged my drunk ass upstairs and passed out and after Bettie, Emma Jo, and I went over our murder suspect list and added a few more names now that we knew we weren’t guilty, I got a message from Leo that just said, “Know where I can get a good piece of pie?”
Let’s just say, it’s a good thing wine makes me sleepy and Emma Jo said the words “dead raccoon” enough times that the three of us went through an entire case of the stuff, otherwise I would have tossed and turned all night worrying about that damn text.
And now, here Leo is, sitting on the edge of the bed looking way too edible in his crisp, clean sheriff’s uniform, staring at me without saying a word until it starts getting uncomfortable.
“Were you watching me sleep?” I ask, trying to be annoyed so he doesn’t know I’m two seconds away from shitting my pants.
“Would it creep you out if I said yes?” he asks in his deep, baritone voice that makes my insides all melty and my ovaries start handing out invitations for another party.
“Probably,” I confirm with a nod, pulling the sheet up to cover my chest since I feel too exposed sitting this close to him wearing nothing but a black lacey bra and matching thong.
Which is stupid, considering this man has seen me naked several times, but not in his sheriff’s uniform and not when he was acting like a sheriff. He was just Leo then. Now I feel like I’m in trouble with the way he’s looking at me all seriously in that uniform, and at least with a little bit of cover from the sheet I don’t feel so powerless. I know, it’s stupid, but sheets have power, trust me. The only reason no one has been attacked by the monster under their bed is because they were covered up with a sheet. It’s science, people.
“Then no, I wasn’t watching you sleep,” Leo finally responds. “I was listening to you TALK in your sleep.”
I scoff, tucking the sheet tighter around my chest.
“I do NOT talk in my sleep.”
“You talk a lot about pie in your sleep,” he confirms with a grin, making my stomach flop nervously. “Should I be concerned you’re dreaming about pie instead of me?”
The only thing that stops me from breaking down into a puddle of tears across his lap and begging him to forgive me is the cup of coffee I spot in his hands that he’s holding down by his knees.
“You should only be concerned if that cup of coffee in your hands isn’t for me,” I speak with false confidence, nodding in the direction of the cup instead of meeting his eyes.
He laughs softly, handing over the coffee. I forget about my need for sheet protection, letting it drop to my waist as I greedily grab the warm cup from his hands, moaning with satisfaction when I take my first sip.