Page 8 of Caught With the Sheriff

“Because…” I run my fingers through my auburn hair and wince. “I don’t fucking know. I just need to.”

I don’t want to tell her that he’s out. Don’t want to see her little spark of indignation hidden under fear again.

I like the spark.

But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let her sass me like this.

She turns to shut the door and I catch it with my hand. She just glares at me.

I fucking love it.

“Get in the car before I put you in the car, little sprite.”

Her brow crinkles at me. “I don’t like pet names.”

“Too bad. Now get in the car.”

“Or what, Sheriff?”

“Or I’m gonna put your little ass in it and you’re gonna go anyway. So if you want to stay on your own feet, get your shoes and let’s go.”

Her shoulders stiffen but she grabs her shoes and locks the door. For all the good that broken lock’s gonna do.

I open the front door and she slides inside with one last glare at me.

My lips curl. Dammit, she’s cute.

“Buckle up, sweetheart.”

Rolling her eyes, she buckles herself in and then stares out the window without even glancing at me once.

That’s alright. She’ll get over it and once I get that house locked tight, she’ll be a helluva lot safer.

I can live with her being pissed at me.

I drive to my house and once I stop, I get out and smile when a tiny little missile with my auburn curls barrels out the door and leaps into my arms.

“Hey, kiddo!” I kiss the top of her head and she giggles.

“Where have you been, Daddy?”

The woman just getting out gasps and I can almost feel her glare over the hood of my car.

I try not to grin.

My mom steps outside the door and hollers, “Jasper Lockhart! You better have breakfast for that poor girl with you. I’ve raised you better than to leave a lady standing around outside and hungry.”

Nodding, I grin at Willow. “Yeah, mom. I’ve got a bunch of food for everybody.”

Claudia grabs my cheeks. “Pancakes?” She asks breathlessly.

“Absolutely, baby.”

“Yay!” She struggles in my arms and when I put her feet down, she races for the house past my mom.

“Wash your hands, young lady!” No response except a hand that could be saying yes or flipping us off.

I choose to believe the former.