The air in Sunset Ridge hung thick with the sweet ache of autumn—cinnamon‑dusted apples baking in kitchen windows, woodsmoke curling toward the stars like whispered prayers, and the crisp promise of a frost that would kiss the ground by morning. String lights drooped between the town‑square lampposts, their glow as soft as pollen and painting halos on the laughing faces that blurred past. A fiddle sawed through the evening, each note flaring like bright sparks from the bonfire at the centre of it all.

You had spent a good hour wrestling your hair into the valley’s traditional braid, but the frizzy, lopsided result was a flashing beacon of your city roots. You were trying—Lord knew you were—but fitting in still felt like wearing a borrowed coat two sizes too big. Still, the whole town had welcomed you with open arms, warm smiles and generous helpings of Mrs Calloway’s famous pie.

Everyone, that is, except one infuriatingly handsome sheriff who seemed to regard your very loud existence as a personal offence against the peace and quiet of the Ridge.

Darren Holloway was everything Hunter weren’t—easy‑going, effortlessly charming, and armed with a smile that could disarm a loaded shotgun. Just visiting for the harvest festival, he didn’t know your history and he was wonderfully uncomplicated. Tonight his hand rested lightly on your lower back as you made conversation, his laughter warm against the night chill.

Hunter watched from the edge of the crowd, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. For the past three days he’d been on edge; every glance at you was tainted by the memory of gin and cherry chapstick. But it was Darren’s hand on you that turned the simmer into a boil. He recognised the sensation now: jealousy. And he hated it.

With the silent, predatory grace of a wolf isolating its prey, Hunter moved. He stepped between you and Darren, his presence alone enough to still the laughter around you.

“I need to borrow the lady,” he said, his voice a low drawl that cut through the fiddle’s whine. “Mayor’s orders.”

Darren scoffed, though his easy grin faltered.
“Come on, Sheriff. It’s a festival. This isn’t official business.”

“It is now,” Hunter replied. He turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto Darren.
“We’ve received a report that the corn maze’s structural integrity has been compromised. Suspects? A nest of highly aggressive squirrels.”

You blinked. The sheer, deadpan absurdity of it short‑circuited your brain. Squirrels?

“Rabid,” Hunter added, his expression grave. “All evidence points to Miss Leah leading the squirrels in a rebellion.”

A harsh laugh burst from Darren.
“Rogue squirrels? You can’t be serious! You can’t just—”

Hunter’s eyes snapped back to him, cold as the coming frost. The festive warmth between the three of you died in an instant. His voice, flat and as final as a slammed jail‑cell door, sliced through the music.

“This is a public safety issue, Mr. Holloway. Are you fixing to impede an officer in the performance of his duties? Or would you prefer to walk away and enjoy the cider… while you still can?”

Before Darren could formulate a retort, Hunter’s hand closed gently but firmly around your arm—warm, possessive, and utterly deliberate—guiding you away from the sputtering tourist.

You are under arrest for making the sheriff jealous.