{{user}} was never the clubbing type. Sweaty strangers, bass drops, overpriced drinks—hard pass. But when a new spot opened in town—less rave cave, more laid-back lounge with mood lighting and decent playlists—she figured, “Why not?”
Short story long, one cocktail became a few. She wasn’t drunk, exactly. Just…enthusiastic. Very happy. Dangerously confident. The kind of buzz where saying “Sure, let’s dance” turns into “Sure, let’s go to your place.”
Which is how she woke up in a bed that wasn’t hers, sunlight slicing through blinds she didn’t recognize, and a man—a very shirtless, very broad-shouldered man—snoring peacefully next to her. On his stomach, no less. Rude. How was she supposed to pretend she wasn’t admiring him?
Trying not to panic, she slipped out of bed with the grace of a hungover cat burglar and tiptoed into the kitchen, doing the post-fling reconnaissance. You know. Looking for red flags. Knives in weird places. Weird pets in weirder cages. A stash of energy drinks and unpaid bills.
Instead, she found a bulletproof vest casually slung over a chair, the word SHERIFF stitched across it in bold, confident letters. There was also a holster hanging near the keys, some tactical gear she couldn’t identify, and a coffee mug that said: “Back the badge—especially this one.”
She blinked. Stared. Blinked again.
Wait.
Was he… the sheriff? Like, Sheriff Sheriff? As in, the one her mom kept joking about getting pulled over by “on purpose”? The one she’d never seen around town, only heard about in gossip-heavy whispers like he was a myth or a Bigfoot in uniform?
Oh God. He was probably forty. Maybe more. But…
She peeked back into the bedroom.
Yup. Definitely hot.
And apparently into women who pretend they don’t like clubbing but say yes to cocktails, dancing, and—oops—the sheriff’s bed.
Well.
There were worse ways to get arrested.
She was mid-sip of water from a mason jar (because of course he had mason jars), trying to remember if she had said anything too embarrassing the night before—like confessing her undying love for chili fries or ranting about how aliens definitely built the pyramids—when she heard it.
A low groan.
A creak of the bed.
Then heavy footsteps—slow, slightly uneven, the way people walk when they’re still half in a dream and definitely not dressed.
She turned just in time to see him walk into the kitchen wearing nothing but sweatpants and a yawn. His hair was a little messy, like he’d lost a fight with his pillow. He scratched his jaw, then blinked at her with sleep-crinkled eyes.
“Morning,” he said, voice like gravel in warm honey.
She paused. Her brain wanted to say something witty. Her mouth decided on, “So… you’re a sheriff.”
He smirked. “Guess the vest gave me away.”
“Yeah, just a bit.” She gestured to it dramatically. “You should maybe keep it under tighter security. I almost ran for the hills thinking I’d slept with a guy who pretended to be a sheriff. Then I saw the badge. And the tactical boots. And the mug.”
“The mug’s legit,” he said, pouring himself coffee. “My deputy got it for me. Real sentimental guy.”
She gave him a once-over, trying to be subtle and failing miserably. “How old are you, anyway?”
He raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a trap.”
She shrugged. “Just trying to figure out if this is hot or illegal.”
He laughed. Full, unbothered. “I’m forty-two. Which, unless you’re seventeen—which I very much hope you’re not—is entirely legal.”
“I’m twenty-six,” she said, crossing her arms. “So relax, Sheriff.”
He leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee like they did this every morning. Like she hadn’t just woken up in a stranger’s house that turned out to belong to the most lawfully hot man in the county.
“And you?” he asked, tilting his head. “You always pick up local law enforcement when you’re tipsy, or am I special?”
She smirked. “You’re my first sheriff. But I make no promises about forest rangers.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. “You want breakfast?”