Need You for Keeps (Heroes of St. Helena, #1)(17)

My oh my, was the straitlaced sheriff flirting? Part of her brain was saying yes, he was. The other part was screaming at her to abort mission. He might not be armed, but when he looked at her like that, she knew he was dangerous—to her mental well-being.

And just maybe her heart.

Jonah pushed off the car, taking his sweet-ass time to stroll up the walkway, not stopping until she could see the rain on his lashes. Eyes on hers, he reached out, and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her. His hands were headed for her hips, and when his lips parted slightly, her knees wobbled and her pulse raced and she made the split decision, right there on Jonah’s lawn, that she’d kiss him back.

His gaze slowly dropped to her mouth—then lower.

To the bag—saving them both from making a huge freaking mistake when he took it to test its weight and size. After a thorough investigation, which must have passed inspection, he stepped back and grinned.

“Too heavy to be dog shit,” he said as though he were uncovering evidence to prove the identity of JFK’s assassin. He shook it and it rattled. His brows went up. “Last I checked, branches don’t clink, so you want to talk about why you’re trespassing on private property in the middle of the night?”

“It’s barely eight and you’re not even on duty.”

She reached for the bag and he held it over her head. “I’m always on duty.”

Didn’t she know it.

Admitting she wasn’t tall enough to snatch it back, Shay gave up. Then went for honest. “I came to say thanks and to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Jonah raised a single brow, then cautiously peeked inside and smiled at her over the rim of the bag.

“You brought me beer.” His expression softened, bringing forth that annoying zing. Only this time it wasn’t so annoying. It felt—nice. “My favorite brand.”

“I know,” she said, and damn if her face didn’t heat.

He seemed surprised by her statement, but it was true. She’d done a little investigation of her own and discovered everyone’s favorite deputy was a beer connoisseur. She’d watched him on occasion, sipping a bottle on his front porch, but until today she hadn’t known that it was his thing.

Even though they had never spent any significant length of time together, she knew he took pride in his ability to protect and serve. He showed it every day in the way he cared for his family, his house, his town, and its people—even when it came to pain-in-his-ass neighbors carrying suspicious brown paper bags. And the other day he had cared enough about Shay and her dogs to look the other way when she’d messed up, then he sat with her while she mourned the loss of one of her babies, as though he understood her struggle in saying good-bye.

She wanted to acknowledge that and say thanks.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to. I mean, it isn’t a big deal. It’s . . .”

Shay didn’t know how to finish that statement. In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult to speak, period. Jonah had focused all his attention on her, patiently waiting for her to continue. Being on the receiving end of that kind of intensity, and what she thought looked a lot like caring, made her heart do crazy things. Then he took a step forward and her breath caught.

“It’s sweet,” he said softly, his smile faltering as the last word played off his tongue.

Hers disappeared altogether. Not because she was shocked that he found her sweet, but because she was suddenly aware of just how close they stood, and how badly she wanted him to lean down and kiss her. How badly she wanted him to think she was sweet.

Shay knew she was a lot of things, but sweet wasn’t one of them. Yet something about the way he said it, the way he was looking at her, made her want to be just that. At least for tonight.

“Hang on,” he said, looking in the bag. “What happened to the rest of the six-pack?”

“Nothing. It is the perfect amount,” she said, taking the bag and pulling out the first one. She handed it to him. “This one is to say thank you for not ticketing me for giving away alcohol without a permit.”

He laughed—and it was a great laugh. “Your thanks for overlooking your illegal possession of alcohol is to give me alcohol?”

“Legal alcohol,” she corrected. “I learn from my mistakes. Now take the beer and say, ‘Thank you, Trouble.’”

He did as told, making a big show of popping the top and taking a big swig. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Thank you, Trouble.” Only he wasn’t being a smart-ass, he was being serious.

She pulled out the next bottle. Same brand, different brew. “This one is for buying a calendar. Your being supportive meant a lot.”

“To be clear, no money actually exchanged hands, and the calendar was for my Aunt Lucinda. If my brothers hear any differently, we are going to have problems.” He eyed the next beer in her hand. “Let me guess, that one is for not busting you for selling calendars without a retail license?”

“No it’s for . . .” Shit! “I have to have a license to sell my calendars?”

“Forget I said anything.” He took another long pull.

“Already forgotten,” she said and handed him the third one. “This one is to say thanks for bringing me coffee and listening to me whine over Tripod.”