Need You for Keeps (Heroes of St. Helena, #1)(3)
But a felony? This situation was so beyond what she could handle. Mr. Barnwell wasn’t mean, at least she didn’t think so. He was just misinformed—and stubborn.
She looked up at one of St. Helena’s finest and admitted—silently, to herself—that she needed help. She needed his help.
And didn’t that just piss her off.
“If you promise to do something so he isn’t locked back in that crate ever again, then I promise to give him back.”
“You’re making a list of demands?” He laughed, and even though it was aimed at her, she had to admit he had a great laugh. “I have a gun and cuffs and you’re locked in a cage.”
And why did that image have her hormones short-circuiting? No wonder all the women in town pawed over him. The uniform and high-octane testosterone radiating from his every pore were a lethal combination.
“But do you have enough manpower to watch him twenty-four/seven? To make sure he doesn’t ‘run away’ again?”
Jonah braced his hands overhead on the top of the kennel’s door, his mighty fine arms bulging tight against the fabric of his shirt as his frame towered over her. He looked at her long and hard, then at the dog, who was staring up at him like he was a god. Which just meant that he thought Jonah had a stash of doggie treats stuffed in his pocket.
She knew the moment he gave in—his shoulders relaxed and those intense blue eyes narrowed.
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll talk to Mr. Barnwell, but I can’t promise you anything.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” With a smile, Shay stuck her arm through the bars to shake. “You can take Domino then.”
When Jonah’s big, rough hand engulfed hers, a zing of something hot raced up her arms and spread out to every happy spot she owned and a few she’d thought she’d lost. And Shay had no business getting zings or tingles for any man, let alone this one.
Nope, Jonah Baudouin was stable, a straight shooter, and sexy or not, the soon-to-be sheriff of a place she’d started to think of as more than a temporary stopover.
This wasn’t their first tangle over the law, and she was pretty sure based on her history that it wouldn’t be their last. So finding out if he used those cuffs for business or pleasure wasn’t in her best interest.
She shook once and waited for him to release her hand. When he just stared at her, she snatched it back. “And I’ll try to stay out of your hair, but I can’t promise anything.”
His mouth twitched. “You do that.” He clipped a leash on Domino and tipped his hat. “Have a good day, Shay.” They started for the door.
“Wow, thanks for all that protecting and serving,” she said, sure he was just yanking her chain.
“Anytime,” he threw over his shoulder.
“Wait,” she hollered after him. “What about letting me out?”
“Call the other guy. You know, the one you’re voting for. Make him earn that support you’re so eager to throw his way.”
“Thank you for your support,” Shay said, handing a discreet paper bag to the next customer and putting the money in her cash box.
“I can’t believe how many people showed up,” her friend Harper Owens said, taking in the line of women stretching across the grass field. A line that made it impossible for Shay not to smile.
“Me either. Although I think it’s Emerson’s bottomless Salty Chihuahuas that have people roughing the heat.”
Emerson stepped out from behind her food cart with a cold pitcher of said Salty Chihuahuas and snorted. She wore her hair short, an even shorter black skirt that was covered in a million zippers, and a tank top that said PITA PEDDLER STREATERY across the chest. Her red Converse hi-tops, matching lipstick, and bite-me attitude made Emerson appear every bit the tough troublemaker of their trio.
Shay had met them at the farmers’ market a few months ago. She had been doing five-dollar pet-icures, Harper was working a kids’ art table, and Emerson was passing out baklava samples. The triple-digit day had scared off the crowd and had them bemoaning their poor sales under Emerson’s food cart umbrella. Two hours and three batches of the gooey Greek dessert later, the trio was cemented.
“I think it’s the half-naked men,” Emerson said, gesturing to the tray she balanced on her hand. Behind the two full pitchers of her trademark tequila-infused cocktail sat a stack of cups that read BOTTOMS UP right above a picture of a magnificent butt in nothing but a pair of red boxer briefs.
“Good point.”
Naked hotties and free booze were just smart business tactics in a town where a good portion of the female population carried a senior discount card. But today’s turnout was more than Shay could have hoped for, especially since summer was showing her nasty teeth. It was late morning and already the heat hung thick on the valley floor, bringing with it the sweetness from nearby vineyards. Not that a little heat could stop today from being a success.
A solar storm couldn’t have stopped today. Because just like the sun would rise each morning and set each evening, the women of St. Helena would do anything to get their hands on St. Paws’ extended edition Cuties with Booties calendar. And Shay was the town’s only supplier.
Last year, kitten and puppy season had been brutal, so Shay, wanting to raise awareness of the staggering number of homeless pets, started Cuties with Booties, a pet-adoption blog. Each week she paired one of St. Helena’s sexiest working men with a pet in need. Contractors, vintners, service men, even a forest ranger—all barefoot while their partners-in-crime wore their work boots.