Page 2 of The Policeman Bidder
A pause. A murmur moves through the gathering like a ripple on still water.
Then I see it.
A paddle rises at the back of the room.
Held in the very large, very capable hand of Deputy WestonfreakingCarter.
My jaw nearly hits the stage.
The auctioneer beams like he's won the lottery. "Ah, we've got a bid from the back! Do I hear seventy-five?"
Another paddle goes up—someone else joins in, but I can't even focus on who it might be. My gaze is locked on Weston. His expression is unreadable in the dim light, but there's a flicker in his eyes. Something smug. Or daring. Something that makes my skin prickle with heat that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with another emotion I refuse to name.
By the time the bidding hits four hundred dollars, I'm fully in fight-or-flight mode. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and I can't blame it. I want to escape too.
And when the gavel slams down and the auctioneer shouts, "Sold to the deputy!" my legs go weak beneath me. I somehow manage to walk off the stage without tripping, but just barely.
Across the room, Weston just smirks, raising his glass in a silent toast.
Oh,hellno.
Two
Weston
I'vefaceddownangrydrunks, meth heads with wild eyes, and one guy who tried to fight me with a garden rake. I've broken up bar brawls where every participant outweighed me by fifty pounds. Last spring, I talked a jumper off the bridge during a thunderstorm. None of that rattled me.
But walking into this auction tonight and seeingher?
Yeah. That does it.
Junie Bloom looks like the gods of autumn and vengeance had a baby. Her dress—the color of deep forest shadows—hugs every lush curve like it was custom-sewn by angels with a thing for thighs. Her hair's piled up in some messy bun that justdares a man to undo it, with stubborn tendrils escaping to brush against her neck. And her lips—God help me—are pursed in that irritated way she does when she's pretending not to notice me.
She notices me.
I saw her head snap up the second I walked in, saw her eyes widen slightly before she quickly turned away, suddenly fascinated by the world's ugliest ceramic rooster. The same hideous rooster Mrs. Winters donates every year, and every year someone buys it out of pity.
And she definitely notices when I raise my paddle.
I didn't come here planning to bid on her. Itoldmyself I wasn't going to. Even made a big point of assuring myself I was only attending because Sheriff Daniels insisted we needed department representation. But the second her name was called and she climbed that stage like she was marching to war, something in me snapped.
It's been two years since I arrested her.
Two years of nodding politely when we pass on Main Street. Two years of watching her from a distance at town meetings, admiring the fire in her eyes when she speaks up about conservation issues or the new youth center or whatever cause she's championing that month. Two years of telling myself I was just doing my job. That she was trespassing. That there were rules.
And yet, I still see her face in my dreams. Still hear the stubborn edge in her voice when she said, "You'll have to drag me off this land, Officer." Still feel the weight of the cuffs in my hand, heavier than they'd ever felt before or since.
She didn't flinch when I cuffed her. Didn't cry. But her eyes… hell, her eyes were blazing with a fury that scorched something inside me, and I've been trying to put out that fire ever since.
So, I outbid every poor bastard who tried to claim her tonight. Not out of spite. Not even out of lust—though I've got enough ofthat to level a city block every time she walks by in those worn jeans that hug her curves like they're afraid to let go.
I did it because I couldn't let another year pass with her looking through me like I'm a stranger. Like I'm just a uniform, a badge, a faceless enforcement of rules she thinks are wrong. Because maybe, just maybe, if she sits across a table from me and actually looks at me—the man, not the deputy—she might see something worth her time.
When the auction ends and the gavel falls with a sound of finality, there's a moment of surprised silence before the crowd breaks into applause. I know there will be talk. In Hawks Roost, people gossip if you change your coffee order, let alone bid a week’s paycheck on the woman who once called you "a mindless drone of the fascist tree-murdering industrial complex" in front of the entire town council.
I make my way over to her. Slowly. Like I'm approaching a rabid raccoon.
She's waiting by the punch bowl, arms crossed, expression tighter than my pants after Thanksgiving dinner. Up close, I can see the gold flecks in her brown eyes, the slight tremble in her lower lip that gives away her nervousness despite her rigid posture.
