Page 3 of The Policeman Bidder
"Deputy Carter," she says coolly, like we're strangers meeting at a traffic stop.
"Junie." Her name feels good on my tongue. Too good.
"Youbidon me." Each word is clipped, precise.
"I noticed." I fight to keep my expression neutral.
"Youwonme." There's something in her tone—not quite anger, not quite curiosity.
I shrug, trying not to look too pleased. "Guess it's your lucky night."
She huffs out a dry laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "We're not doing the date tonight, FYI. I have work in the morning.Real work. Like,conservation and community educationkind of work. The kind of work that matters."
The jab stings, but I don't let it show. Instead, I nod, holding back a smile. "Saturday, then."
"Saturday," she echoes, squinting at me like she's trying to figure out what game I'm playing. Her fingers tap an impatient rhythm against her bare arm, and I have to force myself not to track the movement.
Here's the truth: I don't have a game. I've just spent two years wanting a do-over I never thought I'd get. And now that I have it, I'll be damned if I waste it.
I glance at her charity's little display table—photos of kids hiking, planting saplings, learning about tree rings and creek critters. There's love in every image, purpose in every carefully arranged item. Her eyes soften as she notices me looking. That's who she is. That's what she fights for.
"You're not what I expected," she mutters, almost to herself.
"I get that a lot." What I don't say:You're exactly what I expected. Fierce. Passionate. Impossible to ignore.
She gives me one last long look, then walks away, hips swaying like sin wrapped in sass, leaving behind the scent of something wild and floral that makes my chest ache.
I watch her go, heart pounding like I just chased down a perp on foot. Around me, the auction continues, but I barely hear it. My thoughts are already racing ahead to Saturday, to the chance I never thought I'd get.
Saturday can't come fast enough.
Three
Junie
SaturdaycomesfasterthanI'd like.
I spend the entire morning pretending I'm not nervous. I repot two ferns that didn't ask to be disturbed, alphabetize my seed collection (who does that?), reorganize my Roots & Wings camp schedule three different ways, and stress-eat half a bag of trail mix while standing over the kitchen sink. It's a lot of emotional damage for a single cashew to carry.
"You could cancel," Leah suggests over the phone, though her tone makes it clear she thinks this would be a terrible idea. "Fake food poisoning. Spontaneous combustion. Alien abduction."
"And let him think I'm afraid to face him?" I scoff, pacing my tiny living room. "Not happening."
"So you're going because you're stubborn, not because he's six-foot-plus of small-town eye candy in a uniform?"
"I'm going," I say firmly, ignoring her question entirely, "because he paid a thousand dollars to my program, and the kids need that money."
"Mmhmm." Leah's smirk is audible. "You keep telling yourself that, tree girl."
I hang up before she can analyze me further and stare at my reflection in the hallway mirror. I've chosen jeans and a simple green sweater—casual enough to make it clear this isn't a date I'm excited about, but nice enough that I don't look like I'm trying to make a point. My hair falls in loose waves past my shoulders instead of its usual messy bun.
I'm not worried about being alone with Weston.
I'm worried I'll stop wanting to punch him in the face.
Because here's the truth I've been avoiding for two years: Deputy Weston Carter isn't just annoyingly handsome. He's also the only person who's ever looked me in the eye while arresting me, with something like regret clouding his features. The only officer who followed up with my case personally. The only man in Hawks Roost who seems to really listen during town meetings, even when people are saying things he probably disagrees with.
Not that any of that erases what happened. What he did.
