Can’t a man get a little peace on a Sunday morning?
Noli stirs, and her phone pings from somewhere within the cushions of my couch. She opens her eyes and blinks twice, taking me in.
“Hey.” Her voice is scratchy with sleep. Her hair is wild around her heart-shaped face, and she’s got a line along her cheek from where she was pressed against the folds of my shirt.
Something about the innocence of Noli in the morning—the way her usual guarded self is completely laid bare—has me catchingmy breath, and I decide then and there that I want to wake up next to this woman for the rest of my life.
“How’d you sleep?”
“Good. You?”
Our phones go off again, this time in unison.
“Fine until everyone started trying to get a hold of me.”
She chuckles, and I swing my feet to the floor, sitting up. I grab my phone and see fifteen new messages. Five more pour in as I’m trying to make sense of what I’m reading.
Whatam I reading?
Noli sucks in a breath behind me. I turn to her, and her face is drained of color. She flips her phone so I can see the screen, and I nod. She’s looking at the same article I’m looking at it.
The title reads “A Sham for a Sheriff,” and listed in the byline is none other than Ashlyn. There’s a giant photo on the front page of Noli and me at our courthouse wedding. We look the part of a happy couple—the happy couple I hope we’re actually becoming. But underneath our photo, the caption reads:Lying under oath? Can Cashmere County trust sheriff candidate Collin Rattler when he faked his own wedding to get a leg up in the election?
I grip the skin at the back of my neck. This is not good.
I scroll through my messages. Most of them are from friends and acquaintances sharing the article and asking me what gives. I’ve got messages from my donors—all panicked.
Interestingly enough—or oddly enough—the one person who hasn’t reached out to me is my father.
There’s a heartbreaking message from my mom that I need to deal with, and I’m already dreading it.
Noli is silent as she scrolls through her phone next to me. We’re shoulder to shoulder on the couch, but I can’t help but feel like a giant chasm has opened up between us. I hate it, and I want to stitch us back together.
I nudge her shoulder. “You okay?”
She turns wide eyes on me. “Me? Collin, I should be the least of your concerns.” She waves her phone around in the air. “What are you going to do about this?”
I place my hand on top of her cell and lower it to her lap. “I’ve told you…I care more about you than the election. And this is all my fault. I’m so sorry.”
She stares back at me before dropping her head and resting it on my shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s not all your fault. I proposed to you, remember?”
Neither of us laugh at her attempted joke.
She exhales. “I don’t understand how someone found out. It’s like you were sabotaged—and only a few weeks before the election, no less.” She stands and starts pacing. “What are we going to do? Should we go to your parents? Talk to your team? Tell me what you need me to do. I can disappear if that would help you.”
I stand up and put my hands on her upper arms. “You disappearing is the last thing I want.” I press a quick kiss to her forehead. “But yeah, we should probably go get a plan together.”
She nods, her phone vibrating in her hand. She holds it face up, and I glance down and catch the message.
Poppy:Is this true?
Noli blows out a breath. “My sisters are going to be so mad.” She clicks her phone off. “I’ll deal with them later.” She sets her shoulders and hurries to her room.
I do the same, and in less than five minutes, she’s driving us to my parents’ place. While she navigates the sleepy, Sunday-morning streets of Cashmere Cove, I fire off a text to Roger, Gary, and Sean, answering their questions: Yes, I’ve seen the article. No, I didn’t have any idea it was running. No, I don’t know who outed me.
My phone starts ringing, and I answer the unknown number. “Hello.”
“Yes, I’m looking to speak to Collin Rattler. I have some questions about the allegations made in today’s paper. A sham marriage. Is it true? How are the people supposed to trust—”
