Chapter 1
Dean Morrison
Look, I’m not looking to fall in love.
Not on my agenda. Not in my five-year plan. Not even buried under a pile of maybe-somedays in the dark, dusty corners of my brain.
But lately? It’s becoming increasingly fucking annoying to be surrounded by idiots who are.
Noah’s over here writing love haikus about Ms. Juju like he’s auditioning for The Bachelor: Small-Town Cop Edition. Every time her name comes up, he gets this soft, glassy-eyed look like he’s remembering the time she made him banana bread and moaned his name in the same twenty-four-hour window.
It’s disgusting.
And Jake? Don’t even get me started on Jake. That man has turned into a one-man pornographic Yelp review of his own relationship. Every shift starts with some variation of, “Bro, Avery railed me against the dryer last night while the towels were still warm.”
Awesome. Great. Thanks for the mental image, Tanner.
Really adds something special to the start of my fucking Tuesday.
Meanwhile, I’m here—cold coffee, one functional pen, and a goddamn front-row seat to everyone else’s emotional meltdown. And by meltdown, I mean the domestic, blissed-out, “look how in love I am” kind that involves matching mugs, grocery shopping as foreplay, and suspiciously well-adjusted morning routines.
They’ve both gone soft.
Noah turned into the Wholesome Husband Poster Boy with his cozy sweaters and deep emotional fulfillment. And Jake—Jake fucking Tanner—got housebroken by a woman with thighs of steel, a fuck-me glare, and zero tolerance for his bullshit. He purrs when she calls him Officer Hubby. It’s pathetic. He used to be cool. Now he folds laundry with his dick hard.
And me?
I’m just trying to do my goddamn job without gagging every time Juliet fucking Briar—aka the Gush Queen—walks into a room and Noah practically grows a second heart.
She says shit like “Love is patient!” while wearing cardigans that smell like peaches and handing out muffins like she’s the goddamn town fairy godmother. And also the same woman who, if locker room talk is to be believed, comes like a freight train every time her husband so much as sighs in her direction.
I know. TMI.
But that’s the squad I’m stuck with.
Locker room talk used to be dirty. Wild. Questionably legal in three states.
Now? It’s filthy—but with a romantic subplot.
“She sat on my face and then made pancakes with chocolate chips shaped like dicks.”
“We broke the headboard and then talked about our dreams over coffee.”
I’m in hell.
Because it’s not just horny anymore.
It’s committed horny.
Married sex. Domestic freakshit. And somehow? It’s working for them.
They’re happy. Whole. Fully dicked-down and emotionally fulfilled.
And I’m just here, trying to not roll my eyes into a fucking coma while everyone else glows like they’ve been baptized in orgasms and lavender-scented love.
But not me. No sir.
I’m emotionally bulletproof, chronically unimpressed, and still jerking off alone with zero risk of anyone asking me to share my feelings afterward.
And honestly? That suits me just fine.
In Noah’s case, I figured it was only a matter of time. The guy’s been in love with Juliet since we were all hormonal teenagers pretending to understand geometry and hiding boners in gym class. He was always that guy. Steady. Quiet. Eyes like fucking golden retriever hearts every time she looked his way.
So yeah. Predictable.
But Jake?
That one blindsided me.
I really thought we were gonna be the lone wolf cops. You know, the guys sitting at the far end of the diner booth, black coffee, no cream, splitting shifts and bar fights and pretending we didn’t give a shit when we went home alone. That was the plan. That was the unspoken code.
But nope.
Tanner got wrecked by a woman who doesn’t even like small talk, and now he’s out here rearranging his entire goddamn personality because Avery Dalton let him touch her tits in Baja.
So I guess it’s just me now.
Third wheel. Odd man out. Last sarcastic bastard standing.
I eat my breakfast burrito in silence, chewing bitterness like it’s part of the meal. Booth by the window, same as always. Coffee’s shit, eggs are rubbery, and the salsa somehow tastes both too mild and too aggressive. A Red Lodge special.
Noah’s across from me, texting his wife with that dopey I-married-an-angel smile that makes me want to slap the phone out of his hand and chuck it into the street.
Jake’s beside him, rattling off for the eighth fucking time about their vacation to Mexico, even though it was six months ago and I’ve heard more about that trip than I have about my own goddamn childhood.
“She pulled me into the pool in my jeans, bro. Wet as hell. We fucked on the lounge chair under the stars—”
Cool. Amazing. I’ll be sure to add that to the list of Things I Never Asked To Picture While Eating.
Outside the window, Red Lodge does its usual performance.
Mr. Dobbs power-walks by like he’s still training for a war no one told him ended. Ms. Simmons is already at it, waving from across the street and calling Nancy ‘Maggie’ again like it’s 1974 and she refuses to be corrected.
And then—like goddamn clockwork—she enters.
Nina Hollis.
Love for Paws chaos incarnate. Smart mouth. Smarter eyes. Loud sneakers. And that fucking obnoxious cappuccino order that somehow takes four steps, three corrections, and the barista’s will to live.
She strides in like she owns the place, curls bouncing, hoodie covered in dog hair, some leash half-sticking out of her bag like she brought emotional baggage and a German Shepherd.
I swear, she does it just to irritate me.
And the worst part?
It works.
Every.
Fucking.
Time.
She passes by our booth like it’s her stage and we’re the unwilling extras. Does her usual greeting—lazy smirk, voice dipped in sarcasm, not even pretending to be polite.
“Hey, douches.”
Charming, as always.
“Hey, Nina,” Jake says, grinning like she didn’t just insult him. “Oh, Avery said she can’t make lunch today—she’s knee-deep in inventory.”
Nina snorts. “Is that code for ‘we had sex in the stockroom again and now she’s icing her knees’?”
Jake doesn’t even flinch. “No, that was yesterday.”
Noah chokes on his coffee. I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see the inside of my skull.
Nina just raises a brow and keeps walking, heading for the counter like she doesn’t care—like she owns not caring. She rattles off her usual monstrosity of a cappuccino order, complete with oat milk, extra foam, half-sweet, and just “a dusting of cinnamon,” like the poor barista isn’t one passive-aggressive sigh away from quitting and becoming a park ranger.
She knows she’s being difficult. She likes it.
I tear into what’s left of my burrito like it personally offended me.
Because that’s the thing with Nina fucking Hollis.
She’s loud, she’s bossy, she smells like dog shampoo and lavender lotion, and somehow—somehow—she’s under my skin like a goddamn splinter.
And worse?
She knows it.
She’s got this way of tossing out insults like they’re compliments. Of looking at you like she already knows the punchline to a joke you haven’t told yet. Of making you feel like maybe she sees you—then immediately mocking you for it just to keep things even.
It’s infuriating.
And weirdly hot.
Not that I’d ever say that out loud.
Or think it too hard.
Or remember how she looked last week in that T-shirt with the shelter logo stretched just right over her—
Fuck. No.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Shut it down, Morrison.
This is why I avoid eye contact and keep my sarcasm sharpened like a weapon. Because Nina Hollis?
She’s dangerous.
And yeah, I’ve got eyes. I’m not blind. She’s hot—in an infuriating, grates-on-my-last-nerve kind of way. Too short for her own damn good—she probably hits my chest, and I’m not even the tallest of the three of us. Next to Noah she looks like a fucking pocket-sized threat. Like a menace in a rescue hoodie.
And shit, she’s curvy. Not in the ass-that-broke-the-internet way like Avery, but still. She fills her jeans just fine—better than fine, actually. Like a handful. Like a problem. And even though she mostly wears shop shirts and jeans covered in paw prints and dog hair, I’ve absolutely checked her out.
I’ve looked.
At her tits.
At that damn wild mess of curls that always seems like one good tug away from trouble.
Wild, unpredictable, thick as sin. She’s got that one lock—always the same fucking one—that falls over her eye, like it’s part of some long-running joke between her and the universe.
She never tucks it. Never fixes it. Just lets it hang there while she levels you with those eyes—caramel, molten, sharp—and then says something like, “Did you want something, or were you just gonna keep staring like a weirdo?”
And I always flinch, because yes, I was staring like a weirdo.
She smirks like she won the round, and the worst part? She fucking did.
She wins a lot. Not because she’s nicer, smarter, or even particularly decent. But because she’s louder. More committed. I’ve got my walls up—years of sarcasm, dark humor, and chronic avoidance holding steady—but she barrels through like they’re paper mâché. She mocks my hoodie collection. Calls me “Officer Grumpface.” Told me once I look like I cry to Tom Waits and jerk off to sad poetry.
(I do not cry to Tom Waits. That’s slander. But fuck, now I can’t listen to “Hold On” without hearing her voice in my head.)
She glances over now, just a flick of those honey-bourbon eyes, and smirks like she knows exactly where my brain’s wandered.
Fuck me.
I tear into the rest of my burrito, chewing like the food’s responsible for all of this. I don’t even like breakfast burritos. The eggs are overcooked, the tortilla’s rubbery, and the cheese has that weird plastic stretch that haunts my digestive system for twelve hours—but dammit, it’s something to focus on besides Nina’s thighs in those goddamn jeans.
So yeah, I look. Then I look away, fast, like a guilty teenager caught with a stolen Playboy.
Because Nina Hollis is the kind of woman who will flirt with you by insulting your haircut, toss you a leash like you work for her, and then hand-feed a three-legged mutt while humming some indie band you pretend not to like.
She’s a goddamn menace.
And the worst part?
Every time she opens that smart mouth, I want to argue.
Every time she smirks, I want to kiss it off her fucking face.
Every time she walks away, I stare longer than I mean to.
Which is exactly why I keep my walls high, my tone dry, and my dick firmly ignored.
Because nothing good comes from liking a woman who could eviscerate you with one raised brow and call it “constructive feedback.”
She orders her drink. Same absurd ritual. Barista nods like a man staring into the void. She drops cash in the tip jar, spins, makes eye contact—and winks.
Smug little shit.
And here I am, cock half hard, covered in burrito grease, watching her ass sway as she walks away like she owns gravity. Like she designed it.
I hate her.
I hate that I don’t hate her.
I hate that I’ve noticed the scar on her left hand, the way she picks at her nails when she’s anxious, the little click her jaw makes when she yawns too wide.
I hate that I’ve imagined what she’d sound like in bed—bossy, breathy, half-laughing through gritted teeth. I hate that I’ve thought about those curls wrapped around my fingers, those thighs around my waist, those goddamn expressive eyes looking up at me while I ruin her for anyone else.
She grabs her drink and heads for the door, hips swaying like she’s daring me to look again. I don’t. (I do.) Then she pauses—of course she does—half-turns, and throws one last parting shot over her shoulder like it’s nothing.
“Try not to choke on that toxic masculinity, Morrison.”
I raise my coffee like a toast. “Try not to adopt another dog you can’t afford.”
She grins—wide, bright, victorious.
God, I hate her.
She’s gone a second later, door jingling behind her like the final punctuation mark on my fucking morning.
Noah’s still grinning like it’s cute. Jake’s sipping his coffee with that smug “oh yeah, you’re so in denial” look he wears like cologne.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
“I didn’t say anything,” Jake says, which is true, technically. But the look on his face says plenty.
Noah just raises an eyebrow, stupid gentle husband eyes full of pity. Or maybe amusement. Hard to tell. Either way, I’m not having it.
“I’m not into her.”
Jake coughs. “Okay.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure.”
“Seriously.”
“Man, nobody said anything.”
I shove the rest of my burrito in my mouth just so I don’t have to respond again. It’s dry and terrible. Fitting.
Because yeah, I might watch her. I might notice things. I might fantasize once or twice (or seven times) about dragging her back to my place, pushing her up against my front door, and finally, finally getting that mouth to shut up with mine.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
It’s just proximity. Hormones. Pent-up frustration from being the last unclaimed member of this godforsaken cop-boyband. Nina Hollis is chaos. Fire. Trouble on two legs and a caffeine addiction.
She’s the kind of woman who’d wreck me and then tell me I deserved it.
And I probably would.
But I’m not falling for her.
Hell no.
I’d rather fuck a cactus.
Or listen to Jake describe sex-in-Mexico one more goddamn time.
Or help Ms. Simmons sort out her goddamn coupon binder again.
The day drags on, as expected. Normal. Predictable. Just the right blend of boring and irritating to remind me why I never joined highway patrol.
Calls are light—some tourist backed into a mailbox on Main, someone’s goat escaped again near Maple Ridge (third time this month, name’s Toby, likes Wheat Thins), and Jake somehow convinced Noah to help him rearrange furniture in the station gym “for morale.”
I pass.
Instead, I do my rounds, refill my coffee with something that might technically qualify as a beverage, and pretend I’m not wondering if Nina’s still at the diner—or if she’s back at Love for Paws, causing chaos like she always fucking does.
She’s been here almost two years now. Came into town like a thunderclap—didn’t ask permission, didn’t explain herself, didn’t try to kiss anyone’s ass. Just bought the building, slapped up a crooked “OPEN” sign, and started selling squeaky toys and dog shampoo like she’d always belonged.
And apparently? She’s been successful. Not that I’d know. I don’t drop by. I’m just aware.
She’s got a crew now. Two younger kids who help her run the place—college types or high school grads, I don’t know, they all look twelve to me. They wear matching hoodies with the logo she probably designed herself: a heart-shaped pawprint with the tagline “Love for Paws: Adopt, Don’t Be an Asshole.”
Classy.
She sells pet food, collars, those overpriced slow-feeder bowls, and an entire wall of “enrichment toys” that look like sex toys for golden retrievers. She’s got this little bath station setup, too—DIY dog wash tubs with mint-scented soap and complimentary towels like she’s running a spa for pit bulls.
And the rescue side? Not a full-blown operation, but enough to be kinda impressive. She takes in the strays that wander too far from the edge of town. Posts flyers. Raises hell on Facebook when someone dumps a dog. Hosts adoption events where everyone leaves with either a puppy or a guilt trip.
People love her.
The old ladies bake for her. The kids wave at her. Even the crusty bastards at the hardware store stop grumbling long enough to buy biscuits for their mutts. It’s like she hacked the small-town system and installed herself as part of the landscape.
And yeah. Fine. Maybe that’s worth some grudging respect.
But don’t get me wrong—I’m not impressed.
I just... notice things.
Like how her truck always has a leash sticking out the door. How her voicemail is always full. How she works like she’s got something to prove and never complains about it—except sarcastically, and only to make you laugh.
She’s good at what she does.
Annoyingly good.
The kind of good that makes you wonder what she’s running from. Or toward.
And fuck if that’s not the kind of thought I should bury under three more cups of sludge coffee and a rewatch of that depressing cop procedural where everyone dies.
Because Nina Hollis is not my business.
She’s not my problem.
She’s just... there. Loud. Present. Smelling like lavender and wet dog.
And if I keep noticing more?
Well, that’s on me.
And I’m probably just bored.
Or temporarily stupid.
Which, honestly, tracks.
