No Saint (Wild Men 6)

“You, there!” a bass voice rings out, scaring the holy crap out of me. “Is he bothering you, Miss Luna?”

It’s Conrad, the store owner, the one who dislikes Ross. Well, I dislike Conrad, too.

“No,” I tell him, struggling to keep my temper, “we’re fine. Leave us alone.”

He frowns at me, strokes his mustache. “Are you sure? I can kick his ass all the way out of town.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Ross mutters, glaring.

Conrad mutters something in return under his breath and heads back to his store, the door slamming behind him, the bang like a gunshot.

“Ross...” I turn back to him. “I’m not leaving town.”

He blinks those pale lashes, his eyes uncomprehending. “Joshua said—”

“I told my dad that I want to go study. And I’ve wanted it for years. Or so I thought.” I release his T-shirt to grip his biceps. “But I was wrong, and I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go. Not if you won’t be with me.”

His breath goes out in a rush. “Lu...”

“I don’t care where I’ll be living. I don’t give a crap about college. Maybe someday, but only if you’re with me. I’m not leaving you.”

The knot in his throat moves. He stares down at me as if he’s never seen me before. “You serious?”

“Dead serious, Ross Jones. So take your money and keep it safe. I...”

He waits, blinking. “What?”

“Look, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you, but... I’m scared,” I confess.

“Bullshit,” he scoffs. “You’re never scared. You’re the bravest person I know.”

A hot flush spreads on my face. “But I am. I’m scared of loving you. And I can’t help it.”

There. Ripe for the plucking. My weakness revealed, open for an attack, to be taken advantage of, mocked and trampled.

But he’s quiet, looking at me as if he’s trying to read my face, my eyes, and can’t believe what he’s finding there.

“Are you fucking with me?” he finally whispers, voice gruff and low, and cup my cheeks in his hands. His eyes seem red, his lashes wet. “Is this a joke? Because I couldn’t take it, if it was. Lu—”

The roar of a pickup engine drowns out his voice, as said pickup draws to a stop right outside the store. The window is rolled down, and a thin, short man with a gray mustache and a receding hairline climbs out.

“Ross Jones,” he says in a booming voice, “you’re under arrest.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. For a long moment, the words make no sense. Ross turns to look at him, his face a mirror of mine—mouth open, eyes wide.

“What?” I manage at last. “Who are you?”

“Sheriff Herbert Lewis.” He shoots me a glare. “And you are...?”

“Luna,” I mutter. “Luna Collins. Look, if it’s the store owner, Conrad, who called and complained, he’s wrong.”

Though when he’d have the time to call and have the sheriff drive over so fast...

“Ross here is a goddamn troublemaker,” the sheriff grumbles, “and it wouldn’t surprise me if Conrad called to complain, but that’s not what I’m apprehending him for.”

“What then?”

“Armed robbery,” he says with obvious satisfaction, and glances around as if expecting applause.