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Pining for You - Red Lodge Series - Book One

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Synopsis
Pining for You Red Lodge Series, Book One Noah Archer has spent a lifetime playing by the rules-small-town cop, hometown boy, quiet crush on the girl who never noticed him. When Juliet Briar, Red Lodge's sunshine-in-a-skirt preschool teacher, suddenly starts seeing him not as the polite kid from high school, but as the man who's always been there, Noah's carefully kept heart doesn't stand a chance. But Juliet's not looking for drama. Noah will have to show her, one steady act at a time, that sometimes, the man you've been waiting for is the one who's always been waiting for you. A small-town romance about second chances, quiet devotion, and falling for the one who's been yours all along.
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Chapter 1 - One

Noah Archer

Sun's up, and with it the rhythm of Red Lodge.

It starts like clockwork.

The coffee grinder screeches just as Ms. Simmons stomps through the door of the diner, calling poor Nancy "Maggie" like she has for the past five years. Nancy doesn't even flinch anymore. Just hands over a blueberry muffin and a small drip, two creams, no sugar. Rinse and repeat. That's Red Lodge for you. Predictable as hell.

I'm in my usual spot—corner booth, good view of the street, back to the wall. Mug of black coffee in hand. Mr. Dobbs lumbers by in his windbreaker, still acting like it's the dead of winter. Gives me a wave. I nod back. Same as always.

And then she walks in.

Juliet Briar.

Right on cue. Like she's part of the damn schedule.

Loose braid slung over one shoulder, honey-gold hair catching the light, smile like she's got no clue what kind of chaos she causes. She doesn't float or glow or any of that poetic crap. She just is. And somehow that's worse.

"Grande caramel mocha, extra whip, shot of espresso, cinnamon on top—don't forget the cinnamon this time, Nance!"

Nancy doesn't miss a beat. "Never do, Jules."

The place always shifts when Juliet shows up. Conversations lift. Grumbling fades. Even the crusty jukebox picks something less depressing.

I act like I'm not looking. Sip my coffee. Flip the paper.

It's all bullshit, of course. I see her. Every damn morning.

She sits two booths down, pulls out a stack of worksheets with cartoon apples on them and a pink pen that looks like a damn flamingo. She teaches preschool. Talks to kids like they're human beings. She's good. The kind of good that sneaks up on you.

And she has no idea I'm still hopelessly into her.

Okay, that's not fair. She knows I exist. We went to high school together. Sat two rows apart in chemistry. She had those stupid strawberry-scented pencils and perfect grades. I almost set the lab on fire. Twice.

"Jesus Christ, just go talk to her," Jake says, not even glancing up from his coffee.

"Shut up," I mutter, flipping the paper like I give a damn about local politics.

Jake sprawls out across from me, boots up, like he owns the place. Cops in uniform get away with shit like that around here. We're basically background furniture at this point.

"And say what?" I grumble. 'Hey, I've been in love with you since you wrecked me in dodgeball and made my teenage brain melt every time you smiled?' Sounds like a rom-com with brain damage."

Jake smirks. "Better than last week when you tripped over the napkin holder trying to say hi."

"That was an accident."

"She said 'Good morning.' You looked like you were under sniper fire."

I glare at him.

He grins. "Face it. Juliet Briar's had you by the balls since sophomore year."

"She's competitive," I say.

"She smoked you."

"Because she aimed for the face!"

"And you've been in a slow-burn pining montage ever since."

I scrub a hand over my face and glance out the window, pretending I'm not listening to Juliet laugh.

Jake leans in, low voice. "You don't even have the whole 'brooding loner' thing going. You're like a golden retriever with a badge."

"Why are we friends?"

"Because I make you look tough."

Dean slides into the booth beside Jake, already biting into a jelly donut. Powdered sugar all over his uniform.

"What are we ruining today?" Dean asks.

"Noah's chances at love," Jake says.

Dean doesn't blink. "Bold of you to assume he had any."

"Jesus," I mutter.

Dean nods toward Juliet. "You gonna do something or just keep staring like a stalker with a badge?"

"She's known me forever. It'd be weird."

Dean shrugs. "So? I've known Jake forever. Doesn't stop him from hitting on me at every opportunity."

Jake raises his coffee. "You're irresistible."

Dean smirks. "You're delusional."

I sink lower in the booth. This is my life. Roasted alive every morning before my shift starts.

"She's not going anywhere," I say. Quiet. Honest. "She's built her life here. Got her routine. Got it all together."

Jake looks at me. "So do you."

Dean adds, "Only difference is she actually likes hers."

I shoot them both a look. "Thanks for the support, assholes."

Jake nudges me. "Just talk to her. Worst-case, she turns you down and you get to be a tragic backstory. Best-case, you stop looking like a kicked puppy every morning."

Dean nods. "We'd appreciate the peace and quiet."

I glance at Juliet. She's tucking her hair behind her ear, smiling at something on her lesson plan. It guts me. Simple as that.

I've had a hundred chances. A hundred mornings like this.

And I haven't done a damn thing about it.

She starts packing her papers, moving with that slow, unthinking grace that's not even meant to be seductive—like she's never once considered the effect she has.

She just exists, soft and easy and warm, and it wrecks me. That cardigan—lilac with those delicate little flowers embroidered across the shoulders—slips against her frame like it's been worn in for years, draped over a body that should come with a damn warning label.

Then she bends slightly to scoop a runaway worksheet off the floor, and I swear to God, those jeans tighten in a way that short-circuits every decent thought I've got left.

They're snug around her hips, hugging her ass like they were stitched by someone who knew exactly what they were doing and hated men like me. It's not just the shape of her—it's the weight of her, the plushness, the kind of softness you don't just touch, you sink into.

She's got thighs that could cradle a man, an ass that makes my jaw clench, and she moves like she has no fucking idea how devastating it all is.

My eyes drag over her before I can stop them, heat crawling up the back of my neck like a goddamn brand. I force myself to look away, pretend I'm still invested in the cold coffee in front of me, but it's no use. She's in my periphery—curvy, honey-haired, smelling like peaches and some kind of witchcraft—and all I can think about is how much I want to press my hands into her hips and see if they fit. See if the softness gives under my palms or pushes back just enough to make me lose my mind.

She's so fucking plush it ought to be a sin.

And the worst part? She doesn't even notice. Not the stares. Not the way the diner quiets just a touch when she walks in. Not the heat she leaves behind like a trail every time she brushes past.

No. She just gathers her papers with that soft-focus smile and hums something to herself under her breath—oblivious. Untouchable. And I sit here, badge on my chest, jaw tight, hands wrapped too tight around a coffee mug I'm liable to crush.

Because Juliet Briar has no idea what she does to me.

And I sure as hell can't tell her.

She stands, slinging her tote bag over one shoulder, and that damn braid swings again—catching the light like a goddamn spotlight on everything I can't have.

She's probably heading to the preschool down the block. Kids start trickling in around eight. Juliet always gets there early. Sets up the circle mats. Preps the art station. Probably hums the whole time like she did just now.

She doesn't rush. Doesn't hustle. She moves like she trusts the world not to take a bite out of her—and somehow, it never does. People love her. The town adores her. Hell, even the crusty old guys at table five call her "sunshine."

And me?

I sit here in a bulletproof vest and scuffed boots, thinking things I shouldn't, wanting things I won't let myself have.

Jake follows my gaze. "You gonna watch her ass all the way out the door, or you want me to get you a to-go box?"

"Do you ever shut up?" I mutter, voice like gravel.

"Nope," he says cheerfully.

Dean leans around him to look. "To be fair, it is an incredible ass."

I grunt and toss back the last of my cold coffee like it might help.

"She's not for you," I say finally, and it comes out harsher than I mean it to. "Not like that."

Jake snorts. "What does that even mean? You her priest now?"

I push away from the table, jaw tight. "It means she's soft. She's... good. People like her don't end up with guys like me."

Dean raises a brow. "You're a cop, not a convict. Settle down."

Jake adds, "You'd be good for her. You just don't believe it."

I don't answer. Can't. Because maybe they're right. Maybe I've just spent so long on the outside looking in that I convinced myself I belong there. Watching, not touching. Guarding the damn town but never letting myself be part of it. Not really.

I drop a few bills on the table and stand. "I'll see you idiots at the station."

"Try not to punch a civilian," Dean calls after me.

Jake lifts his mug in salute. "Tell Juliet we say hi."

I flip them both off without turning around.

Outside, the morning's sharp with that high-country chill, sun already melting the frost off the sidewalk. I spot her ahead of me, walking with that steady, lilting pace. The breeze lifts the hem of her cardigan, and for one stupid second, I almost call out her name.

Almost.

But I don't.

Because I'm Noah Archer.

I do my job. I keep things safe. I don't reach for things I can't have.

And Juliet Briar?

She's sunshine wrapped in cinnamon and soft cotton.

And I'm just the guy who watches her walk away. Every damn day.

Juliet Briar

The mountain ridge is beautiful from my classroom window.

It's one of the reasons I've never wanted to leave Red Lodge. The way the peaks catch the morning light, all rose-gold and soft blue, like they're waking up slow, just like the town itself. There's something about that view—framed between finger-painted butterflies and crayon-smeared hearts—that settles my heart every single day.

I love this town.

I love the rhythm of it. Warm coffee in mismatched mugs. The smell of cinnamon rolls wafting from Fran's Bakery. The way everyone knows your name, and probably your parents', and probably what you scored on your driving test back in high school.

People don't forget you here. Not ever.

Like Ms. Cranston—my own kindergarten teacher—who retired five years ago but still shows up at the school twice a week, "just checking." She pokes her head in during naptime, whispers a raspy hello, and leaves a tin of oatmeal cookies on my desk like clockwork. She calls the kids "her babies," even though they've never been in her class. I don't correct her. I just hug her and thank her and send her on her way with a cup of tea from the staff lounge.

It's like that here.

Everything layered. Everyone connected. Love, not loud or flashy, but slow and steady and always showing up in the small things—like handmade mittens left on your doorstep or snow shoveled before you even wake up.

This town has its own heartbeat, and I've never once wanted to live anywhere else.

Except maybe during Profession Day planning week.

It starts off sweet, like it always does. I tape a big sheet of butcher paper to the classroom wall and write in purple marker:

"Who Should We Invite?"

Then I hand the kids a rainbow of crayons and let them go wild.

Within five minutes, the paper is covered in glittery chaos. Crayon hearts. Backward letters. Stick figures with capes and exaggerated smiles. And an ever-growing list of suggestions, shouted with full-body enthusiasm and sticky fingers.

"An astronaut!"

"A vet with a turtle!"

"My aunt who makes the best cupcakes ever!"

"A unicorn!" (Always. Every year.)

And—over and over again—"a police officer!"

Apparently, that one's the crowd favorite.

"Do they get to carry swords?" Max asks, eyes wide with barely-contained awe.

"No," I say gently, crouching beside him. "They carry radios. And help people when they're in trouble."

He nods like this is deeply disappointing, but forgivable.

"They should come and show us the handcuffs," Nora says, very matter-of-fact, then adds solemnly, "But not use them. Only for looking."

I smile. "Good idea."

"They have dogs that ride in the car!" Charlotte gasps, her eyes lighting up. "The real kind. Not the stuffed kind!"

I glance up at the list. Police Officer has now been underlined twice in orange crayon, circled with a glitter sticker shaped vaguely like a badge, and—somehow—decorated with three stars, one heart, and what I think is a very enthusiastic jellybean.

It makes sense, really. Police officers are exciting. They're big and brave and wear shiny things on their belts. For these kids, they're larger-than-life heroes, the kind that make you feel safe just by standing in the doorway.

And I want them to feel that. I want them to learn that uniforms don't have to be scary. That people can be strong and kind at the same time. That help can look like someone kneeling to tie your shoe, or someone keeping watch when you didn't even know you needed them to.

I take a picture of the finished list on my phone—mostly for the bulletin board, partially because it makes me smile—and start clearing space for the next activity.

But my fingers linger on the page a moment longer than they should.

It's a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Harmless. Common. Profession Day always includes someone from the department, and they're always wonderful with the kids—gentle, patient, willing to let a toddler try on a comically oversized hat and ask a hundred questions about the siren.

Still, as I tuck the list into my planner and slide the community helper request form into a manila envelope, a tiny part of me hesitates. Just for a beat.

And then I shake it off.

It's just a name on a list. Just another visitor in a long line of helpers who will smile, hand out stickers, and remind the kids to look both ways before crossing the street.

Simple.

Totally simple.

"Alright, friends," I call, clapping twice. "Let's wash our hands—Professor Marshmallow's about to do a science experiment!"

(Professor Marshmallow is just me in goggles, a lab coat, and a deeply questionable accent.)

The room erupts in giggles, and I turn back to the moment in front of me. Glitter on my sweater, stickers on my elbow, and twenty kids who think I'm the smartest person in the world because I know how to make vinegar fizz.

Just another day in the best job I've ever had.