to himself. That’s all that mattered.
That’s what Molly thought, anyway, until the game finally started. Then, as she watched the sheriff play and saw just how truly good he was—how gentlemanly and sportsmanlike, giving others friendly advice on their throws that could help them beat him—she realized how badly she was rooting for him, and him alone, to win, especially as player after player except the sheriff and the insufferable Mr. Jamison failed to propel their beanbag even remotely close to the nearest hole. Most throws landed in the sand. Those players were immediately disqualified by Nurse Dani, who turned out to be quite the tyrannical referee. (Not that anyone seemed to mind. It was a good-natured game, with quite a lot of joking and laughter.)
As the sky turned from pale lavender to dark blue, and they actually needed the light from the tiki flames to see by, the sheriff’s and the city planner’s beanbags were the only ones seeming to go into the holes.
By this time Molly was on her feet, having hurried closer so that she could watch what appeared to be an old-fashioned—and epic—showdown. She didn’t want the sheriff to see her watching, of course—not because she was shy, but because it would be embarrassing if he caught her staring at him.
So she hung behind Patrick as he narrated the game like a sports announcer to anyone who would listen, which turned out to be basically everyone.
“The score is now seventeen to fifteen in favor of Sheriff Hartwell. The game is close, but I believe the sheriff’s killer cornhole technique will, in the end, make him victorious.”
Molly didn’t know about that, but she did know that the sheriff’s dress pants fit him in just such a way that when he leaned forward to make a toss, her pulse stuttered. She’d also finished her champagne and developed a very powerful thirst. She wanted to go inside and order another drink—perhaps a water, to cool off—but she also didn’t want to tear herself away from the game in case she missed something, like a crucial shot or the sheriff bending over to lift something.
What on earth was wrong with her tonight?
Just then Randy Jamison’s fourth bag of the round swept clean past his hole and skidded into the sand. A cry went up, the loudest of which was Molly’s own. Everyone turned to look at her except, fortunately, the sheriff. He was so wrapped up in his game that no one else appeared to exist to him. This was true sportsmanship.
“Why,” Molly clutched Patrick’s arm and asked, “isn’t there an Olympic category for cornhole? If there was, the sheriff would definitely win the gold!”
Patrick looked down at her with an odd expression on his face, possibly because she’d caused him to slosh a little of his martini into the sand. “My dear girl,” he said, “I’m sure you’re right. You should—”
But then the sheriff’s final toss sailed cleanly into the hole, and Molly screamed loudly enough that Patrick wasn’t the only one who spilled his drink in alarm.
She didn’t care, though. She jumped up and down in the sand, thrilled that John had beaten the dreadful city planner.
“Oh my God,” murmured Meschelle, who’d ended up standing beside her. “Someone’s taking their cornhole a little personally, aren’t they?”
But Molly couldn’t help it, especially when Nurse Dani presented the sheriff with the crystal vase stuffed with bills and announced, “We’ve collected over four thousand dollars from the generous people here tonight, which the Little Bridge State Bank has graciously agreed to match, dollar for dollar.”
This was greeted with hoots and cheers, the loudest of which came, again, from Molly. Dani had to raise her voice to be heard over the applause.
“That makes over eight thousand dollars, which I’m now handing off to our new cornhole champion, Sheriff John Hartwell, to either keep or donate to the charity of his choice.”
Nurse Dani passed the vase to the sheriff, who accepted it with a lopsided smile of sheepish embarrassment, made all the more adorable—in Molly’s opinion, anyway—by the fact that his shirt had become untucked in places by the vigor of the game, and his already too-short hair was sexily mussed.
“Uh,” the sheriff began. “Thanks, Dani. I—”
“Keep!” shouted some of the more inebriated men in the crowd. “Keep it!”
“Shut up,” roared Nurse Dani, in the same voice that Molly imagined she used on drunks in her ER, of which there were many, Little Bridge being known as a party town. “Let him talk.”
“I’d