There was plenty to do in the police office. While she’d been swashbuckling on the front line, a truckload of routine had emptied itself into her in tray. Several shotgun permits were up for renewal. She had to assess if the citizen was still sane. In her own state of emotional fever, she was probably not the best person to judge. A couple more wet cats had come home and told tales. A full inventory of crops eaten by Thunderbolt had arrived by e-mail. The village pub wanted to stay open late on the day of the royal birth. Since that was imminent there was no way she could fix it officially. Every time her mind lifted from her files, thoughts of Spencer flooded in. Her iPhone sounded its message tone.
“Thinking of you xxxxx.”
“Thought you didn’t really do silly texts?”
“I used not to.”
