Thank you for your continued support. I appreciate it.

I do not own Glee or the characters, neither do I own Head Over Heels.

"You have the right to remain silent. Otherwise, anything you say might be misquoted and used against you."

Mercedes Jones

Mercedes slipped out of Sam's bed and scooped up her clothes. But he stirred and lifted up to watch her dress, his hair tousled, his eyes sleepy and looking for all the world like a lazy, sated wild cat.

"I've gotta get back to the B&B," she told him, torn between getting under his sheets again and facing her responsibilities. "Noah is working on the spa room today. And I'm taking Tenny some lunch and a chest rub. If his girlfriend is there, I'm going to spend some time teaching her how to make it for him.

Oh, and we have a guest. A runaway bride, actually. She's been with us a few days and I've been giving her spa treatments to cheer her up. I promised her I'd give her a body wrap today before I head to Seattle...I'm giving facials at some bachelorette party thingy at the Four Seasons."

She had just pulled on her panties and was wriggling into her bra, when he rolled out of bed and headed towards her, with that singular-minded intent of his...the wild cat once again stalking his prey.

"Oh no," Mercedes said with a laugh, backing up. "I told you I'm busy today." She pointed at him. "Stay."

"Stay?" Sam asked.

"Yes."

She put a hand to his broad chest, feeling the strength of him beneath her palm. It was ridiculous to think that she could push him around. Except, he'd given her all the power she'd wanted in his bed, and at that thought, her nipples got perky.

Sensing capitulation, Sam reached for her but she evaded.

"I don't know what this is exactly," she said on a shaky laugh. "But for two polar opposites, we sure get along in the sack."

Turning away, she picked up her shirt.

"We're not all that different, you know," he said.

She turned back to him and saw that he was serious. She also saw, he'd found a pair of jeans and had them pulled up but not yet buttoned.

They were buttery soft and they fitted him perfectly, lovingly cupping one of her very favorite parts of him.

"Okay, so maybe we're both...well, sort of single," Mercedes allowed. "And alone."

Sam looked at her for a long moment.

"I think you like believing that. And that you're on your own."

"I am on my own."

"And your sisters are what, chopped liver?"

"Nooo," she said slowly, not sure how they'd gotten so off track. "I mean, I've been on my own until recently. Sometimes I forget that I have them."

"And not just them," Sam said. "There's Noah and Jackson now as well."

"Very true," she agreed, looking around for her shoes, trying not to notice that he hadn't included himself.

"And the people of this town who care about you," he said. "Tenny, Tyson. Avery. And of course, Mavis."

Mercedes nodded again, fighting back...what?

A growing resentment, she realized. Which was ridiculous. Sam didn't owe her anything. Certainly no pretty meaningless words that she'd doubt anyway.

"Fine. I stand corrected. I'm not alone. But thinking otherwise is a hard habit to break."

"Because you like thinking it," Sam stated.

She shoved her feet into her shoes and turned to him, her hands on her hips.

"Are you suggesting I like being a martyr?" she asked.

"No, I'm suggesting that I don't buy the alone thing, and neither do you."

'Okay, definitely time to go,' Mercedes thought.

She turned to the bedroom door again, needing to get out.

She hadn't had an asthma attack when he'd been buried inside her, but she was closing in on one now.

"And me," Sam said quietly to her back. "Are you going to leave me off your list?"

Mercedes dropped her forehead to the wood.

"Do you want to be on the list?"

Her voice was strong. Which was good. Because she felt small and weak, and wasn't sure she could face him.

And dammit, when had she become such a coward?

She wasn't. She was just a realist.

"I care about you," Sam said.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she turned to him, letting out the question that she could no longer contain.

"What's happening here, Sam?"

He drew in a deep breath and slowly shook his head.

"I don't know."

'Well, at least he's honest,' she thought.

"Maybe I need to know."

"Do you, really?" he asked.

There was no amusement in his expression, no mockery in his voice. He was asking her to think about how deep she wanted to dig.

How much she truly wanted to hear.

Mercedes nibbled on her lower lip and fought with herself.

A part of her wanted to admit, that yes, she needed to know how Sam felt about her. And that, she was in fact, dying to know if he was as flummoxed as she was, over what was happening between them.

She needed to know that she was more than a good time to him, that he thought about her, and ached for her, like she was beginning to ache so desperately for him.

But the other part of her...the stubborn, cynical part...refused to ask. Because, that would be putting herself out there...laying herself bare before him, and she didn't do that.

Ever.

"Mercedes..." Sam said softly, watching her carefully. "You can't even tell your sisters how you feel about them. If I told you how I felt, you'd..."

"Have an asthma attack?" She put her hand to her very tight chest. "Dammit!"

"Take a breath," he instructed firmly, moving closer, but stopping when she held up her hand. "You're holding your breath."

Indeed she was.

The air whooshed out of her lungs in one big massive exit, leaving her deflated. And she had no idea if that was relief that replaced it, or desolation.

"Now inhale," Sam directed.

And she did.

And then again, ignoring him when he closed the distance between them and cupped her face.

"This is panic," he said, studying her features. "Not asthma."

"I know!" She grimaced and pushed free. "I'm working on that. And for your information, I do care about my sisters."

At his raised brow, she crossed her arms.

"Which means, I'm your normal, average woman. A normal, average woman, who's just messing around with her local sheriff."

"Mercedes!" He laughed, but it was short. "You're beautiful, smart as hell, and can make me lose my mind. But you are not, nor will you ever be, average."

"Hey," she said, not missing that he didn't correct the 'just messing around' comment. "I could be average if I tried."

"That wasn't a put-down." He ducked to make eye contact, his hands on her arms. "I like you just the way you are."

'Sweet, but doubtful,' she thought.

"Well, I wouldn't mind a little bit of average, you know?"

"Why?" he asked.

"Why? Because..."

She trailed off and rubbed her chest, which was still way too tight. And because his eyes were reflecting something far too close to sympathy, she scrubbed her hands over her face, so she didn't have to look at him.

"Never mind. Just ignore me."

She got to the front door before he spoke.

"Mercedes..."

"What?"

"Average is boring." He came close, pulled her inhaler out of her pocket, and shook it for her before handing it over. "Have you ever thought, that maybe your asthma is triggered by emotional responses, rather than physical ones?"

"It's beginning to occur to me," she admitted. "Not that it matters in this case. We're just...messing around."

She felt the doorknob at her back and reached behind to grip it, desperate to flee.

She was so full of shit. And she knew it.

The man had taken the time to research asthma, for God's sake. If showing meant more than telling, then damn, he'd hit the bull's-eye.

She opened her mouth, praying something brilliant would come out, but all she managed was a 'bye' before she escaped.

Even after his morning coffee, Sam was still thinking about the look in Mercedes' eyes, as she'd left his bedroom.

The look that said he'd somehow disappointed her.

He was good at that, disappointing people, but admittedly, she'd really gotten to him.

She'd seemed confused and vulnerable, which had caught him off guard.

Although he'd felt the same.

'Shit! We're such a pair,' he thought. But work wasn't the time to think about it, or he'd get himself or someone else dead, so he forcibly cleared his mind.

His first not-so-big surprise of the day, was to learn that Mitchell had been picked up at the crack of dawn, high as a kite.

He'd already plea-bargained by naming his drug source...Trent.

According to Mitchell, Trent was doing some heavy dealing for a big drug lord. And unlike Mitchell, he was smart enough to stay off the crap.

Apparently, they were both equal partners, until Mitchell had started caring more about his own consumption, than selling for their head honcho, and Trent, after becoming worried about losing his meal ticket, cut him out of a deal.

Now, Mitchell was pissed off and scared enough to point the finger.

But Trent was just the middleman. They needed the fish...the big fish that the DEA was already trying to corner.

So now, the plan was to use Trent to lead them to said fish.

Sam couldn't say that he was all that surprised about any of it, but he was certainly angry.

Especially, as he decided to go to Trent's place, to try to talk some sense into the ass.

"Christ," Trent said, when Sam got out of his SUV. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

Trent laughed.

"Seriously, man? I have nothing to say to you."

"I can get you a deal if you help us out."

"You want me to give you a name," he said.

"Yes, Sam replied."

"Not going to happen."

At that, Trent stepped out and got into his truck.

Sam let out a breath.

He wanted so bad to say fuck it, but he couldn't just walk away. And he had no idea why.

"It's not too late. If that's what you're thinking. It's not," he said.

Trent's smirk faded, but his eyes stayed hard.

"Yeah, it is."

Sam watched him drive off, torn between the feeling of fury and failure.

He knew Trent, whether the idiot wanted to admit it or not. He was stupid enough to try to warn his supplier.

And hopefully, Sam would be smart enough to catch him at it.

Sam shook his head and turned back to his vehicle.

It was done, then.

Trent has had as many opportunities as him to turn his life around, and at every single turn, he'd chosen to fuck himself over.

Not in the least bit happy, Sam called the DEA and gave the information to his contact, Agent Randy Fletcher, detailing everything he knew about Trent and everything that Mitchell had provided.

All they needed now, was for Trent to lead them right to his next big deal.

Sam tried not to feel guilty, relieved, or any other useless emotion, because, no matter what went down, Trent would blame him.

And with some effort, he hoped he wouldn't blame himself.

It's not your fault...

Mercedes had told him that, not even knowing the full story.

She was like a spring storm...wild and unpredictable, and yet somehow, also a calm...a soothing balm on his soul.

He didn't understand it, not one bit. Nor did he know what to do, about the fact that they hadn't burned out on each other, as he'd supposed they would.

And he still wanted more of her. And he had a sinking feeling that he always would.

And just like that, he was back to thinking about her.

'Perfect!'

He shook it off, as he was called by dispatch, to a house where some drunk guy was allegedly punching out all of his mother's windows.

When Sam arrived at the house, the front door was open, and the woman who'd made the call was standing on the porch.

"It's my son," she said, voice trembling. She leaned in to whisper, "Tony's got a drinking problem."

"Is he still inside?" Sam asked her.

"Yes." She was wringing her hands. "What are you going to do to him?"

"I'm going to have him come outside to talk."

"But not arrest him, right? He didn't threaten me or anything."

"Ma'am, he's committed malicious mischief with the windows, and that's domestic violence. Plus, those windows are probably at least three hundred bucks a pop. If you add it all up, it's a felony. I have to arrest him."

"Oh, God! He's going to be really mad." She bit her lower lip. "I think he needs rehab," she whispered. "Can you take him to rehab?"

Sam looked inside the house.

Tony was about mid-thirties but looked fifty, like someone right out of a Cops episode.

He was sitting on his couch in the living room, and in front of him on the coffee table, were two rows of at least twenty empty beer cans.

And on top of one of the cans, was perched a pair of sunglasses.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked him.

The man just kept staring at the cans, with the intense concentration of the extremely inebriated.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked.

"Humor me," Sam said.

"I'm testing my sunglasses. They say they're polarized, but I think the manufacturer is full of shit. I'm gonna sue."

He bent, peering through the lenses, then unexpectedly slashed out with his hand, sending the cans and glasses flying against the far wall.

"Fuckers!"

"Okay," Sam said. "How about we go outside?"

"How about I punch you in the face?"

In the next second, Sam had him hauled up to his feet.

And for the first time, he looked up at Sam. And up, taking in his size and bulk, exaggerated by the Kevlar vest.

With that, the suspect lost some of his aggression.

"I was just testing my sunglasses," he said with far less attitude.

Thirty minutes later, he was testing out the bench in lockup, sobering up.

Sam was at career day at the junior high school.

God, he hated career day.

He didn't mind the no-drugs speech so much, or the kids' questions. No, what he hated were the censorious looks from teachers, who had remembered him from his own junior high days.

When that was over, he had a baseball game, and to his great satisfaction, they kicked the firefighters' collective asses.

Then, he had a late dinner with Noah at the bar, where he pretended not to be watching the front door for Mercedes...who didn't make an appearance.

At some point, he was reminded by Noah, that as upcoming best man, he'd better be planning a righteous bachelor party.

But Sam called Jackson and told him to get on that.

The next day, Sam was trying to catch up on his ever-growing paperwork, when dispatch sent him out to talk to a woman who was claiming she'd been robbed.

But when he got to the beauty salon on the pier, the woman wanted to tell him about her twelve-dollar manicure.

"Ma'am," he said. "You said you were robbed."

"I'm getting to that. The place is all new on the inside, you see?"

"So?"

"So there's no way they can possibly be making it work, with twelve-dollar manicures...clearly it's a front for criminal activity."

Sam rolled his eyes. He nearly arrested her for being annoying.

Instead, he told her if she stopped talking, he might see his way to being charitable enough, to not ticket her for making a nuisance call.

Then, since he was there on the pier anyway, he went into the diner for food, where Avery took one look at him and promptly served him a double bacon blue burger and a huge helping of pie.

"Oh, and heads-up...Mercedes is here." She hitched her head in the direction of the table behind him, where Mercedes was indeed sitting with the guy who ran the local hardware.

Avery left Sam alone to eat, and he forced his gaze away from the couple behind him.

It was no business of his who Mercedes ate with. But as he sat there with his burger, he wondered how he'd feel, if she were seeing other people.

'Shit!'

He knew the answer to that without even putting his mind in gear.

Two months ago, he would've laughed at anyone, who suggested he'd be this attracted and confused and crazy over a woman.

But he felt like he was in a fucking tailspin.

When he got a call from dispatch, he jumped on his radio so fast he nearly spilled his soda.

Used to eating on the road, he grabbed the second half of his burger and ordered himself not to look over at Mercedes as he exited the diner.

But he totally looked.

And she smiled and waved, as if she were truly happy to see him.

And his dumbass heart lightened.

It took some effort to stop picturing Mercedes' face, as he drove to Daisy Burlap's house.

Mrs. Burlap was eighty-nine, and lived alone, and once in a while, she called in odd reports to 9-1-1.

Mavis had adopted her into her posse, but she wasn't as mobile as the other blue-haired hellions that Mavis hung out with.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Burlap?" Sam asked, when he stood on her porch.

She peered at him through the screen.

"Sam? Is that you, dear? Have you been playing doorbell ditch again?"

He bit back his sigh.

"No, ma'am. I haven't done that in over ten years. I'm a sheriff now, remember? You called in that you needed help."

"Yes, I do need help. I keep hearing Frank Sinatra singing through my TV when it's turned off."

Sam paused a beat, then glanced through the screen into her living room. Her TV was definitely off.

"Huh."

He scratched his chin. He'd seen and heard it all, or so he thought. But this was a new one, even for him.

He walked into her living room and squatted in front of the TV, which was at least fifteen years old.

The surface didn't have a spec of dust on it, which took a definite talent. But he wasn't hearing any Frank Sinatra.

"Do you like Frank Sinatra?" he finally asked Mrs. Burlap.

"Oh yes, of course. My Stanley...God bless his soul...loved Frank. We used to listen to him every afternoon at this time of day. Sometimes we'd dance in the living room."

She sighed, the sound an expression of grief, as she pressed her hand to her mouth.

To give her a minute, Sam made a pretense of checking out the back of the TV, but honestly, sometimes this job sucked golf balls.

"Why do you think it happens?" Mrs. Burlap whispered. "Do you think it's Stanley's ghost, or Frank's? Because as fond as I am of Frank's music, I don't want him here in my house, watching me. It feels...scary."

Sam straightened and looked her right in the eyes.

"It's Stanley," he said. "Not Frank."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. And I think that you should just enjoy the music, Mrs. Burlap. Don't be afraid."

She smiled at him, her voice tremulous.

"You're a good man, Sheriff."

'At least she hadn't said sweet.'

She made him stay for coffee and a brownie.

"Are you ever going to corral in that wild child Mercedes Jones and marry her?" she asked, bagging up a brownie for him to take with him.

Sam was so thrown by this question, that he just stared at her.

"I only ask, because she comes over when I get headaches. She massages my temples with this fantastic homemade balm she creates. It's wonderful. She's wonderful. She'd make such a great sheriff's wife."

'Mercedes, a wife?'

The mere thought should've made him laugh, but it didn't.

He knew better.

Mercedes had to be free to do as she wanted. It wasn't in her nature to be corralled. And it wasn't in his to try to do so.

"I'm not exactly marriage material myself, Mrs. Burlap," Sam said.

"Oh, hogwash! That's the silliest thing I've ever heard. You young people have no sense of romance. Why, in my day, if you wanted a girl, you went after her. You made her yours."

'Yeah, and wouldn't that go over well with Mercedes,' Sam thought. 'She just loved it when someone told her what to do.'

Sam moved to the door.

"Have a good day, Mrs. Burlap."

"Don't you mean mind my own business, Mrs. Burlap?"

Sam colored, and she laughed.

"Listen, dear. I'm old, and probably far too sentimental, but I'm not dead. Not yet. Don't close yourself off to what could be. Or when you're as old as I am, what will be coming out of your TV?"

Metallica sounded good to him.

It was late afternoon, and Sam was on the road, when he got the call that the convenience store that had been robbed several weeks back, had set off their alarm again.

He raced over there, lights and sirens blaring, to find the owner and the clerk standing outside waiting for him.

When he got out of his SUV, the owner looked at his watch.

"Wow! Seven minutes," he said, sounding impressed. He smiled at Sam. "We just had a new alarm system installed, and this was our dry run. Nice job, Sheriff. Thank you so much."

'What the...?'

Sam did his best to un-clench his jaw, before pointing out that he wasn't the convenience store's personal security consultant, and they couldn't call 9-1-1 unless there was a true emergency. And then, what the hell, he also took the opportunity to buy two candy bars.

By the time Sam pulled up to his house that night, a rain-less lightning storm had moved in. Which wasn't good, given how dry it had been.

It was like playing Russian roulette with lightning-bolt-sized matches on dry timber.

His place looked dark and empty.

Empty of food, of warmth, of anything remotely welcoming, new paint or not.

He walked through his front yard and stopped short at the sight of Mercedes sitting on his porch.

She was wearing a long coat and tight leather boots up passed her knees, but was still huddled into herself for warmth.

And without letting himself think, Sam pulled her upright and wrapped his arms around her, because she wasn't dark and empty.

She was the opposite, and as she leaned in to him, a feeling surged through him that felt startlingly like relief.

And need.

So much fucking need.

"You're frozen solid," he said. "What are you doing out here?"

Mercedes simply shook her head and pressed her icy nose to his throat, making him suck in a breath.

Presently, he opened his front door and ushered her inside, where he cranked the heat before turning back to her.

She stood there hugging herself and flashed him a very small smile.

"So, um, have you ever done something stupid and then had regrets?" she asked.

Sam's heart contracted painfully.

If this was where she said she'd just slept with the hardware owner, he was going to have to shoot the guy. Which would suck, because his department tended to frown on excessive lethal force.

"I try really hard not to do anything stupid," he said carefully. "But it happens. Ditto on the regrets. What's this about, Mercedes?"

She looked away, but he hooked a finger under her chin, turning her face back to his.

"Me?" he asked. "You regretting us?"

"No. Never."

He nodded like he understood, but he didn't.

"You and Michael?"

Her eyes widened.

She looked startled, then insulted.

"Michael gave me his twenty-percent employee discount for materials for the spa, so I bought him lunch."

At that, Sam let out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding.

He pulled her in again, and this time he kissed her, his body reacting so quickly, that it caught him by surprise.

Then, he heard himself groan into her mouth and she lifted her head.

"Do you remember when I said sometimes I needed to feel? And that sometimes I do stupid things to get there, like pierce a nipple or hang glide, or..."

Sam ran his gaze over her, thwarted by her damn coat.

"Are you hurt? Are you..."

"No."

She fumbled with the buttons on her coat, then dropped it.

Beneath, she was completely, gorgeously naked. And so beautiful. So fucking beautiful that Sam lost his words and his mind.

"God, look at you," he said hoarsely.

"Welcome to my latest crazy," she whispered, wearing nothing but those knee-high boots and an unsure smile. "Oh, and you should probably know, I'm quite possibly hypothermic."

"Luckily I've been trained to handle this situation."

Mercedes smiled, and he realized she was nervous.

But he was nervous, too, which made no sense to him whatsoever.

They'd been here before.

He pulled off his shirt and reached for her at the same moment she leaped at him, wrapping her legs around his hips.

A second later, he had one hand on her ass, the other high on her back, in her long hair as he carried her to his bedroom.

Lying her on the bed, he stepped back, only to get rid of his gun and phone, then strip out of the rest of his clothes, which he did in less than five seconds.

'Mother of God, let nobody have an emergency tonight,' he thought.

He had a moment where he stared down at her on his bed, in nothing but those fuck-me boots, not wanting to take them off.

But then she shivered, and he reluctantly tugged them from her feet and dropped them to the floor, before shoving her beneath his thick covers and following her in.

"Step one," Sam said. "We conserve body heat."

"Good plan."

Mercedes turned to him, wrapping her frozen limbs around him.

He hissed in a breath when she pressed her frozen toes into his calves, but her own breathing wasn't anywhere close to even, and he paused.

"Need your inhaler?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"I need you."

He opened his mouth, but she put a finger over his lips.

"I'm done talking now."

Yeah. So was he.

But when her icy fingers walked their way down his chest and stomach, he sucked in another harsh breath and grabbed her hand, rubbing it between his to warm it up.

Mercedes laughed at him, but he knew how to shut her up.

He kissed her hard and long and deep, running a hand down her quivering body, sliding it between her thighs.

She wasn't cold there. She was already hot and slick and ready.

"You want me?" Sam asked.

She smiled.

"Yes. Whatever this is that we're doing, I want you. I've always wanted you."

Her softly whispered words staggered him.

It hadn't been a confession of love. Hell, he knew that she didn't do confessions of love.

So why did it feel like one?

Because, he wasn't doing so well at controlling his emotions with her, that's why.

"I want you, too," he said, not remembering a time that he hadn't.

Pulling him down, Mercedes kissed him, and he let himself sink into the kiss, into her, willingly drowning in her heat, grateful that he couldn't talk and kiss at the same time, because he was dangerously close to spilling his guts.

"Now," she said against his lips.

"No, not yet. I want to..."

"Sam..."

Like he really stood a chance against the sound of his name on her lips.

Cradled by her open thighs, he slid into her.

And like before, instantly felt at home.

'Slow,' he reminded himself, searching her face for signs of distress.

But he found only desire and hunger and closed his eyes, as her hands ran over his chest, his arms, everywhere she could reach, swamping him with pleasure.

He pulled back and thrust again, deeper now, groaning at the feel of her, but hesitated when her nails dug into his shoulders.

"No, don't stop," she said, soft and throaty, still showing no signs of trouble. "Please don't stop."

Accompanying this sexy little plea, she made a restless circular motion with her hips, and Sam lost the tenuous grip on his control.

This morning, he'd run three miles on the beach, and he'd been in good enough shape, not to feel the exertion overly much.

Now, here in Mercedes' arms, buried in her body, his breath was coming in ragged pants.

He reared up on his hands, his back arched, to get as deep as he could as he began to move.

When she cried out his name this time, he recognized it was a plea for more, and he gave it.

He gave everything and then some.

Mercedes cupped his face, slid her fingers into his hair, and beamed up at him.

God, he loved her smile.

She felt so good.

Her eyes were a staggering, fathomless brown, and looking at her made him ache so much, that he ran out of air.

Completely ran out.

As Sam struggled to breathe, he thought this must be how Mercedes felt.

But then she pressed her mouth to his and gave him her air.

He groaned and continued to move in and out of her, harder and faster now.

And deeper...so much deeper.

And then she came, her eyes filled with a faint, endearing surprise, as her body clenched around him.

God, she felt so good, he thought.

But just watching her, sent him spiraling.

It began deep inside, racing through his body, so much so, that his arms trembled.

He dropped his head with a rough groan, burying his face in the curve of her neck, as he completely lost himself in the magic surrounding them.

Stay safe!