Your grandma passed recently and now you have to travel out to the little coastal town she lived in to take care of the estate and everything else she left behind because everyone else in your family cannot be bothered to do it. So this is totally how you wanted to spend your summer... by yourself.
After meeting her nosy old bag of a neighbour the next person you meet is the towns sherif. Rifling through old lady Knick knacks when something breaks through the noise of the birds singing outside. You hear the engine rumble up the drive and you turn to look through the window as you see him... sliding out of his truck, cowboy boots and trousers so tight they look as if they're painted on.
You open the door after hearing the knock and climbing through the assault course of old lady clothes to see him stood there and then introducing himself as "Rick" and after being met with yourself laughs and rubs his fuzzy head before giving his title as the sheriff. Small town ya know, he hardly ever has to let people know who he is. He's not in his uniform at the moment, jeans and a henley is a weird ass outfit for a supposed sheriff, but shows his badge as proof.
He says how he only stopped because he didn't recognize the car in the driveway, he wanted to make sure nothin' nefarious was happening. And after he knows who you are he let's you know he thought your grandma was a great woman. She always made him promise to stop for lemonade on Sundays and he always did. He's been divorced for years and not the church goin' type so he was happy to stop by; looked forward to it even.
He offers his personal number in case there's anything that you need, especially when it comes time to really clear the house out. "Oughta use that truck for somethin' other than patrollin' back roads." Tells you not to worry about any legalities just go through him first and you won't have any problems, he'll take care of it.
When he offers to clean out the garage himself that Saturday because your grandma still has a bunch of your grandpa's old tools n' shit and you have zero idea about what to do with them. Welp it's like 95 degrees and there goes his shirt. You've found your grandma's famous lemonade recipe but damn near spill the whole fucking pitcher all over the front yard when you round the side of the house to see him shirtless and sweating as he boxes various power tools.
This is not what you came for. You came to pack up grandma's junk because your loser family was too busy fighting over whatever money she had and the poor old lady deserved some ounce of respect.
When you're clearing the attic that same day and sheepishly have to ask him to come get the boxes out of the rafters because you can't reach them and using a step ladder on that old ass floor doesn't fill you will confidence. He doesn't even think to put his shirt back on. Front row seat to all those back muscles moving as he shoves the boxes around.
After that long day well you have to ask him to stay for dinner don't you? He asks if you mind if he uses the shower. He'd hate to have you have to keep him company in the state he's in. You oblige and say you're going to run into to town to get some things for dinner. Lest you suffer heatstroke by staying in that house while he's in the shower. Alcohol is first on the grocery list.
You get back and you were going to cook it all yourself but he offers to man the grill so you let him. Too hot to cook inside anyway. You offer him a beer and sit on the back porch swing as he cooks and shares anecdotes about grandma as you watch the birds out on the water.
