Page 130 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

The late afternoon light slanted low across the snow as Wyatt swung the axe. Hudson stacked the split logs, building them into a neat row against the side of the house.

His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows despite the cold.

Mmm. She approved.

He said something to Wyatt, inaudible through the glass. Wyatt’s head tipped back in laughter. Hudson grinned—the real one she’d been collecting since the hotel bar—and shoved Wyatt’s shoulder.

Wyatt shoved him back.

Hudson stumbled into the woodpile, sending a carefully stacked row tumbling across his boots. Wyatt laughed harder. Hudson answered by lobbing a chunk of split wood at Wyatt’s boots. Wyatt dodged it with a snort. They moved around each other the same as they had as boys—easy and physical.

Hudson straightened, stretching the stiffness from his back. He tipped his face toward the winter sky and let out a slow breath, easy and unmeasured. Something inside her eased at the sight.

The back door banged open, sending a rush of cold air through the kitchen.

“It’s official.” Wyatt stamped snow from his boots. “You have enough firewood to last three winters.” He peeled off his gloves and tossed them onto the counter. “I would’ve stopped sooner, but someone didn’t want to.” He lifted an eyebrow toward Hudson, coming in behind him.

Hudson was carrying an armful of split logs, which he deposited beside the wood-burning stove before returning to the kitchen. He shook melting flakes from his hair and hung his jacket on the hook by the door. The jacket was new. A proper Alaskan one. The city coat he’d arrived in had disappeared somewhere over the last two weeks.

He crossed the kitchen and his hand slid to her hip. His other relieved her of the coffee mug and set it on the counter.

Then he drew her against him. His nose was cold against her cheek. He kissed her slowly, without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, right there in her kitchen, in front of her big brother.

Sawdust still clung to his hair.

She smiled into the kiss. Her hand rose to cup his face—cold skin, rough jaw, the muscle beneath her palm completely relaxed.

“Get a room,” Wyatt muttered.

Hudson didn’t let go of her waist. “We have one.” He glanced over Sarah’s shoulder. “You’re standing in it.”

Wyatt snorted. “I need a beer.”

He yanked open the fridge, stared for a second, then looked back at them. “You two stocking up for the apocalypse?”

Sarah smiled against Hudson’s mouth. “Something like that.”

An engine rumbled outside. Sarah glanced out the window.

Her mom.

Sophie let herself in without knocking, a lasagna in a large cream dish preceding her through the door. “I brought dinner.”

Wyatt cocked an eyebrow in the direction of the fridge. “Mom, they have⁠—”

“You have lasagna now, too.” Sophie set the dish on the counter with a smile.

She walked over and hugged Hudson. “Good to see you, Hudson.”

Hudson hugged her back. “Hey, Sophie.”

She pulled back and gave him a once-over. “You look better.” Her head tilted. “Still not enough meat on those bones.”

“I’ve been eating.”

“Not enough.” She patted his cheek. “We feed people properly in this family, Hudson. I’ll heat this up.”

“Sophie, I can⁠—”