Page 46 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

Hudson’s hand gave a gentle squeeze around her wrist. I’m here.

The footsteps stopped. Sarah held her breath. Somewhere above her an old beam creaked. Dust drifted lazily through the strip of light beyond their hiding place.

Then the footsteps started again, moving on, fading toward the far end of the floor, and Sarah released the breath.

Hudson didn’t relax. His head dipped until his mouth was almost against her ear. “When I move, you stay on me.”

She didn’t argue.

Following him felt like the safest thing she’d done all day.

19

Hudson tried to count the seconds instead of breathing her in.

It wasn’t going well.

She smelled of fresh air and clean soap. He was uselessly aware of exactly how well they fit into a space built for one person standing sideways.

Focus.

Except her hair had come loose and was brushing his jaw every time she breathed.

Christ.

He shifted his weight a half-inch back, the only retreat the gap allowed. When the footsteps finally faded for good, he counted another twenty seconds before he trusted his own judgment again.

Hudson eased out of the gap first, listening.

Nothing.

A gust of air whispered through the refrigeration vents behind him. Somewhere deeper in the cannery an old beam settled with a creak. A soft noise made him turn.

Sarah was stepping out after him, weapon raised, her grip white-knuckled.

“You hurt?”

“Seriously?” She stared at him.

“That’s not an answer.”

She made an exaggerated show of patting herself down. Arms. Torso. Legs. “No unexpected holes.”

“Good.”

She huffed a breath, but didn’t say anything else.

He surveyed the room again. Thirty seconds pressed against her hadn’t persuaded the protective part of him to stand down. His shoulder brushed hers as they turned in a slow circle together, checking every angle.

For now, they were alone. The cold storage room was exactly as it had been ten minutes ago. The voices that had filled it were gone.

“I hate hiding,” Sarah muttered.

“I noticed. Count to thirty.”

Thirty wasn’t magic. It was just long enough for impatient men to believe they’d won. Patient men were harder. Professional men were harder still. He hoped these weren’t professional men pretending to be impatient.

They counted in silence, weapons still raised. No footsteps or voices. No second whistle. He was about to say they could move when the boom of an engine revving broke the silence.