Page 54 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

For one impossible second the world shrank to the pressure of her mouth against his, the cold air tangled in her hair, laced with the clean scent of citrus.

Fifteen years of distance collapsed.

She stepped back before he could do anything at all. Before his hands, hanging useless and stunned at his sides, even thought about reaching for her.

He stared at her. He had absolutely nothing. No words, no plan, no careful response prepared, the entire architecture of his self-control gone.

Sarah’s mouth curved, the small smile reaching her blue eyes. “That one was my decision.”

She turned and walked back toward the station, her boots crunching on the ice, and didn’t look back once.

Hudson stood exactly where she’d left him.

The station door closed behind her. The sound was impossibly ordinary. As though the world hadn’t just shifted beneath his feet.

The freezing night pressed in around him, and somewhere distant a truck engine idled, then pulled away. He drew in a breath. His lungs protested, and he couldn’t tell whether it was the cold or her.

He stood there long enough that his hands were numb before some functioning part of his brain reminded him he was still holding his keys.

He’d forgotten they were there. Hudson unlocked the rental and opened the driver’s door.

He stalled.

Fifteen years ago he’d sat in a truck because he’d kissed Sarah Meyer.

Tonight she’d kissed him.

Both versions had left him incapable of driving.

23

The porch light was on when Sarah pulled up, gold and warm against the dark, smoke curling from the chimney. She sat in the truck for a second longer than she needed to, letting the day fall away. Walter’s radio chatter. The Henderson fence dispute had required a follow-up visit. Search grids until the lines blurred together.

Headlights had followed her at a careful distance the whole way out from town—Walter. He’d peeled off once she’d turned safely into her parents’ driveway.

She hadn’t seen Hudson since last night.

He’d been out checking logging roads with Walter since dawn, while she’d been buried under everything else the day had decided to throw at her. Whenever she’d caught herself thinking about him, she’d found something else to think about. There had always been another call. Another report. Another decision waiting for her.

She climbed out of the truck, the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat drawing her up the porch steps. She let herself in through the mudroom. Warmth hit her first. Then the smell—pot roast, rosemary, her mom’s buttery rolls. She kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the hook.

“Sarah.” Her dad appeared in the kitchen doorway, dish towel slung over one shoulder, and pulled her into a hug. “Hey, baby girl.”

“Hey, Dad.”

“Rough one?”

“Long one.” She buried her face in his flannel shirt and breathed him in.

He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Food fixes most things. Your mother made enough pot roast to solve international disputes.”

“I’ve never heard you complain about portion sizes,” her mom called from the kitchen.

Ty grinned and wandered over to Sophie, sliding an arm around her waist. He kissed her temple.

Her mom nudged him backwards with her hip without missing a beat as she stirred the gravy. “Ty. I’m cooking.”

“I noticed.”