Page 81 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

Hudson reached past her, his arms brushing hers as he lifted the mug from the shelf.

“I could have reached that.”

“I know.” A smile tugged at his mouth, reaching his eyes.

He set the mug on the counter between them.

She turned to tell him she wasn’t made of glass, but the words never arrived.

He was standing so close that the bergamot soap he’d borrowed from her shower teased her nose. When she met his eyes, she glimpsed his tiredness after a night spent on her couch.

His gaze landed on the fading bruise along her cheek. His hand lifted, his thumb skimming beneath the bruise, careful on her tender skin. “How’s your head?”

She should have said better. Or it still hurts. But instead, she leaned into his hand. Only a fraction. It wasn’t even a decision.

His breath stalled—the smallest sound, and his thumb stilled against her skin.

For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved. He started to draw his hand away.

No.

She caught his wrist, and his eyes lifted to hers, a question in them. Her heart stumbled. Fifteen years of convincing herself she’d stopped missing him. Maybe she never had.

She closed the last inch between them.

His free hand settled carefully at her waist, avoiding the bruising as though he’d memorized where she hurt. The first brush of his mouth against hers was feather-light, the warmth of him lingering just long enough to steal her breath. Nothing like the desperate teenagers they’d once been in the stables.

His hand slid gently to the side of her neck, and his thumb stroked the sensitive skin beneath her ear. A shiver chased down her spine.

When he kissed her back, it was achingly tender. The kitchen disappeared. There was only Hudson.

She’d kissed men. None of them had ever felt like this. She smiled against his mouth, and his lips curved in return, his forehead bumping hers.

She drew back to look at him. Whatever they’d been before, this wasn’t pretending anymore.

Her phone rang, loud from the counter close by. Then rang again.

She exhaled. “I should...”

“You should,” he murmured, though he made no move to step away.

The phone rang a third time.

Neither of them moved.

Hudson pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Persistent.”

She laughed softly, still close enough that their noses brushed. “Sometimes I hate being the sheriff.” She rested her forehead against his for an extra stolen second.

His mouth curved against hers. “No, you don’t.”

“No.”

“That’s going to be Walter.”

She picked up her phone, the ghost of his hand against her cheek making her skin tingle.

She swiped to answer.