Page 95 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

She said it lightly, but there was something underneath it he recognized, because he’d been doing the same thing all evening—building a wall around these few hours, keeping Cord and everything else out of it. Just for one night, pretending they were only two people at a table. Nothing chasing either of them.

He lifted his glass, a small toast to the idea of it. “Sounds reasonable.”

Sarah huffed a laugh. Her shoulders dropped, and her smile finally reached her eyes. He’d carried that laugh in his memory for too long. It was better than he remembered.

The waitress arrived with a basket of warm bread and took their order before disappearing again.

Sarah picked up a roll, broke it cleanly in half, and passed him a piece, the same way she’d once tossed him the better apple and kept the bruised one for herself. She’d always organized everyone around her without seeming to notice she was doing it.

He doubted she even remembered. He remembered everything.

He buttered the bread slowly, more for something to do with his hands than any real hunger. He was excruciatingly aware of her across the table. Usually, he was aware of exits, of movement at the edge of a room. This was old instinct, pointed somewhere new.

When he set the knife down, Sarah reached across the table. Her fingertips found the pale scar on the back of his hand and stopped there, tracing it slowly, like she was reading Braille.

She studied it, a small dent between her brows.

Usually people looked at his hands to judge whether they could still do the job. Nobody had ever looked at them like this. “Working dog,” he said. “She was injured, and she didn’t appreciate my first-aid technique.”

That earned him a laugh, and she didn’t lift her hand.

“There’s a place outside Chicago,” he went on. “Retired military and police dogs. I go out when they’re short-handed. Turns out I’m reasonably useful with a shovel and they don’t seem to mind me.”

She was quiet for a moment, her hand still resting over his. He had the strange sensation of being read rather than questioned.

“You like it,” she said.

“Some of the dogs don’t know what to do with the quiet.” Her fingers were slender, the graze on her knuckle almost healed. “Years of every sound mattering. Every stranger being a threat. Then somebody tells them they’re finished, and nobody explains what comes after.”

A log snapped and spat in the fire. Snow melted against the window behind her. Sarah didn’t say anything for long enough that he finally looked up.

“You understand them,” she said.

He turned his hand over slowly, until her fingers rested in his palm. Her fingertips were warm, the pads of them roughened just enough by reins and range days to catch lightly on his skin. It was barely a touch. His body reacted as if she’d put her hands somewhere far less innocent. “Maybe.”

Her thumb rubbed absently across his palm, as if she wasn’t aware she was doing it. “I think they understand you too.”

When their food arrived, Sarah slowly drew her hand from his. Neither of them reached for their silverware for a moment.

Sarah finally picked up her knife and fork and cut into her steak. She took one bite, closed her eyes for a second, then pointed her fork toward him. “Well. This was a good decision.”

Hudson grinned and cut his. “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Did you ever think about leaving? Aurora Cove, I mean.”

She went still for a beat, fork halfway to her mouth, then set it down. “Once.”

He waited.

“About three years ago. Anchorage PD wanted me for a supervisory position. Better money. Real backup on shift. Not just Walter and a radio that cuts out past the ridge.” She studied the firelight moving through the bourbon. “I drove to Anchorage to look at apartments.”

“What happened?”

“I got as far as standing in one. Nice view. Dishwasher.” A small, private smile touched her mouth. “And I kept thinking about my dad’s shutters. How they need repainting every spring or the salt eats them. Ellie had just been born. In Anchorage, I’d have been the aunt who visited instead of the one who was there.” She rubbed her thumb along the handle of her fork.

“It wasn’t the job. The job would’ve been fine. I just…” She frowned, searching for it. “I don’t know. I think I was scared that if I left, I’d stop being someone this town needed.”