Epilogue

EPILOGUE

CHARLOTTE

O utside, the Caribbean sky is a bright blue that almost matches the dazzling blue of the water. A sugary beach stretches out below the balcony of our beachside suite, the salty breeze tangling my hair as I look out, enjoying the sound of the lapping waves and the scent of the sea air and tropical flowers.

Behind me, I hear the pop of a cork as Ivan opens a bottle of champagne, the sound of him pouring it into glasses following shortly after. He walks up behind me, handing me a mimosa as he leans on the railing next to me, looking out at the beach below.

Zoe and Jasmine are already out on the beach, laying out on towels, enjoying the attention of the men who walk by and gawk. Sarah, I'm sure, is sleeping in—as she always has on every vacation we've ever gone on.

"To new beginnings," Ivan says softly, tapping his mimosa glass against mine. Our fingers brush as he does, and I feel a spark tingle over my skin, lighting me on fire even though we only got dressed an hour or so ago. We enjoyed a lazy evening in bed last night after dinner, and he woke me up the same way this morning, sliding under the sheets to tease me to a slow, sleepy orgasm.

"And all the adventures we can imagine." I sip my mimosa, looking out at the sand. "We should go join them soon. We invited them on this trip—we can't stay in the room the whole time."

"I know." Ivan chuckles. "Maybe I should have waited. I still want you all to myself. But I also wanted your friends to get to know me. We got off on the wrong foot, after all."

"You mean the whole kidnapping thing? Yeah, Zoe is going to take a while to get over that. And Sarah. Jaz is—" I laugh. "Jaz is the adventurous type, herself. She thought it was exciting. And she trusts my judgment."

"The others don't?" Ivan asks curiously, and I shake my head.

"It's not that. It's just—Jaz and I were always the closest. I'm not super close with my family, and she's estranged from hers. It's different. Sarah and Zoe are just more protective. But after last night, they like you a lot more," I promise.

Last night, we had a beachside dinner with plenty of wine flowing, private for just the five of us. Ivan paid for all of it, and it was the most fun I've had in a long time. We laughed and drank and talked, and by the end of it, I could tell that my friends had warmed up to him much more. They'd been skeptical, when he'd proposed us all going on a vacation. But none of my friends are the type to turn down a free exotic trip, and Ivan can be convincing.

I know that firsthand.

"I love you," I say softly, leaning my hip against the railing and smiling at him. "That's what matters. The rest will come in time."

"I hope so," Ivan agrees. "Because I wouldn't want anything less than for all of your best friends to agree to be in your bridal party."

"What?" I blink at him, confused. "My?—"

I gasp as he drops down to one knee on the balcony, slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out a small black box. When he opens it, I see the most stunning engagement ring that I've ever laid eyes on.

It's a kite-shaped salt-and-pepper diamond, with a black diamond on either side, on a platinum band studded with smaller white diamonds. My mouth drops open, and for a moment, I can't speak.

"I love you, Charlotte," Ivan says softly. "And maybe this is too soon—I'll understand if it is. But you know I've been obsessed with you since the day I saw you. I knew since that first moment that I couldn't live without you. And if you feel the same way, I want to be yours for the rest of our lives—just as much as I want you to be mine."

Tears well up in my eyes, and I nod before I have the ability to speak again. " Yes ," I whisper finally. "Yes. It's crazy, but—yes. I'll marry you. I love you, too, Ivan, I?—"

His eyes are misty, too, as he slides the ring onto my finger, the diamond glittering in the bright sun. He stands up, pulling me in for a kiss as his mouth seals over mine, and then he picks me up, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me back to the bed. He spills me back onto it, dragging me to the edge where he's standing and tugging my leggings down as I feel him grind against me, already rock-hard.

"Once more," Ivan murmurs, his mouth already descending on mine as he strips us both naked. "One more time, and then we'll go down and find the others."

My answer is a kiss, as I wrap my arms around his neck and drag him down to me, hooking my legs around his hips as I feel him slide inside of me that first inch, teasing me with what we both need so badly.

"One more time, for now," I whisper, as he slides into me, groaning as his lips find my neck and he starts to thrust. "And after that—for the rest of our lives."

Ivan's thrusts are slow and deep, each one sending waves of pleasure through my body, pushing me closer to the brink. I arch my back, pressing myself closer to him, wanting to feel every inch of his skin against mine. Nothing has ever felt as good with anyone as it feels when I'm with Ivan. It was easy to say yes to this forever. I never want anything else.

"I'm yours," he breathes against my skin, his voice thick with desire. "And you're mine."

I moan, arching into him as his teeth graze the side of my neck, so close to the edge. And then, just as I can feel my orgasm on the verge of tipping over, there's a knock at the door.

"Hey, lovebirds!" Sarah's voice calls out from the other side. "Are you coming down to the beach?"

Ivan freezes, and I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. "We'll be right out!" I call, trying to keep my voice from sounding strained.

"Don't wait on us," Ivan adds, his hips rocking against mine, and I press my hand to my mouth to stifle a moan.

I hear Sarah laugh, and her footsteps fade away. Ivan picks up his pace again, pushing me further up the bed as he climbs onto it with me, his thrusts leisurely now, building the pleasure again.

I wrap my legs tighter around Ivan's waist, urging him on, pulling him deeper inside me. The interruption only heightened my arousal, and now I'm desperate to come. Ivan thrusts harder, his hands pinning my wrists above me as he grinds his hips against mine.

"Look in the mirror," he murmurs, nudging my head towards the huge mirror atop the dresser next to the bed. "Remember that night?"

"How could I forget?" I pant. "It wasn't all that long ago."

"I made you mine that night," he growls. "And now you'll be mine forever. My little dove. My obsession. My wife ."

Every word pushes me closer to the brink. Ivan groans as I tighten around him, and I arch upwards, panting. "Please—" I rock against him, desperate for a little more friction, for a little more of him . He feels so good, and the feeling of his fingers around my wrists, the sight of him, muscled and gorgeous, stretched over me as he fills me again and again, is intoxicating.

"Come for me, little dove," he whispers, and I can feel him starting to shudder, on the edge along with me. "Come on my cock, and I'll come for you, too."

The tide of pleasure washes over me, pulling me under as I moan his name, and I hear him cry out mine. His fingers interlace with mine at the last moment, locking us together, my ring brushing against his skin.

I feel every thrust, every hot rush of his cum inside of me, and Ivan presses his mouth hard to mine, the sounds swallowed up in our kiss until we both finally go still, lying intertwined on the white sheets.

"I'm glad you found me," I whisper softly, as the sunlight streams over us both, still connected as I look down at the diamond sparkling on my finger. "For better or worse, I'm glad."

"Good," Ivan whispers, and he leans in to kiss me again. "Because, little dove—I'm never letting you go."

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Chapter One

Sabrina

I stare down at the clothes on my bed, a despondent feeling settling somewhere in the pit of my stomach, as I tug my bathrobe a little closer around me.

It's been a little over a month, and I haven't even started to get used to this new set of circumstances.

Reaching down, I pick up the pair of black denim jeans, one of the pieces of clothing I was taken to buy the first day I arrived here. I need to do laundry, so I'm down to just this pair and a couple of plain long-sleeved shirts.

Laundry . Less than six weeks ago, someone did that for me. Less than six weeks ago, my favorite pair of jeans was a dark-wash, boyfriend-cut pair that felt like butter against my skin from Dior. It paired perfectly with my favorite Chanel silk blouse and nude Louboutin pumps, and a pair of diamond stud earrings my father gave me for my eighteenth birthday. It was one of my favorite outfits, before.

Now—I don't have a favorite outfit. I don't have a favorite restaurant, or coffee shop, or part of town to shop in. I don't even have friends.

"Sabrina?"

Speaking of friends. The chirpy, happy-go-lucky voice of my neighbor two houses down, Marie Woodson, comes through the speaker of my phone and reminds me that I got lost in thought for a minute there. She, and a few other women that I've met here, are the closest thing that I have to friends these days.

But friends know personal things about each other. They know secrets and important moments, fears and hopes and dreams. I can't tell these women any of those things, so I can't really call them friends .

Not that I have hopes and dreams either, any longer. The ones I had before—such as they were—are all gone.

"I'm here," I say distractedly, pulling on the Target-brand jeans and long-sleeved shirt. I grab a hair tie from my nightstand with one hand, scraping my blonde hair up into a loose, messy bun. My hair is my one holdout from my old life still—I had it done right before the night when everything went upside down. The expensive balayage and perfect cut looks out of place next to the dressed-down outfit, and every time I leave the house, I can feel people looking at me. Noticing that while my clothing might have changed, the polish that's leftover from my old life, the way I've been taught to carry myself since I was small, the way I speak—it all sets me apart from everyone else in this small town.

"Daphne texted the group this morning with the new title for our book club. Did you see it? Cozy mystery is the theme this month. I was thinking we could go get coffee, and then swing by the bookstore to grab our copies. Unless you can't get away from work today?"

"No, that's fine. I make my own hours. I've been working more at night lately, anyway."

"Night owl." Marie laughs, clicking her tongue. "I'd be the same if it wasn't for the kids. I used to pull all-nighters all the time in college. Now I'm lucky if I make it to ten before I'm in bed."

"Yeah, me too." I can hear how hollow it all sounds. How detached my voice is. Marie must notice it, too, but she's not the kind of person to point it out. She brought me cookies the first day I moved in. Homemade, with those big chocolate chunks in them. I remember staring at them and crying because I couldn't make myself eat one.

I can't remember the last time I ate a cookie. My looks have always been my currency. My hair and my skin and my figure have always been immaculate. But here, no one cares about that.

They seem to care about kindness. Friendship. Goodwill. Neighborly affection. The people I grew up around didn't value those things. And what was elegant, sophisticated distance in the life I remember comes across as cold haughtiness here.

"You sound tired." There's a hint of worry in Marie's voice, now. "Maybe you shouldn't be pulling so many late nights. Sleep is important, you know. I keep telling my son that, every time he wants to stay up late playing video games."

"I've just had trouble sleeping lately, is all." I sink down on the edge of the bed, reaching for the black ankle boots that I bought last week. They look like a knock-off of a favorite pair I used to own, and I thought that buying them would make me feel better. But actually, it just makes my chest ache, every time I look at them. "I've always had trouble with insomnia. I thought being out here in the country would help. That it would be more—quiet, I guess. But it's been persisting." That's my cover story, flimsy as it is—that I moved away from the city because it was getting to be too much. That I needed a break, like a hysterical Victorian woman going to the seaside for her "nerves."

"Well, if you ever want to see a doctor, and you need a ride, just let me know. Dr. Thompson at the clinic here is good, but he's older, so he's skeptical of prescribing things like sleeping pills. I went to a doctor in Louisville when I needed anxiety medication. Fixed me right up." Marie's chirpy voice brightens. "Dr. Thompson wasn't happy when I had to tell him at my next check-up, but at that point, what could he do about it? I already had the prescription." There's a conspiratorial note to her voice now, like we're sharing secrets. "Anyway, if you need a little help getting better sleep, there's no shame in it. I'd be happy to give you a ride."

"Thanks." Not for the first time, I wish I had a car. I wish I knew how to drive . If I want to go anywhere further than the few stores that are within walking distance of my house, I have to get a ride from someone. I can't imagine actually explaining to anyone here how, at twenty-two years old, I don't know how to drive. I could pass it off as having lived in Chicago my whole life, I suppose, but it would still lead to more questions.

And questions are something I've tried very hard to avoid. Not easy in a small town, I'm finding, where everyone gossips about everyone else, and everyone knows everyone else's business.

"That's what friends are for!" Marie exclaims, and I can hear her indrawn breath as she gears up to run off on another tangent. She's like a small, excitable dog. A Pomeranian, maybe. Sweet and full of energy, and always ready to talk. I interrupt her, quickly, because I need a little time with my own thoughts before I spend the rest of the afternoon with her.

"I need to finish getting ready. But I'm fine with a coffee and book run. Can you pick me up in, say—an hour and a half?" I reason that should give me enough time for coffee and my breakfast, quietly, before the day starts.

"Sure thing! I'll see you then."

The phone clicks off, and I release a breath that I hadn't known I was holding. I reach up, rubbing my temples, fending off a growing headache. Everyone here is just so—much. All of the time.

I grew up with distance. Private school, where everyone was as stiff and formal as my father and his associates at home. A staff at the mansion I grew up in, who always kept a careful space between me and them. Friends from the same school, the same social circles, who also grew up believing that that kind of distance was the only acceptable way to behave. Even my closest friends and I gave each other air kisses instead of hugs. I can't actually remember the last time anyone hugged me.

The first day I met Marie, she gave me that plate of cookies. The second day I met her was at the book club I hesitantly attended, where she grabbed me in a full-body hug and told me how excited she was that I'd taken her invitation. I'd gone stiff, unsure of what to do. Marie hadn't seemed to notice, too caught up in her own excitement, but everyone else certainly did.

It set me apart, from the very beginning. But that was always going to happen.

I exhale another long breath, pinching the bridge of my nose before standing up. I feel strange, without my jewelry and makeup. But I haven't had the funds to get the kind of makeup I used to buy, and all of my jewelry is back home. The best I've been able to afford is the something close to the kind of skincare I used to use. Prioritizing purchases—another thing I've had to get used to.

Some of my expenses are covered by the FBI, like the rent on the small one-bedroom house I'm living in, and a stipend for food and basic clothing. The rest—discretionary spending for things like books, or skincare, or anything else that goes above and beyond the pitfully small amount deposited into my checking account each month, is up to me. Which is why I took on another new experience a couple of weeks ago—working for the first time in my life.

Just freelance editing work, but it pays something. Enough to cover the expensive moisturizer that I swipe over my skin, and the jug of flavored coffee that I pour myself a cup of as soon as I head into the kitchen. I didn't think it was all that pricey, but Marie looked round-eyed at the extravagance, when I could have just gotten grounds and inexpensive creamer.

There's a coffeepot on my counter, one of the things that the house came furnished with, but I haven't figured out how to use it yet. The first time, I burned myself. The second time, I ended up with grounds in the coffee. The third, it was too watery.

At that point, I just got overwhelmed, and bought a bottle of pre-mixed coffee on my next grocery run.

At least it's pumpkin-flavored, which is a nice touch this time of year.

I sink down at the table with a bowl of cereal and my coffee, nudging the mini-wheats around the bowl with my spoon. At this hour, the sun is spilling through the large windows above the sink and stove and through the window at the top of the backdoor, lighting up the kitchen with a soft glow. There are a number of trees in my backyard, and the leaves are rust-red, orange, and yellow, adding to the autumn morning ambiance.

It should be peaceful. Relaxing. Marie oohed and aahed over the view from my kitchen windows the first time she was in here. But there's nothing peaceful about why I'm here. And there's nothing peaceful about how little direction I have in my life now.

I take a bite of the cold cereal, still staring out of the window at the trees, and wince. There's nothing wrong with it, but I miss the breakfasts I'm used to. I miss poached eggs with hollandaise and crispy bacon. Toasted bagels with fresh tomato, cream cheese, and lox. Crepes filled with fresh fruit and honey. Quiche. I don't know how to cook any of those things, and I'm terrified to try. I already feel lost enough as it is, and all of the ways that I'm sure I'll fail will only make me feel worse.

If I told Marie, or anyone else, about all of the things I miss, the things I long for that are making me sad, she'd think I was spoiled. She'd be shocked at the kind of excess that used to be normal to me. And maybe I am spoiled—but it wasn't my fault that all of it was taken from me. I didn't ask for any of this to happen. And right now, it all still feels monumentally unfair.

I finish my cereal reluctantly and nudge the bowl aside, sipping at my coffee. Outside, a bird perches in the tree next to my window, chirping with a cheerfulness that reminds me of Marie. A wave of exhaustion washes over me, and I consider texting her and canceling our plans. Staying in, getting my editing done, and watching a movie alone or something. Reading a book that I picked out, instead of the book club pick of the month. I'm dreading that, too. Hours sitting in a strange living room that's not like any house I've ever been in before moving here, surrounded by people that I feel certain are all judging me. I want to cancel that, too.

But I can hear Agent Caldwell's voice in my head—the FBI agent assigned to me after I was put in witness protection. He checked up on me every couple of days, for the first few weeks. Now it's a monthly visit. But those first visits, he saw that I was staying in, avoiding everyone, not making friends. You need hobbies, he said. This is for your protection , Sabrina, but you need to do your best to fit in. Just because we've hidden you doesn't mean that people might not still be looking. And if folks come nosing around, asking questions, looking—the more you stand out, the more you make yourself a target.

He'd patted my hand reassuringly after that, a sympathetic expression on his face. I remember thinking that he looked like someone's father—short beard and mustache, a bit of a beer gut, a friendly look on his face. Not my father, but someone's. He looked like he was reassuring me that getting a C in geometry wasn't the end of the world, not cautioning me to not put a target on my back for people who want to kill me.

So I joined book club. I've gotten coffee with Marie. Joined her and a few of her other friends on grocery-shopping runs. Asked her to give me a ride to Sephora to get my skin-care items, which also horrified her when she saw the cost.

But none of it has made me feel like I belong here. None of it has made me feel like there's anything to look forward to any longer, anything to be hopeful for. My life has crashed and burned, and I'm sitting here in the ashes, trying to figure out who I'm supposed to be now.

Maybe I should see a doctor. Get something for depression. That's what this is, right?

But is it? Or is it just a natural reaction to having everything I've ever known upended in one night that left me reeling? How long is it supposed to take for someone to recover from something like that?

There's a knock at the door, just as I lift my coffee mug to my lips again. I jump, startled, setting the mug down with a thud as my heart starts to race.

It's just Marie , I tell myself, pushing my chair back. But Marie isn't the type to knock. We've known each other a little over a month now, and in her world, that's plenty of time to just "let yourself on in," as she would say. I can hear it in her voice, in my head as I think it.

But someone is at my door. And that painful adrenaline starts to race through me, reminding me of a night that I want so badly to forget.

Swallowing hard, I stand up, forcing myself to walk slowly to the door, as another knock sounds on the other side. Forcing myself to try to breathe normally. It's just a neighbor. A door-to-door salesman. No one has found me. Not so soon. Agent Caldwell promised me that anyone would be hard-pressed to find me at all.

I have a new last name here. A new life. I'm safe .

I'm supposed to be safe.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I swing open the door, pasting the sort of down-home, friendly smile on my face that I know the neighbors here expect. But it falters, a little, when I see who's standing on my doorstep.

It's a man. A man wearing the uniform of a cop, specifically, with reddish-brown hair that glints the same color of the leaves outside in the sunlight, and green eyes that are fixed directly on me. He is, I think as I stand there stunned, possibly the most handsome man I've ever seen in my life.

And then, he says my name.

"Sabrina Miller?"

Chapter Two

Kian

The woman standing framed in the doorway is stunning. And entirely out of place.

It's my first time laying eyes on Sabrina Miller, and it was worth the wait. But five seconds is all it takes to see that she doesn't belong here.

She stands there uncomfortably, like she feels not at home in her own skin—or more likely, the clothes she's wearing. Jeans that are too big, a plain, navy-blue shirt with long sleeves that she keeps plucking at. Definitely not her choice, not when the rest of her is so perfectly polished. She has a body to die for, the kind of body that's never been poisoned by a box of Kraft mac-and-cheese or a drive-through burger. Her hair looks expensive, as does her poreless, perfectly smooth skin. She looks expensive.

She should, considering what she's cost me.

"What do you want?" Her voice is all wrong too, clipped, cold, and cultured, with the hint of a city-born-and-bred Chicagoan accent. Nothing like the Kentucky drawl that I've been inundated with since coming here a few weeks ago. I meant to come and see her sooner, but there was a surprising amount of paperwork and responsibility that came with taking over a small-town police station. Especially when the former sheriff was an aging man who could barely use a flip phone, let alone a computer.

Standing there in the doorway, flaking paint and a rusty hinge framing her, a loose step under my foot, she looks like a mirage. Like she can't possibly be real. But she is.

"Well, ma'am, is that any way to greet a man who came all the way over here to check on you?" I smile at her, shoving my hands in my pockets, striving to look relaxed. "Kian Brady. I'm the sheriff here, if you weren't aware. And since you're new in town, living here alone, I figured I'd come and make sure there wasn't anything you needed. I know the man who you're renting this place from, and he's a bit of a scummy landlord. Doesn't do much for maintenance, overcharges on the rent. Wanted to make sure you were getting by alright."

By now, anyone else here would have relaxed, too. Given me a big smile, invited me in for a beer or a cup of coffee or offered a fresh-baked cookie. But Sabrina is still looking at me suspiciously, her gorgeous blue eyes going from wide to narrowed.

"The sheriff is a man named Wayne Smith," Sabrina says, her voice chillier than before. "I met him the day after I moved here. He showed up a lot like this, actually. On my doorstep, letting me know that if I needed anything, all I had to do was call." She purses her lips, a clear expression on her face that says she doesn't believe anything I'm saying now.

I don't let it rattle me. She's cold, sure, and suspicious, but I can work with that. "I know Wayne," I assure her, my voice easy. "I replaced him when he retired, a few weeks ago. Some health issues, I think. Normal stuff, for a guy that age. They decided to bring in someone younger. Bit more spring in my step, for chasing down the bad guys." I smile at her, letting it reach the corners of my eyes.

"And have you gone and checked on all the residents like this, Sheriff Brady?" She raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow. Too well-groomed, for anyone living here. If I wasn't already aware that she was a new arrival, I'd know just from that. "Or just me?"

"Oh, I've been making the rounds. Marie a few houses down makes a mean pumpkin peanut-butter cookie. If you haven't had the chance to try one yet, you should."

Something about the mention of Marie's name seems to relax her the smallest fraction. I see her shift, the tension in her face loosening just a bit. She smiles, but it still seems a bit forced.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff Brady," she says easily, although her voice is still cool. "I'm being terribly rude. Do you want to come in? I'm afraid I can't offer cookies, but I've got cold coffee."

"I can't say I'm a fan of cold coffee, but I'll accept the hospitality anyway." My smile doesn't falter as Sabrina steps back, giving me space to step into the house. "Although even in a place like this, you should be cautious of inviting strangers in. Woman living alone, and all of that."

"You've noted that I live alone once already." Some of that stiffness returns to her tone as she strides towards the back of the house, where I glimpse a table and kitchen appliances through an open doorway. The walls of the kitchen are a pale yellow, the table and chairs a worn wood, scratches of use indented into it. A flowered valance hangs over the sink, framing the large window. "And you're the sheriff, right? That's what you said? So I shouldn't be worried about letting you into my house."

She glances back, that eyebrow arched again, and I chuckle. "Well, I suppose you've got me there, ma'am."

"Sabrina. I've never been called ma'am before, and I think it makes me feel uncomfortable." She steps into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge with a bit more force than strictly necessary. "And I'm sorry, but I haven't quite mastered the coffeepot yet. So cold is the best I can do." She pulls out a jug of cold pumpkin-flavored coffee, and I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. What I want is an opportunity to talk to Sabrina Miller a bit longer, and if drinking overly sugary, cold coffee is the way to do it, I'm willing to suffer.

"Then call me Kian." I sit down at the table, watching her as she moves around the kitchen, her shoulders and posture tense. "If we're going by first names."

She ignores the offer, pouring a generous amount of the coffee into a black mug and setting it down on the table in front of me, before reaching for a half-full mug that she must have abandoned when I knocked on the door. "So. Is there anything else I can do for you?" She leans back against the counter with her cup as she says it, instead of sitting down at the table with me. There's clear distrust still in her eyes.

"I'm just curious, is all. I'd like to get to know everyone I'm responsible for keeping safe, here. One of the benefits of small-town living, isn't it? You can get to know everyone you live near."

Sabrina snorts, then catches herself. "I'm still getting used to it," she says quickly. "I haven't been here long. But I suppose you knew that already. How did you know that already?" She pauses, and when I don't reply instantly, she answers her own question. "The neighbors, of course. Marie." She lets out a small sigh. "Another thing I'm not entirely used to. Everyone else knowing my business."

"It can be an acquired taste."

That eyebrow arches again. I feel an odd, itching urge to close the distance between us, reach up, and smooth my thumb over the curve of it. Close on the heels of that thought is the image of pressing my palm to her cheek, my thumb on that small dip in the center of her chin, pulling that full, frowning mouth into mine.

She wouldn't be frowning any longer by the time I finished kissing her. Her mouth would be soft, swollen, slack. Warm from mine. Her eyes luminous and wide instead of narrowed and suspicious.

My cock twitches at the thought, a pulse of arousal prickling over my skin as I feel it swell, pushing at the front of my zipper. I'm pretty sure the dark brown slacks aren't going to do all that good of a job of hiding my burgeoning erection, and I will it to calm down.

That's not what I'm here for. Not right now.

I clear my throat, shifting in my seat in a way that I hope isn't overly obvious. "What convinced you to move here? Since you seem so uncomfortable."

"Like you said, I'm sure it's an acquired taste." Sabrina takes a sip of her coffee. "I just haven't acquired it yet. I was starting to feel overwhelmed where I lived. I needed some peace and quiet. So I came here." She shrugs, but there's a stiffness to it that I notice. A practiced way that she speaks, as if she's reciting something she's memorized. "But it's been more of an adjustment than I expected. I'll get there, I'm sure."

"Well, if you need someone to show you around, I'd be happy to help." I set down the mug of coffee, unable to manage another sip, and lean one elbow on the table. "I could take you out for dinner one night. Give you a little taste of what the town has to offer."

That eyebrow somehow arches even higher. "Are you asking me out on a date , Sheriff Brady? And aren't you new here, too? I should be asking someone else to give me a taste of the town, don't you think?"

An abrupt, hot jolt of anger ripples through me at the thought of any other man taking the coldly gorgeous woman in front of me out anywhere , let alone on an actual date. Irritation at her refusal to call me by my name follows it, adding to the prickling running across my skin like ants.

"I am new here," I agree, keeping that anger out of my tone with some effort. "And what if I am asking you out on a date?" I smirk at her, and I see her eyes narrow.

"Then I'd have to say no," she says, her voice returning to that chilly calm. "I don't think I'm really in a place to go out with anyone right now. But thank you, Sheriff Brady. I'm sure you were just looking out for me, by asking."

There's no room for argument in the way she says it, so I drop it for now, standing up smoothly as I carry my mug to the sink. I pass by her as I do, and I get a whiff of her scent—sweet vanilla sugar with a hint of spice to it. My cock twitches again, that tingling arousal prickling up my spine, and I force myself to keep walking past her. I have the urge to turn and pin her against the counter, put my hand on those perfectly curved hips and show her exactly how little she's actually managed to put me off. How aroused I am by her, despite her coolness towards me.

But I ignore it. I was once a man of great self-control, and even if I've felt that control fraying as of late, I'm not that far gone yet.

Even when it comes to her.

"Thanks for the coffee," I tell her smoothly, picking up my sheriff's hat from the table and plopping it back atop my head. "Let me know if you need anything, Sabrina."

"I will. But I have a friend coming by soon, so?—"

"Don't worry, I'm getting out of your hair." I smile at her. "I won't keep you any longer."

I stride back towards the front door, taking note of the house as I go. It's all simply furnished in a way that implies it came this way. I doubt Sabrina has had any hand in the decorating. The living room is wood-paneled, with a soft floral-print couch and what looks like a handmade quilt over the back, a slightly out-of-date television hanging on one wall. There are no personal touches that I can see that fit the person I met today—it seems like Sabrina is just existing here, without trying to make it her own. I imagine if I went into her bedroom, it would be much the same.

That prickle of desire runs over my skin again at the thought of her bedroom, but I push it away, opening the door. It squeaks on the hinges, and I glance back at Sabrina once before stepping out. She's half-visible through the kitchen doorway, still leaning back against the counter, clutching her mug as if it's a shield. I see a part of her face, thin-lipped and slightly pale, and I file that image away to consider later before I slip outside.

Outside, it's a chilly November day, and I tug on my jacket against the cold, heading out to where my truck is parked. Another concession to this place's small-town sensibilities. There's a police cruiser I could drive, but I like that even less than the truck I purchased shortly after moving here. I think, with brief yearning, of the car I left behind—and then unlock the door, hopping up into the warm, mint-scented interior.

I have every intention of coming back to check on Sabrina later on tonight.

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