The Sheriff's Proposal

He tipped her chin up. “It’s okay to let it out. If you haven’t yet, you’re going to have to soon or it will eat at you.”

“But I…” She couldn’t stop the tears.

He pulled her against his chest. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”

Logan couldn’t help but wrap his arms around Meg. Her reaction seemed to have surprised her more than him. He suspected she wasn’t used to leaning on anyone. From what she’d said about her childhood, she’d learned at an early age to depend on herself. When he’d invited her to have coffee with him, he’d acted on impulse. He’d found himself thinking about her often, wanting to know more about her, weighing the pros and cons of seeing her again.

Right now she was a woman who needed a shoulder…his shoulder. With his arms around her, her hands pressed against his chest, he wished she could just let go of her ordeal and its effects, but it wasn’t that easy. Nothing ever was. He could feel her quick breaths, feel the tension as she resisted his support.

The scent of roses teased Logan, Meg’s curves against him felt too right and holding her aroused him. The warmth between them became heat. Her top was a thin barrier as his thumb slipped from the material to her bare skin. His desire grew stronger, and he closed his eyes. Bittersweet pleasure. His life was a mess. She’d go back to her job after Thanksgiving. Even if he wanted just a—

Meg abruptly pulled away, avoided his gaze and reached for her purse. She took out a tissue, blew her nose, then faced him. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

She looked at the file cabinet behind him. “I’m not like this. I don’t cry. I don’t overreact.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t even know what to talk about.”

“Maybe how terrifying it is to be held hostage?”

She shook her head. “I just want to forget it.”

“I’ve been in the middle of gang wars and drug deals. I understand, Meg, I really do.”

She took a deep breath, and he wanted to pull her into his arms again. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“Dinner?” She looked surprised he’d asked.

He’d surprised himself. “Yeah. I’ll cook something at my place. And if you want to talk about Costa Rica, you can.”

She gave him a weak smile. “And if I don’t want to talk about it?”

He could think of something else he’d much rather do than talk, starting with kissing and ending with… “If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to talk.”

She moved closer to the door, but it also brought her closer to him again. “Lily might need my help if Carmen and Manuel are still here.”

He thought about stepping away from her, but didn’t. “I think she and Ned can handle one evening by themselves. Don’t you?”

When Meg slowly nodded, her shiny hair barely brushed her shoulders. It was as natural and free as she was. He wanted to touch her hair, to touch her. Leaning forward, he felt led by a force greater than them both.

She gazed into his eyes and he couldn’t help but slip his hand along her neck under her hair and lower his head.

Meg waited for Logan’s kiss, thought about it, was eager for it. He’d felt so strong and sturdy and safe as she’d let him hold her. But now, as she gazed into his eyes, she knew he wasn’t safe. There was passion there, and yearning and needs only a woman could fulfill for a man. If he kissed her, they’d tap the need—in both of them.

But Logan didn’t kiss her. Instead, he removed his hand from under her hair, the touch of his fingers as they slid along her neck leaving a burning heat she wouldn’t soon forget. When he raised his head and dropped his hand, she felt a loss of something she suspected would curl her toes.

A slip of a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. With a nod, he gestured to the outer office. Cal stared directly at the two of them through the glass pane.

Logan’s tone was wry. “This isn’t the most private place in Willow Valley.”

She backed away from Logan and picked up her purse on the desk. “Sometimes I wonder if any place is private in Willow Valley.”

He studied her carefully for a moment. “We’ll have privacy tomorrow night.”

Flustered, her emotions swirling, not only from what had almost happened with Logan but from the confusion the picture in the paper had stirred up, she moved toward the door. “All right. Can I bring anything?”

He shook his head. “Just yourself.”

If she was making a mistake, she’d find out tomorrow night.

Chapter 3

Standing at the door to Logan’s house Saturday evening, Meg took a deep breath. The air was getting cooler. September had arrived, and with it the promise of fall. She shifted the bottle of wine to her left arm and rang the doorbell.

A few moments later, Logan opened the door to the brick bi-level. She’d never seen him dressed in anything but his uniform before. He wore a simple white polo shirt, black shorts and Docksides without socks. His thighs were muscled, his legs long, his arms bronzed by the sun. Black hair curled at the V where his two buttons were unfastened. He was sexy and virile, and she was suddenly very nervous.

She handed him the bottle of wine. “I couldn’t come empty-handed.” His green eyes swept over her, from the gold barrette in her hair, over her emerald culotte dress to her white sandals. When his gaze lingered a moment on her lips, she felt shivers slide up her spine.

Taking the bottle from her, he smiled. “This will be just right. I’ve barbecued chicken on the grill. I thought we could eat on the deck.” Logan motioned her inside. “Come on in.”

She followed him up a few stairs to the living room. “Do you have a family room downstairs?”

“I use it for storage. I’m a little short on family right now.”

The pain on his face hurt her. He looked as if he were far away somewhere, and she suspected he was thinking about his son. “I’m sorry, Logan. That was thoughtless of me.”

When he met her gaze, the pain was still there but controlled now. “You couldn’t be thoughtless if you tried.”

“You just met me.”

“Maybe so. But in my business, I have to read people in an instant sometimes. My life has depended on it.”

“Willow Valley must seem tame compared to what you came from.”

“It’s different. But that’s what I wanted when I moved my family here.”

Despite how Logan had reacted at the bakery when she’d mentioned Travis, she wouldn’t let his son be a taboo subject between them. “Aunt Lily told me Travis wasn’t happy here.”

“He wasn’t. He had his mind set before we came.” Logan’s curt tone told her he still preferred not to discuss his son.

Meg examined the living room. A gray sofa, streaked with abstract shapes of navy, sat across from an ebony entertainment center. A gray easy chair complemented the sofa. A ladder-backed rocker, two end tables with gray ceramic lights and a coffee table completed the room. But the place still didn’t look lived-in.

She crossed to the entertainment center and picked up a framed picture on one of the shelves. A teenage boy stood by the trunk of a maple tree, staring absently across the yard. “Travis?”

Logan nodded.