"You know my oven's huge," I said, working damn hard to hit that innuendo. "You're welcome to it any time."
"Your oven is amazing," she said with a breathy sigh. My cock was interpreting that sigh as a point in its favor and I took no issue with that. "But, you know, that's—it's very nice of you to offer."
"But?" I prompted.
She was busy assembling her own slice. "But I can get along fine with my own," she said. "I don't want to trouble you."
"What troubles me is you leaving your home open for anyone to walk in," I said.
"Oh, stop it," she said, waving away my concern. "Nothing like that happens in the Cove."
I traced the line of her jaw with my index finger, drawing her toward me. "That's what everyone says until something happens. Don't leave your front door open all day, Annette. Don't leave the back door to the shop open either."
"Jackson, I've lived here my entire life. I know this town inside and out. You could blindfold me and drop me in the woods at midnight, and I'd find my way home without a scrape. Hell, I can identify most of the residents by the way they jingle coins in their pockets." She pinned me with a sharp look. "I know this town."
My finger still on her chin, I said, "I don't doubt that. I don't doubt you, beautiful. But I know a few things, too, and this town isn't as safe as you think it is."
She blinked, nodded. A flash of surprise passed through her eyes. "Okay. I'll work on it."
"And I'm getting you a can of pepper spray. You're going to keep it with you." I kissed her then, mostly because I couldn't get enough of her lips but also to head off her disagreement.
When we parted, Annette reached for the beer bottles on the window ledge. She passed one to me before taking a long drink from hers.
"What made you come here?" She ran the back of her spoon over the slice of bread, distributing the mustard to every corner. There was an eroticism to her ministrations, something captivating about the capable way her hands moved. "What about Talbott's Cove appealed to you?"
I felt my cock lengthening, hardening as I watched her drizzle more mustard over the slab of cheddar. Why was mustard drizzling sexy? What was it about the way she twirled that spoon over the bread and cheese that made me think of the kind of sex that resulted in broken bedsprings and scratched backs? It took real effort to respond to her question when I wanted to force her legs apart and taste her sweetness.
"I field this question a fair amount," I managed.
"I'm sorry," she said, biting into her slice. "I didn't mean to pry."
"No, it's fine. I like it when you pry. Talbott's Cove isn't the kind of town that brings in a lot of newcomers, and people are curious," I said. I sampled my bread—heaven. I still wanted to feast on Annette but that would keep while we talked. "I usually tell people that I wanted to work in a town where I'd know all the residents."
"But that's not the truth?" She licked a spot of mustard off her thumb and I couldn't hold back my growl. "Or, not the entire truth?"
"Yeah, not the whole truth," I admitted, staring at my beer. The beer wasn't licking its thumb or sitting cross-legged in a short robe with nothing but skin beneath. The beer was safe. "The whole truth isn't a good look for a sheriff."
"I'm sure it's a good look for the man I'm sleeping with," she said.
"Is that what I am?" I squinted at her, not understanding her. "Is that all?"
Her words, they stung a bit. I didn't want them to but they did. I didn't know what I wanted her to say but I wanted to be more than the man she was sleeping with. And I would be. It was just going to take some time.
"Tell me your story," Annette insisted, patting my knee. "We'll save the labels for later. They go better with breakfast. I'll make you some cinnamon rolls with fresh caramel sauce."
"Fuck, yes," I said, laying both hands over my belly. "All right, well, since cinnamon rolls are on the line, I better get on with this." I laced my fingers around the bottle and stared at the ceiling, silent for a long moment as I gathered the words. "There was a missing persons case a few years back. A little boy disappeared, and the circumstances were highly suspicious. Conflicting stories from the parents, physical evidence that couldn't be explained away. Something about that case stuck with me. I couldn't let it go. Even when the evidence dried up and the trail went cold, I couldn't stop thinking about that kid and the gut sense that someone who knew him did something terrible to him. It kept me up at nights, interfered with my cases, drove me damn near crazy."
"That's awful," she murmured. "I'm so sorry, Jackson."
I forced down a mouthful of beer, trying to push images of the crime scene from my mind. Tried, failed. This job had a way of changing people, and that case changed me.
"It hit me hard when his body was discovered. Harder when the forensic evidence pointed toward the father," I said.
I'd never forget the anger that flashed through me like a bomb blast after finding that boy's remains. The anger stayed with me, too. Followed me around for weeks, months. I'd always accepted that some violence was senseless but I couldn't accept this. For a time, I doubted whether I wanted to live in a world with the kind of savagery that had killed that boy.
"It hit me harder than any other murder investigation. I had some time off shortly after that. If I was smart, I would've seen the department's counselor and got my head straightened out, but I didn't. I hopped in my truck and drove east until I hit the ocean. Then, I headed north. It was an unintentionally scenic road trip through Rhode Island, Massachusetts, New Hampshire. I stopped in small towns along the coast, and by the time I crossed the border into Maine, I knew I needed to get out of the city for good. Part of it was the case. The other part of it was realizing I did want to work in a town where I knew every single resident."
"One small step toward saving the next kid?" she asked.
