She’d started dating Tucker in high school, when she barely knew her own body. Even during their “break” in college, she hadn’t been with anyone else. It had always been him—or so she had believed.
Over the years, whatever spark they’d once had dulled to routine. Sex was predictable, perfunctory, and far from passionate. She’d told herself that was normal, that it was just part of being in a long-term relationship. When she worried he was losing interest, she tried lingerie, even some clumsy attempts at role-playing that had bombed dismally.
One night, inspired by an article in a magazine about spicing up your love life, she’d worked up the nerve to try out some dirty talk. It had taken all her courage, but instead of the reaction she’d hoped for, Tucker had given her a blank stare.
“Babe,” he’d said with a faint look of disapproval on his face that mirrored his mother’s, “that’s not you.”
She’d laughed it off like she’d been joking and never attempted it again.
Between teaching her dance and yoga classes and getting the studio up and running, she was too exhausted to care. She hadn’t missed their intimacy—at least not consciously—and Tucker hadn’t pursued her either. In fact, his attention had been increasingly absorbed by the six-packs he brought home more often than flowers.
When was the last time they had been together? A month? Longer? The question nagged at her as she rinsed the shampoo from her hair, letting the shower’s heat soak in. It made her sick to think she’d gone to her annual last month, talking to her doctor about getting off birth control so she and Tucker could “start trying soon,” while he’d been sneaking around behind her back.
They’d fallen into such a monotonous routine that it was hard to pinpoint the last time they’d had sex, because it certainly wasn’t missed. Wasn’t that just what happened when you’d been with someone for almost half your life?
Bitterness burned in her throat as the sharper truth landed. He hadn’t been missing sex at all. He’d found it—just not with her.
She rinsed her hair, shut off the taps, and grabbed a towel to wrap around herself. The floor was icy cold with puddles from their clothing, but she was warm now.
Movement outside brought her back to the present. Facing Sheriff Callahan after that slip in the shower made her groan. Why did she always manage to embarrass herself around him?
A sharp knock jolted her.
“I found you something to put on.” His deep voice carried through the door. “I’ll leave them on the toilet.”
The door cracked, and his broad shoulders filled the frame as he set down a bundle of clothes without lookingher way.
“Okay,” Lily said, forcing a casual note into her voice.No big deal. She’d just molested the sheriff like a cat in heat, but it was fine. Absolutely normal behavior.“Thanks. I’ll be right out.”
He closed the door. She quickly dressed, slipping into loose gray sweatpants rolled at the waist, a soft navy-and-red flannel, and thick wool socks. The clothes were warm and soft and smelled faintly of clean laundry detergent and that same masculine woodsy scent she’d noticed on his jacket.
She paused, letting the warmth and comfort of them steady her before opening the door.
Chapter Six
Lily steppedout of the bathroom, still giving herself a pep talk, and gripped the flannel shirt close to her chest.Totally normal to be wearing Sheriff Callahan’s jammies. Totally fine.
She didn’t need to look down to know the soft material molded to her without the buffer of a bra. Great. She could only imagine the show she was going to give him.
Oh well. There was nothing she could do about it now. She pasted a bright smile on her face and looked around.
A warning growl rumbled through the dark cabin, stopping her cold. Red eyes glowed from the shadows, and she caught sight of dark ears pricked forward. She swallowed hard, resisting the urge to squeak.
Of course his dog is terrifying.
“Riggs, quiet.”
The command snapped through the air like a whip, making her jump to attention. Fresh embarrassment burned her cheeks. Between the two of them, the dog and his owner, these were going to be a long few days.
“I don’t think your dog likes me,” she said nervously, edgingtoward the fire where Callahan kneeled. “Which is weird. Animals usually love me.”
She held her hands closer to the stove and kept a wary eye on Cujo. All that dark fur made him look as muscular and menacing as the horror-movie dog. She exhaled slowly—still lake—and all that.
It’s fine. Just a dog. A very large, mean-looking dog. Would it kill him to wag his tail?
“My sister Allie has a golden retriever named Walter. He’s a very good boy. And Amber has a rescue dog named Puddin’ that loves to cuddle. They adore me.” She shot Cujo a wounded look.
The dog stared her down… and won.
