For a second, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing. It’s like someone pulled the air out of the room. She’s sitting near the back, half-hidden between two other women, her posture stiff, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes meet mine, and everything that was easy a moment ago shatters into noise.
Oh, hell.
Oh, no.
The same eyes that looked up at me last night when I?—
I grip the sides of the podium, fingers tightening around the edge. My mouth is still moving, words coming out, but I’m not hearing them. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.
Her face doesn’t change, but I see the flicker of recognition. The quick rise of her chest. The flush that climbs her neck before she looks down.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I keep talking—something about safety drills, coordination, public trust—but my brain’s spinning. Why the hell did I have a one-night stand?
I didn’t think. I didn’t want to think.
Now, all I can think about is the feel of her skin against my palms, the sound she made when she said my name, the look in her eyes when I pushed inside her.
Oh, God.
I fucked up.
I fucked up bad.
I catch Gabe’s movement out of the corner of my eye—he’s nodding toward the clipboard the mayor’s holding. My cue to wrap it up.
I clear my throat, trying to sound composed. “The department’s doors are always open. If you see something that doesn’t sit right, say something. Together, we can make sure Driftwood stays the kind of place that takes care of its own.”
Applause follows, hesitant at first, then stronger. I step back, heart still hammering, palms damp.
The mayor smiles, saying something about volunteer recognition. My brain registers fragments—“incredible effort,” “community spirit,” “Driftwood’s heart.” The crowd claps again as a handful of people move toward the front, most of them faces I don’t know. Then I hear her name.
“Millie Harper.”
She hesitates for a second before standing.
The crowd cheers louder this time, clapping, some even whistling. Apparently, she’s known around here—one of those people who shows up to help without being asked. She looks embarrassed, cheeks pink, hands twisting in front of her as she joins the others.
I can’t look away.
Her hair’s pulled up, a few strands falling loose around her face. She’s wearing a soft green cardigan that makes her look like spring in human form. She glances up once, searching the crowd, and for the briefest second, our eyes lock again.
My stomach drops.
The same green eyes. The same soft mouth. The same woman who’d whispered my name like a secret while I held her in my lap.
I’m sure everyone can see it written all over me. The guilt, the shock, the mess of it all. I force my jaw to relax, nod faintly when someone in the front row catches my attention. Just another day, another handshake, another introduction. Nothing unusual. Nothing to see here.
Except there is.
Every nerve in my body’s on fire, because now I’m remembering things I shouldn’t—how she smelled, how she moved, how her fingers dug into my shoulders when she came apart.
My throat’s dry, my collar too tight. I glance toward Gabe, pretending to focus on what he’s saying to the mayor, but my pulse won’t slow.
When the volunteers line up, the mayor shakes each of their hands, saying a few words. I keep my expression neutral, professional. Sheriff. Not the man who spent last night buried inside one of those volunteers.
Millie reaches the front of the line.
