The Sheriff's Nine-Month Surprise. Brenda Harlen

Pizza, which makes the best thin crust pizza I’ve ever had—and their wings are pretty good, too—but eating in means nabbing one of only half a dozen tables crammed into a tiny space and no hope of a private conversation, and Diggers’.”

      “I’ve been to Diggers’,” he told her. “The food was great.”

      “It is,” she confirmed. “But we can’t go there.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because Diggers’ is second only to The Daily Grind for gossip in Haven.”

      “You’re worried people will talk about us sharing a meal?”

      “I don’t want to have to answer questions about how I’m acquainted with the new sheriff,” she admitted.

      “What’s wrong with the truth?”

      She shook her head. Now more than ever, she didn’t want anyone to know that she’d met Reid in Boulder City, because when her pregnancy became apparent and people started counting backward, they’d suspect the baby had been conceived while she was out of town and she’d rather they didn’t know that Haven’s new sheriff had been there, too.

      “Actually, I was referring to the other truth,” he said. “That our paths crossed when you came to my office.”

      Which was a perfectly reasonable explanation. As an attorney, it made sense that she’d want to cultivate a good relationship with the new sheriff. But she also knew that if she was seen in public with him, it would be all the excuse anyone else wanted or needed to interrupt their conversation to wrangle their own introductions.

      “Except that it’s Friday.”

      “And?” he prompted, obviously seeking clarification.

      “And my sister, Skylar, works at Diggers’ on the weekend,” she admitted.

      “We could pick up pizza and take it back to my place,” he suggested as an alternative.

      She hesitated. “Look, Sheriff, despite what happened between us in Boulder City, I’m really not that kind of girl.”

      “You’re not the kind of girl who likes pizza?”

      She managed a smile. “I’m not the kind of girl who goes back to a guy’s place—or invites him back to hers.”

      “I wasn’t expecting to share anything more than pizza,” he said, then shrugged. “Hoping, maybe, but not expecting.”

      The honest response undermined her resolve. “Why don’t I make something for dinner instead?” she impulsively offered.

      “I’d never say no to a home-cooked meal.”

      “I’m not promising anything fancy,” she warned. “But you’ll be able to eat and we’ll be able to talk without a thousand interruptions.”

      “That works for me,” he agreed.

      She glanced at her watch, then mentally calculated the time she needed to make a quick trip to The Trading Post before she could start cooking. “Seven o’clock?”

      “Sure,” he agreed.

      “Okay, I’ll see you then.”

      He caught her arm as she started to turn away. “Only if you give me your address.”

      “Do you know where my office is?”

      “You live at your office?”

      “Above the office. Apartment 2B.”

      “I’ll see you at seven.”

      * * *

      Inviting Reid to have dinner at her place seemed like a good idea at the time—or, if not a good idea, at least a necessary compromise. They needed to talk and she didn’t want to have the conversation where anyone might overhear it. But now that he was here, Kate realized she’d made a tactical error.

      She loved her apartment—the ultramodern kitchen and open-concept living area with tall windows looking down on Main Street, two spacious bedrooms and a luxurious bathroom. Certainly, it had never seemed small—until Reid Davidson stepped inside. He wasn’t a man whose presence was in any way, shape or form subtle, and it was as if he filled every square inch of space with his potent masculinity.

      Being near him had her hormones clamoring so loudly she could barely hear herself think. And while her mind was desperately trying to focus on certain facts that needed to be discussed, her body was stirring, aching, wanting.

      She took the bottle of wine he offered, and as her fingertips brushed against his, she was suddenly reminded of the way those fingers had touched her—the bold confidence of his hands as they stroked over her body, taking her to heights of pleasure she’d never even imagined.

      He’d changed out of his sheriff’s uniform and into a navy polo shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. The hem of the shirt was tucked into a pair of softly faded jeans that hugged his lean hips and strong thighs, as her legs had hugged those hips and thighs, their naked limbs tangled and their bodies moving together.

      She set the bottle of wine on the counter and turned to dump the pasta in the pot of boiling water on the stove, hoping the steam would explain the sudden flush in her cheeks.

      “Did you want wine or beer or something else?”

      “I’d love a beer if you’ve got one handy,” he said.

      She stirred the pasta, then moved to the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of Icky IPA. “Bottle or glass?” she asked as she pried off the cap.

      “Bottle’s fine.”

      Instead of taking the bottle she offered, he wrapped his hand around hers.

      “What are you doing?” she asked warily.

      “Trying to figure out why you invited me to dinner but haven’t made eye contact since I walked through the door.”

      She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I’m just trying to get dinner finished up.”

      “Tell me what I can do to help,” he suggested.

      Go back to Echo Ridge.

      The response immediately sprang to mind, but of course, she couldn’t say the words aloud without then explaining why his sudden and unexpected appearance in Haven complicated her life.

      Instead, she only said, “For starters, you could give me back my hand.”

      He loosened his grip so that she could pull her hand away without dropping the bottle. “What else?”

      She gestured to the living area. “Go sit down.”

      “You don’t trust me to help?”

      “There’s really nothing you can do,” she told him.

      “Do you want me to open the wine?”

      She shook her head. “I’m going to stick with water—I’ve got work to do tonight.” Which was true, if not the whole truth.

      He took his beer and moved around to the other side of the island. But instead of retreating to the living area and relaxing on the sofa, he chose one of the stools at the counter.

      “So what do you think of Haven so far?” she asked, resigned to making small talk for eight minutes while the pasta cooked.

      “I like it,” he said. “It’s a little smaller than Echo Ridge, but there’s a strong sense of community here.”

      “There is,” she confirmed, lowering the heat on the burner beneath the sauce. “Even when I was away at school, I knew I’d come back here after graduation.”

      “Summa cum laude from UCLA Law.”

      She frowned. “How’d you know that?”

      “I