North Country(99)

“I’m game.” It means spending more time with Emery. I finally dare to move in closer, my fingertips toying with the hem of the T-shirt she threw on. “Does your brain ever stop?”

Heat flashes in her green eyes. “It did last night—”

I lean down to capture her lips with mine, stealing one more kiss before she can run away.

But she doesn’t run this time, leaning into my affection, matching it, her palms smoothing over my chest as if memorizing my curves before her hands curl around my neck, pulling me in.

Gripping the backs of her bare thighs, I lift her onto the small counter and push her legs apart to fit my hips between them. She didn’t bother to put her panties back on, and I take it as an invitation, my fingertip grazing her center.

“Wait!” She gasps, pulling her lips from me. “Wait.”

I groan as I pull away, giving her space so she can go over all the reasons we can’t do this ever again.

Our ragged breaths fill the tense silence.

“This can’t happen outside these walls, Logan,” she finally says. “Out there, it’s got to be status quo. No one can know. No touching. No texting each other. There can’t be any sort of trail.”

Am I understanding what she’s saying? “And inside these walls?”

“Inside these walls is none of anyone’s business.” She hesitates, peering up at me with a tentative look. “If you’re okay with that?”

“Are you kidding me? I’ll take whatever you give me.” Because anything is more than I deserve. “But Em, like I said already, I’m not letting you take any hits because of me.”

“I’ll be fine.” She lifts the T-shirt up over her head and tosses it to the floor in answer. Gooseflesh coats her skin as she waits for me to make my move.

I marvel at her perfect, naked body for a lengthy moment, in awe at this turn of my reality, and then I hoist her off the counter and carry her back to my bed.





Chapter 32





Emery




The snow crunches under my boots as I retrace my steps through the field toward my house, scanning my surroundings for witnesses of my trek. But it’s too cold and gloomy for anyone to want to linger outside.

And it’s midmorning, I remind myself. A perfectly respectable time to pay a visit to the Landrys without anyone assuming that Logan and I fucked a half dozen times last night.

A short burst of laughter escapes me, perking Duke’s ears.

“What am I doing?” I say out loud.

I know damn well what I should be doing: reporting my romantic relationship with Logan, a parolee with a grim record. That would be career suicide, of course. There’s nothing explicitly written, no “thou shall not fornicate with those holding criminal pasts.” But without the respect of my superiors and my subordinates, I’d basically be finished. There’d be no chance of promotion—not that I’ve been actively pursuing one.

Doug Freeman wouldn’t keep quiet about it either. He’d tell everyone he could, let it spread like a flea infestation. Then, the pressure would begin. The poor performance write-ups, the public complaints, the anonymous tips to paint me a disgrace to the badge—all in a bid to quietly coerce me to leave, give up a career I’ve dedicated nineteen years to, that I’ve missed birthdays and holidays for, that I’ve put my own life on the line for, time and time again. All the injuries I’ve earned—the dislocated shoulder at a domestic dispute call, the torn ACL while dodging a vehicle that tried to run me over, the concussion after my cruiser was rammed by coked-out armed robbery suspects—would mean absolutely nothing.

All because I love Logan Landry.

But I also love my job, as difficult as it can be, and I’m good at it. And this is my town.

So, no, I’m not handing Doug Freeman or Brad Whitley or anyone else a gun so they can turn it around and aim at me. I’m staying exactly where I am.

Because last night?

And the time before that?

Basically every moment that Logan is around me?

They’re the happiest I’ve been in twenty years. I’m tired of dwelling on the past, on what might have been. What happened to Logan all those years ago was unfair for so many reasons, but it’s over. He’s done his time, he’s home.

He’s come back to me.

And I won’t ever lose him again.





Holiday music plays softly over the Landry Market speakers as I wait to cash out, my credit card in hand, the spicy scent of apple cider infusing the air.

“That’ll be eight dollars and fifty cents,” Annie announces, echoing the register’s screen.

“Can we please not do this every time I shop here?”

“Do what, dear?” She stares blankly at me.

“This.” I gesture at the paper bag full of meals and snacks to get Isla and me through another week. She knows what I’m talking about. Thankfully the market is closing soon and there’s no one here to witness our argument except for Sarah, Macy, and Egan, the children too busy coloring at a table in the corner to care.

“I charged you full price for the muffins. What more do you want from me! ”

I roll my eyes. “There is at least sixty dollars’ worth of food in here.”