Usually she knew exactly what she wanted in bed. Usually she got it, because she was used to getting her way and wasn’t shy about voicing it. There was no use sugarcoating her desires, not when there were things to get done. She liked a lot of kissing and foreplay, a good long fuck to work herself up, and then some really intense clit work to give her an orgasm. Wham bam, thank you, sir.

Yet she hadn’t said a thing to Leith last night. She’d let him practically throw her around that truck, her map to pleasure flying and flapping out the open window. At first she’d protested because the thought of not knowing exactly what would happen and how her body would react scared the crap out of her. But in the end, she’d loved it. That might have scared her most of all.

His mouth had almost touched her where she’d craved it. He’d almost dragged his tongue through where she’d gotten swollen and wet. And because that was her favorite act, and because he was Leith, she would have come nearly instantly. Just the thought of it now, the intense dream of what had almost happened, shot a thrilling shiver through her entire body, which she had to disguise by shifting on her Kafe chair and reaching for her coffee. The black liquid made ripples against the cream-colored porcelain and she stared at them, trying to turn her mind to purer thoughts.

This man was doing strange things to her head. He was making her think of the past, of whom and what she’d had to let go when she’d walked away from here. She didn’t like that feeling, that whispering question of What if? There was no room in her life for regret. She’d already overcome so much, and her goals and dreams still rose before her, a mountain she was still in the midst of climbing. To return to the past would be like falling off the cliff face without a rope. To return to the past would mean she’d hit the rocks at the bottom, and land at the feet of her mom, who would laugh and tell her she’d known all along that Jen would fall.

But he was Leith, and the man he was now was far more potent and exhilarating and alluring than his past self.

She wanted him. Maybe she even needed him.

“I see the caber was put back.”

The hard screech of a chair against the floor jolted Jen from her thoughts. The mug slipped from her fingers and dropped an inch or so to the table, sloshing muddy coffee over the side and onto some papers. Opposite, Sheriff Olsen angled a chair to the side and sat down without asking permission, one forearm leaning in to touch the rim of her breakfast plate. He wasn’t leering or smirking, but with a shudder she wondered how much of her body he’d seen last night.

“It was?” she asked. When Olsen nodded, she realized Leith must have hauled the thing back to the park before leaving for Connecticut, when the sun had barely lit the sky. Olsen tapped his pinky and forefinger in quick succession on the table.

“You’re looking at me like you think I burned down the barn.” The concept was so preposterous, she didn’t think a joke would hurt.

“Did you?” He rested his other hand on his round belly.

Did he really think she did it? She swallowed and looked as serious as possible. “No.”

He let her sweat for a good ten seconds before shaking his head. “I believe you. We’re looking at other suspects.”

“When I was in there the other day, I saw a blanket and things that looked like someone had been sleeping there. Or at least smoking some cigarettes.”

“Mind if I have someone call you later for the details?”

“Sure.”

Since Olsen didn’t seem to be going anywhere, she asked, “So what’s a Swede doing in this valley? I’m surprised they didn’t stop you at the gates and turn you back around.”

He snorted, then wiped his nose on her napkin. “Wouldn’t they have stopped you, too, then?”

“Yeah, but I’m ‘aunt-ed in,’ so to speak.”

Aunt Bev had married a Gleann Scot, though she’d never taken his name, and her husband had opened the Thistle. She’d taken over the B&B after his death. Her aunt had once said that because she’d stayed on in Gleann and showed such love for the Thistle and what her husband had built, the native community had gradually—although possibly never completely—accepted her.

“I’m half-Scottish,” Olsen said, his fingers curling over his gut and giving it a good jiggle. “The meatier half.”

After that, the sheriff didn’t seem so much like he’d come over here to interrogate her. “The caber was my idea,” she said. “So if you need to write anyone up, it should be me, not Leith.”

Olsen waved the hand sporting a tarnished wedding ring. “You don’t need to worry about that.” He threw a nervous look around the Kafe, clearly anxious about what might happen to him if he ever dared arrest Saint Leith MacDougall for anything, including jaywalking.

“Are you two friends?” she asked.

He gestured to Kathleen for some coffee. “Isn’t everyone friends with Dougall?”

If that wasn’t the truth.

“We’ve hung out some over the years,” Olsen added. “Less since his business took off. Hardly at all since Hemmertex left.”

“You sounded excited about seeing him throw last night. Did you used to watch him at the games?”

“Yeah, of course. Thanks, Kathleen.” He sipped his newly delivered coffee. “Then he stopped winning so he stopped competing. Football, track, the games—he was great at everything. Four years ago he had a piss-poor showing. The shine of his star was gone. So he stopped.”

Jen leaned back in her chair and gazed out the window where Kathleen had gone out to water the hanging flowerpots with a big green watering can. Drops leaked from the bottoms of the pots and splashed against the glass. Olsen’s assessment of Leith didn’t seem right. Maybe part of Leith’s troubles was the fear of failure—anyone who’d been at the top of their field and then stumbled downward would feel the ache of losing—but that wasn’t entirely what she’d witnessed last night.

“When did Mr. MacDougall die again?”

Olsen scrunched up his face. “Three years ago? It was winter, as I recall.”

That made more sense. Leith had thrown badly one summer, then his dad had died that winter. If her math was right, Hemmertex closed and his business dried up barely six months later. Too many layers of loss, stacked upon each other, pressing him down.

Her nose tickled in sensory memory of all the dust in Mr. MacDougall’s home. Though Leith claimed to have healed from his father’s death, he hadn’t. He’d mistaken recovery for just pretending to recover. He thought that leaving Gleann and moving away actually meant he was moving on.

Maybe the town was fooled, falling for his numerous excuses—“I have to work.” “I’ll be out of town.” “I’m not interested in competing anymore.”—but Jen saw his denial for the big ol’ Band-Aid that it was.

If Aimee were inside her head, her sister would be telling her to butt the hell out of Leith’s business. Except that he’d let her into his dad’s house and inserted himself back into her life and, yes, her heart. He didn’t honestly expect her to turn her back on that, did he?

Maybe he did, since she’d been the one to walk away ten years ago.

“Well.” Olsen gave the table a slap and stood. “I just wanted to let you know the caber was taken care of, in case you hadn’t heard. See you around.”

He wandered over to the back booth, which had already been set with two newspapers side by side.

Jen needed to work someplace else. Someplace that didn’t scream Leith! around every corner. Yeah, right. Like that place existed anywhere in a ten-mile radius. Maybe Aimee would let her camp out at the kitchen table in the apartment above the Thistle’s garage. She gathered up her papers, shut down her laptop, and grabbed a cold sausage with her fingers, eating it in three bites. After paying her bill, she was on her way out when Bobbie glanced up and their eyes met. It would be awkward to just walk out without saying anything; that’s how Gleann worked. Jen went over and greeted her.