Rob shrugged off his suit jacket the moment he walked into his office. His promotion to detective had been a great opportunity, something that he’d wanted for years.

Unfortunately, it came with the suit requirement.

He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt, and logged into his computer.

Just after seven in the morning, the precinct was fairly quiet.

Which was just the way he liked it.

Fewer people, fewer distractions, a smaller risk of getting caught.

“Fuck,” he muttered, grabbing the mouse and pulling up his email. He was waiting to hear back on a set of prints that had been discovered at a meth lab in Campbell, the next town over from Darlington.

Campbell, Darlington, and Douglasville formed the Tri-Hills community. Separate they were too small to each house decent fire and police departments. Together meant they had more resources and could afford better equipment and staffing.

But that also meant that he was dealing with crimes that Darlington itself didn’t often experience.

Drugs were nearly nonexistent in his hometown. However, Campbell was more isolated and closer to the border of Colorado—which had legalized marijuana.

Consequently there was some spillover into their small Utah community.

Not that meth and pot were on the same level, but they had seen a rise in seemingly drug-related crimes—burglary, muggings, home invasions—in recent months.

Which meant there was a new player in town.

His job was to figure out how to take that person, or people, down.

Simple, that, he thought with a sigh. If only it were easier than clearing his inbox.

Rob had one hundred and sixty unread emails, all sent overnight, but none of them was the one he’d logged in to see.

He wanted answers, dammit. Especially since he’d seen those fingerprints with his own eyes . . . or the bruises created by their owner, anyway.

Angry purple marks marring the skin of a young girl who’d stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. Her skirt hiked up, her shirt torn, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

But it had been her bracelet that made him remember her. That made the case personal.

Strings of yarn woven together, knots sloppily tied.

He didn’t know if a younger sibling had made it for her or a babysitting charge or if it was something totally different.

The trouble was that he couldn’t get his own kids out of his mind.

He pictured Max, tongue poking out as he concentrated, carefully knotting yarn together. He imagined Allie picking colors—pink, pink, and more pink—to make a bracelet for Callie, their babysitter.

And then his mind swapped Callie for the girl in the house.

Rob blew out a breath and shoved up from his desk, his chair teetering then colliding against the wall with a bang.

“Hey.”

The voice was soft, feminine, and sexy as hell.

Which meant he knew exactly who it was before he even glanced up from straightening the chair.

“Celeste,” he murmured.

A flash of white teeth framed in lush fire engine red. Curves for days encased in the department’s blues. Blond hair pulled into a perky ponytail.

Breasts. Ass. Hips. Waist.

This woman had it all.

She closed the door. “I need you.”

The chair slipped from his grip and bumped into his desk. The little frame standing next to his monitor rattled, fell forward.

His family’s smiling faces disappeared, but he barely noticed.

Celeste crossed around his desk, drew his hands to her waist, and kissed him.