Ashley woke to the smell of food cooking. She sat up and stretched her arms above her head. Several vertebrae in her back cracked like popcorn in a microwave. The sky outside the window was dark. Panic shot through her. How long had she slept? The clock read seven thirty. There was no sign of Deuce. The bedroom door was closed.

Had Smith seen her sleeping? Ugh. She tossed back the covers and headed for the bathroom. She used the toilet, then studied her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had dried curly like it always did when she couldn’t tame it into submission with a hairdryer and round brush. She finger-combed it over her shoulders. Not bad. If she squinted and angled her head sideways, the style could pass for “beachy waves.” At least her color was less corpse-like. Even better, the dizziness was gone. She felt the back of her head. The knot was smaller but still tender around the edges.

More food smells wafted through the closed bathroom door. Her stomach growled.

She looked at the offending organ in the mirror, then lifted her gaze to her chest.

Her braless chest. The t-shirt Smith had given her was thick, but there was no hiding her curves. Her jeans and tube top still sat on the sink. She touched the tube top. It would give her a little support…

“You showed up with your tits falling out of your top.” Dean’s voice in her head was loud and ugly.

She lifted the tube top. The smell of garlic drifted over her, and she dropped it back onto the counter.

No way. No way could she stand having a reminder of Dean next to her skin.

The muffled clink of pots and pans sounded from somewhere downstairs.

She gazed into the mirror and lifted her chin. Fuck you, Dean Lacy. She’d march down the street topless if it suited her. “Asshole,” she told the mirror, then she hitched her borrowed sweats higher on her hips and left the bathroom.

It wasn’t hard to find the kitchen. Whatever Smith was cooking, it smelled amazing. She followed the scent downstairs, past the sitting room, and down a long hallway that opened into a spacious kitchen with white cabinets and stainless-steel appliances. Smith stood at the stove with his back to her. A large island topped by a thick slab of veined granite separated them. The stove’s hood was one of those fancy wall-mounted units that looked like the awning over a French bakery. There was also a retractable pot filler. In a breakfast nook off to the right, a gleaming black farmhouse table made a sharp contrast to the otherwise all-white kitchen. She’d attended enough Hollywood parties to know the kitchen was top of the line.

As if he’d sensed her presence, Smith turned around, a wooden spoon in his hand. He wore jeans, a tight, gray t-shirt, and a white bistro apron tied around his waist.

Dear Lord. She opened her mouth. Or maybe it fell open.

He set the spoon down and rounded the island, concern stamped all over his face. “Hey. How do you feel?”

She snapped her jaw shut. He stopped in front of her, one big hand on the island. His t-shirt molded against his chest, revealing hard pecs and a flat stomach. Officer, I need to report a crime.

“Ashley? You okay?” He reached out like he might touch her hair, then let his hand drop back to his side.

Focus, idiot. She gave him what she hoped was a bright smile. “Yes! Sorry…I, um, didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

“No, don’t be sorry. Your body obviously needed it.”

Her cheeks heated. Even though he’d meant it in a clinical sense, his reference to her body made warmth pool low in her stomach.

His hazel gaze searched her face. “Any headaches? Dizziness? You probably have a concussion.”

“A little earlier, but nothing now. I feel pretty great.” More heat rose in her cheeks. “Actually, I think I might have just been drunk. I felt a little hungover this morning.”

“Are you sure?” His gaze flicked over her hair. “That was a decent-sized knot.”

She lifted a shoulder. “It’s mostly gone now. My head must be as hard as my grandma always said.”

A smile shone from his eyes. “That sounds like my abuela.”

Abuela? Her Spanish was rudimentary, but you didn’t live in Los Angeles without picking up the basics. And he’d used a couple other Spanish words around her. If Dean was right about Smith’s heritage, was he also right about his family’s drug connections? Nothing about the tall, devastatingly handsome chief of police standing in front of her indicated a tawdry past. Dean was probably just jealous. Or racist. A shiver of disgust rippled through her.

“What are you thinking about?” Smith asked, his voice soft.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say nothing, but something in his face made her think he already knew the answer to his question. “Someone I’d like to forget.”

“He won’t hurt you again.”

“I know.” His gaze was so steady, so pure, she had to lower her head. “I was stupid to go out with him.”

“Not stupid.” A warm hand lifted her chin. “I don’t ever want to hear you blame yourself for his actions. What happened was not your fault.”

His touch was so gentle—so altogether different from Dean’s bruising grip—that her breath caught in her chest. And deep in her core, heat bloomed. She swallowed. “O-okay.”

Was that scratchy whisper her voice?

“Good,” he said. He released her, moved to the table, and pulled out a chair. “Here, sit. I’ll grab you a bowl.”

His touch still buzzed against her chin as she walked over. As she sat down, he pushed the chair in for her. More heat surged to her cheeks. Apparently, chivalry wasn’t quite dead. At least not in South Central Texas. Had she found a bona fide dream man? Wait until Pia heard about the apron.

He returned to the stove and lifted the lid on a large pot. “I hope you’re hungry. I made stew.” He gave her a mischievous look over his shoulder. “I also hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

Her mouth almost fell open again. Smith Salvatierra—taciturn police chief and upstanding Boy Scout—was teasing her? Maybe she was still upstairs in bed, and this was all a dream. She pinched the fleshy part of her thumb. Nope, she was definitely awake. And he was waiting for an answer. She tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Ah, no. I’m fully carnivorous.”

His look of approval was enough to make her swear off vegetables for the rest of her life. Then he winked and turned back to the stove. His voice drifted over his shoulder. “You can take the girl out of Texas…”

Her stomach did a flip. The apron didn’t cover his ass, which was… She took a deep breath. Even the hottest guys tended to struggle in the backside department. Smith was not among those ranks. The jeans hugged his hips and rounded cheeks before tapering into lean legs. The man had to do squats like his life depended on it. There was no other explanation for such perfection.

He ladled stew into a bowl and turned.

She tore her gaze away from his hips.

He walked to the table and set the bowl and a spoon in front of her. Steam rose from the bowl, which was filled with chunks of potato, carrots, and beef. Her stomach growled.

He smiled down at her. “You should eat while it’s hot.”

That smile was more dangerous than his gun. The stern police chief disappeared. A devastating rogue took his place. His teeth were as straight and white as any in a toothpaste commercial, but that wasn’t what drew her. The smile lit up his features and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Distraction… She needed a distraction. She pushed back from the table. “I can’t let you serve me like this. Let me help—”

“Not tonight. My kitchen, my rules.” He pointed to her chair. “Sit right there and eat before it gets cold. That’s an order.”

A little thrill shot down her spine. His tone held an edge of humor and…something else. She lifted a spoonful of stew and blew on it. “Where’s Deuce? I didn’t see him upstairs.”

“Outside.” Smith returned to the kitchen. “He likes to putter around the yard in the evenings.”

“Thanks for leaving him with me today. It…helped.”

He turned from the stove. “You never need to worry about your safety, you know. Lacy won’t bother you again.”

He sounded so confident. It was probably easy to feel that way when you had a badge and a gun—and two hundred pounds of muscle to back it up. She cleared her throat. “I hope you understand my reasons for not filing a report.”

“I understand them, even if I don’t necessarily agree with them. But justice has a way of catching up with people who deserve it.” He turned back to the stew, but his words still reached her. “I’m confident he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

Smith made several more trips from the kitchen to the table. Eventually, it held a stack of napkins, two tumblers filled with sweet tea, and a plate of cornbread stacked like mini bales of hay. When he was finished, he sat across from her with his own bowl and raised his eyebrows. “How is it?”

She ate her now-cooled bite—a mix of soft, savory carrots and celery. After twenty-four hours without food, it was ambrosia. She swallowed. “It’s amazing. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“I haven’t had sweet tea in forever.”

He smiled over his glass. “This is Texas, darlin’.”

God. If he smiled that like again, she was going to embarrass herself. She tore her gaze away from his face and shoveled more stew into her mouth.

They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the clink of their spoons against the ceramic bowls. Eventually, she put her spoon down, her belly filled with warm stew and enough cornbread to feed a family of four. If Smith was shocked at the sight of a woman eating like a trucker, he didn’t show it. If anything, he seemed pleased by her appetite. A few times, he’d nudged the bread platter closer to her, like he enjoyed watching her eat what he’d prepared.

She gestured to the kitchen. “Your house is gorgeous, you have the world’s sweetest dog, and you can cook. How in the world are you single?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to sink into the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She clamped her mouth shut. Maybe if she prayed hard enough, lightning would strike her where she sat.

Faint color stained his cheeks, but he smiled, his gaze on his bowl. “No, it’s okay. I…haven’t had much luck in the romance department. With the hours I work…” He shrugged.

She could hear Pia now. “Way to go, Ashley. The man made you stew, and you go and stomp all over his ego.”

“That makes sense,” Ashley said quickly. “And Prattsville is painfully small.” She let out a short laugh. “Although, I can’t say I’ve had any luck in L.A., either.”

“But you’re so beautiful.”

Their gazes met. Something in his told her he hadn’t meant to say that, but it didn’t matter. An unspoken exchange passed between them—a tacit acknowledgment of mutual desire. It hovered in the air, waiting for either to seize it and say it aloud.

Smith looked down, and the spell was broken. He pushed his empty bowl away and stood. “Speaking of the world’s sweetest dog, I should check on Deuce. He loves being outside, but it’s getting late.”

“Of course.” Warmth curled in her belly, but it wasn’t from the stew.

He nodded and disappeared into the front of the house.

Whoa. She sat back in her chair, her mind spinning with a dozen questions. He thought she was beautiful? Was he prepared to act on it? More to the point, was she prepared for him to act on it? It was times like this she missed her phone. If she’d had it, she could have texted Pia for some quick advice.

Thunder erupted from the hallway, then a streak of black shot into the kitchen. Deuce circled the island like a centrifuge, his tail thumping the cabinets.

“Deuce!” Smith strolled in after him. The look on his face said this was a common event. “Deuce!”

The dog sprinted to Smith’s side. He leaned down and took Deuce’s head in his hands. “Calm down, buddy. We have a guest.”

Deuce’s tail thumped the hardwood. He pushed his nose against Smith’s hand, then reared back and let out a loud sneeze.

Smith met Ashley’s gaze over Deuce’s head. “He’s always like this.”

“Really? I would have never guessed.”

Their gazes held, and another electric current passed between them. The air seemed thick and heavy.

After a long moment, he patted Deuce’s flank. “Time to clean up, boy. And, no, that doesn’t mean you get to lick the dishes.”

Ashley stood with her bowl. “That’s good because there’s nothing left in mine. Thank you for dinner. It was amazing.”

“I’m happy you liked it.” He walked to the table and began clearing it.

“I’ll help you with this, then I should really be getting home.”

He stopped, the cornbread platter in his hands. “I think you should stay another night.”

Electricity sparked along her veins. Casual. Act casual. She walked to the sink and set her bowl in it. “Really?”

He put the platter on the island. “Just in case. I don’t think you have a concussion, but it’s best to play it safe. If you’re here, I can keep an eye on you.”

Oh. How…neighborly of him. Had she misread the past twenty minutes? He was a cop and technically her landlord. Maybe he felt obligated to look after her. Or he might just be one of those people who rescued kittens from trees and helped little old ladies cross the street. What she’d assumed was interest could be nothing more than altruism. For some reason, that thought made her stomach clench. “Thanks, but I don’t think—”

“The temps are also supposed to drop into the twenties tonight. And I know the furnace at your place only works half the time.”

She couldn’t argue with him there. A few nights ago, she’d been able to see her breath inside the house. Given a choice between shivering under three blankets in her old bed and snuggling under the down comforter in Smith’s guest room, it was hardly a toss-up. Still, there was no excuse for her to stay. She didn’t have a concussion. As tempting as it was to let him “keep an eye on her,” it was also very dangerous. This…attraction between them was dangerous, especially since she wasn’t sure how much of it was mutual. He’d taken care of her last night, and he’d been a solicitous host tonight, but a few smiles and a nice dinner were a sharp contrast to the cold shoulder he’d given her over the past two weeks. Which Smith was the real one? And did she dare to find out?

He must have seen the indecision in her expression because he jerked a thumb toward the stainless-steel fridge with a big freezer drawer on the bottom. “At least stay for dessert. I have ice cream.”

“Okay, that’s not fair.”

The side of his mouth kicked up in a sexy grin that seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room. “I can play dirty when I have to.”

She grabbed her tea from the table and sipped so he wouldn’t see how much his words affected her. Maybe she could press the glass against her face when he wasn’t looking. This is dangerous. Actually, it was downright stupid. If she was smart, she’d thank him for dinner and march her butt right across the lawn. That was the right thing to do.

“So it’s settled then,” he said, moving to the refrigerator. “You’re staying.”

She lowered her glass. “Wait. I didn’t say—”

“Chocolate or chocolate chip cookie dough?” He opened the drawer and peered inside. “I have vanilla and rocky road, too.”

How could she do the right thing when he had an ice cream arsenal? “Cookie dough,” she said weakly.

He plunked two frosty containers on the island. “I’m partial to cookie dough myself.” Deuce trotted to Smith’s side and gave a soft woof. Smith smiled as he pried the lid off the first carton, muscles bunching with the effort. “Deuce, though, he’s a vanilla guy.”

She looked between the dog and the sexy, smiling man. Oh yeah. She was so screwed.

He was so screwed.

Smith followed Ashley upstairs. For once, Deuce minded his manners and stayed at his side. After ice cream, the three of them had watched TV in the den for a little over an hour until Ashley had nodded off so hard she nearly gave herself whiplash. He’d suggested they call it an early night and go to bed. Of course, she didn’t know he was exhausted from fighting to keep his eyes off her. Even in the oversized sweats, her firm curves had beckoned. With her tousled hair and big, blue eyes, she reminded him of a sleepy kitten in his big t-shirt.

He’d made three mistakes tonight, each one more fatal than the last. First, he’d called her beautiful. As soon as he’d said it, he knew he was doomed. It was like the door he’d slammed shut between them had cracked open.

She knew it, too. It had been there on her face as they’d watched each other across the table. She knew he wanted her. She just didn’t realize he’d wanted her from the first moment he saw her. No wonder she’d looked confused.

If he was a better man, he would have grabbed that door and closed it again. Then he would have escorted her home.

But he wasn’t and he hadn’t. Instead, he’d kicked it wider by asking her to stay. And when she’d hesitated, he tore the door right off its hinges by making sure she wouldn’t say no—mistakes two and three, one right after the other. He was a goddamn overachiever.

When she’d talked about going home, his gut had lurched. She could never know what had passed between him and Dean Lacy today. Smith knew without asking that she wouldn’t like it. And until he knew for certain that son of a bitch had gotten the message, he wanted to keep her as close as possible.

It would be easy to pretend that was the only reason he wanted her in his house. But that would have been a lie, and he never bothered lying to himself.

She reached the top of the stairs and turned.

He stopped two steps below her, one hand on the railing. The position put him at her eye level. Deuce went ahead and plopped on his butt next to her. She smiled and rubbed his head.

“Well,” she said, looking at Smith. “Good night.”

“Good night. Do you need anything?”

“No.” She fingered the bottom of her shirt. “As long as you don’t mind me sleeping in your clothes.”

And didn’t that just make blood shoot straight to his cock. He tightened his grip on the railing. “Not at all.”

“All right. Well…” She glanced at her room.

“Hey, one thing.”

“Yes?” She tilted her head, and a thick curl fell over her shoulder. The curved end fell over her nipple, which was just visible under her shirt. The pressure in his cock ratcheted up a notch.

“The house is old. If you hear any…noises or anything at night, don’t be alarmed. Sometimes drafts blow through. It can be a little scary if you’re not prepared for it.”

“Sure. It’s the same at my grandma’s place.” Pink tinged her cheeks. “Well, it’s your place now.”

Guilt stabbed at him, which was silly considering he’d paid more than the property was worth. Cheryl had been in a hurry to sell. He cleared his throat. “Also, I’m a bit of a light sleeper. It’s probably best if you don’t walk around a lot at night.”

She bit her lip. He wondered if she had any idea how such a simple gesture made his blood pound. “No problem,” she said.

“Thanks.”

She rubbed between Deuce’s ears. The fool dog closed his eyes and swayed. “Thanks for letting me stay,” she said. “Thanks for last night, for everything you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done much.” Damn, but her eyes are blue. His cock throbbed. With the blood supply to his brain dwindling, some stupid instinct made him add, “That’s what neighbors are for, right?”

Her smile froze. It was fast—if he’d blinked, he would have missed it—but it was there. Then she brightened and said, “Right.”

Shit. Could he have picked anything more stupid to say? He groped for a witty comeback, but she gave Deuce a final pat and slipped into her room.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Deuce, who had swiveled his head to follow her, turned back to Smith and gave him the canine version of a look of pity.

Smith curled his fist against the railing. A heavy sigh rose from his chest. Deuce’s ears perked up, and he let out a low whine.

“Come on, boy.” Smith climbed the rest of the steps and led Deuce into his bedroom. He didn’t bother with the lights. Moonlight streamed through the windows and painted the floor silver. Deuce started for his spot in front of the fireplace, but Smith clicked his fingers, summoning him back.

“No treadmill tonight, buddy.” Ashley would hear the noise.

Deuce’s hindquarters shivered, then he leaped onto the bed and settled himself on the bottom half. It was a bad habit, letting him sleep on the bed, but Smith didn’t have the heart to tell him no.

He went to his dresser and pulled out a pair of shorts. He started to shut the drawer, then hesitated, his hand hovering over the clothes. After a second, he reached underneath and pulled out a photo. It was old—at least by current standards. Taken before smartphones and selfies, it was creased down the middle and ratty around the edges. He carried it to an upholstered bench at the end of his bed and sat down, then rubbed his thumb over the glossy surface. He’d told Ashley that justice had a way of catching up with people who deserve it, but there was more he could have told her.

Like how sometimes justice got it wrong. Other times, it was just plain indifferent.

Round, grinning faces stared up at him. He closed his eyes. It was best he hadn’t told her the last parts. She belonged in a world where only the first part was true.

In other words, a world apart from his.

He opened his eyes and heaved himself off the bench. By the window, the treadmill gleamed in a puddle of moonlight.

Two nights without a run. He’d done it before with no problem.

He replaced the photo, then changed into his shorts and climbed into bed. Before he lay back, he gazed at his bedroom door. It was ten, maybe fifteen, steps to her room. He could get up, cross the hallway, and see her within seconds.

But he wouldn’t.

He punched his pillow into the shape he liked, lay down, and turned away from the door.

The hallway between them was narrow, but it might as well have been a mile.