Prologue

      He really was exceptionally good looking.

      A good six feet tall. Probably more. Dark brown hair that she suspected he kept cut short because it might have the tendency to curl into girlish prettiness if he didn’t. Bright blue eyes that seemed startling in contrast to the dark hair.

      The first time she’d seen him was at least a year ago, in the Weaver Community Park. Running and looking far more natural at it than she did. After that, the chance of catching a glimpse of him provided a major incentive for Hayley to drag herself to the park a few times every week, where she would meet up with Sam Dawson, her running partner and one of her best friends.

      Sam ran every day. And trained with weights. She was a fitness fiend; she claimed it was because she needed to keep up with the guys in the sheriff’s department, where she was the only female on the force. Hayley figured that even if Sam worked behind a teller’s window in a bank all day long, she’d still be in the park every morning, snow or shine, doing her thing. Hayley was thirty-five. Too old to kid herself that she ran for the pleasure of it. No. Hayley joined Sam a few times a week because she liked being able to fit into her suits and still indulge in her favorite cinnamon rolls from Ruby’s diner.

      And she liked catching glimpses of him.

      The man—she knew his name was Seth Banyon because she’d heard it around town—obviously subscribed to Sam’s methodology, though. The man was a walking advertisement for the benefits of physical fitness.

      She’d also seen him around town. Often at Shop-World, where his grocery cart tended to be more heavily loaded than hers. He always seemed to buy the same things. A six-pack of beer. Giant loaves of bread. Steak. Bacon. Eggs. Several packaged frozen meals.

      Her cart, on the other hand, contained fresh vegetables and fruit. And never a steak, despite Weaver, Wyoming, pretty much being located in the center of the beef universe. The only item their carts ever had in common was coffee. Same brand. Hers, whole bean. His, already ground.

      “Bring you another cosmo, Dr. Templeton?”

      Hayley gathered her wandering thoughts and blinked once, focusing on the cocktail waitress who’d stopped next to the small high-top that Hayley was hogging all to herself.

      She didn’t ordinarily drink cocktails; usually she stuck with a glass of white wine, which suited the expectations the citizens of Weaver had for their local psychologist, Hayley Templeton, PhD. And she certainly never drank alone.

      Nor did she ogle men bellied up to the bar of Colbys, no matter how nicely they filled the rears of their faded blue jeans and the shoulders of their long-sleeved T-shirts, or how long it had been since she’d had a man’s arms around her.

      One