Line of Fire. Julie Leto

only chicken scratches in the dirt. I meant what I said that night last month. I’m not the marrying kind. If you came back because I’m here, you’re wasting your time.”

      Her back straightened and her chin came up a notch at a time. What an ego. Skyler Buchanan was a serious, smoldering man any woman in her right mind should avoid. He’d seemed so different that night over a month ago. For a few, brief hours, she’d believed she’d found a kindred spirit. She’d been wrong, of course, just like she’d been wrong about so many things in her life.

      “Look,” she said. “That night, I was reeling from the news that Kate and Dusty were forever lost to me. My defenses were down, my emotions were a mess, my heart was heavy. Don’t worry. I’m not looking for a husband. Even if I were, I’d have to be an idiot to think you’re husband material. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to lock up.”

      Before Sky knew how it had happened, he found himself staring at the peeling paint on the outside of her back door. He heard the lock turn. He was pretty sure the clunk that followed was a heavy piece of furniture being propped against the door. For some reason, that rankled.

      She could take care of herself. That much was clear. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to put an end to what could have been another night of unforgettable passion.

      Forget it, he told himself, cramming his hat on his head. Meredith Warner was putting down roots. No matter what she said, pretty soon she would want a man, a ring and a family. That made her off-limits to him. Now, if only someone would explain that to the part of him still reacting to the sight, scent and feel of her in his arms.

      Meredith listened to the sound of Sky’s retreating footsteps. Scrubbing a hand across her weary eyes, she turned very slowly, and finished closing the windows and turning out the lights.

      She waited until she was in her apartment upstairs to commend herself for holding her head high, biting her tongue, swallowing her true feelings and keeping her pride intact. For a woman who was feeling under the weather, she’d handled that pretty well.

      Her stomach pitched. Oh, she felt wretched. Lowering to the edge of her bed, she swallowed with difficulty.

      Too exhausted to do more than swipe a warm washcloth across her face and brush her teeth, she slipped out of her shoes, peeled off her clothes, and slid between the sheets. Hopefully, whatever strain of flu she’d caught would be out of her system by morning.