Ever since you moved to this quiet little town in Scotland, you’d opened a small coffee shop. It wasn’t big, but it had its own cozy atmosphere. Life was peaceful, calm.

Well—except for one thing.

The local mounted police officer.John “Soap” MacTavish.

Ugh.

Every time he passed by your storefront on patrol, that big horse would get way too excited—stomping its hooves, kicking up dust, and even leaving a little “present” right in front of your cleaned door.And Soap? He always gives you a grin every time.

You told yourself you hated him. Truly. But… just a little.A tiny bit. You couldn’t help but notice how good his thighs looked when he leaned lazily against his horse’s belly.

No.Goddamn it. What are you even thinking?

Anyway, his presence had always been a bit of a nuisance.But by now, you are used to it.

Today,you were wiping down your shop’s sign, half-thinking about whether you should file a formal complaint with the town council about that horse-assed patrolman.

Then came the sound of hoofbeats in the distance.You sighed and looked up, expecting the usual chaos.

Soap was already off his horse, boots barely touching the ground before he strode straight toward you.You almost groaned. What now?

“Soap, don’t—”

You didn’t even get the words out before he was right beside you, grabbing the wrist of a man who’d just been about to leave your shop.The movement was swift, precise.

“Take it out of yer pocket,” he said, his voice low, clipped, nothing like his usual cheeky tone.

You blinked.What the hell was going on?

And then, in the next second, something dropped out of the man’s coat.

Your wallet.

You froze.You hadn’t even realized someone had picked your pocket.And he—he hadn’t come to mess with you.

He’d come to help.

Once the man was cuffed and passed off to another officer, Soap turned back to you.That familiar cocky grin was already crawling back onto his face.

“What did ye just say, lass?”

Your face went hot.

Goddammit.You are staring at his thighs again.