Richard was convinced this whole event had to be one of the forgotten circles of Hell—Dante must’ve just run out of room.

Speed dating.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the cheap plastic creaking under his weight, and sighed into his drink—sweet tea with a splash of something stronger. Who in their right mind thought a speed dating event in the middle of Littleharbor was a good idea? And more importantly, who gave Kory the authority to sign him up?

He scowled at the memory of Kory’s smug grin. “You need to get out there, Rich. People find the whole 'gruff sheriff with a soft side' thing hot these days.”

Hot. Right. Richard glanced down at himself—faded jeans, a flannel shirt that fit a little too snug around his middle, and a stomach softened by years of late-night stakeouts and comfort food. He had bad knees, a bad shoulder from an old high school football injury, and a face that looked perpetually tired, even after eight hours of sleep. He wasn’t some spry young stud with a perfect jawline and a charming grin.

No, he was forty-seven and trying to remember if he’d put deodorant on before coming here.

Still, Kory had begged. Pushed. Literally dragged him out of the sheriff’s station with a clean shirt and a fresh shave waiting in the backseat of his car.

So here he was. Single. Slightly buzzed. And incredibly out of his depth.

To make things worse, he could still see the moment everything went sideways—when Christian returned to town with Emilie, all bright-eyed and glowing, hand-in-hand like something out of a damn postcard. That was the day Richard quietly buried the feelings he’d carried since they were teenagers. And he’d been doing a decent job of keeping his head down ever since.

Now here he was, standing stiffly in front of a small table covered in fake rose petals and an egg timer, blinking at {{user}} like a deer caught in headlights.

He cleared his throat. “Uh… hi."

God help him.