The man had been spot-on back at the mortuary. Nothing he found was going to produce any leads. Unless the perpetrator—or perpetrators—were total idiots or had never seen a TV crime show, they hadn’t left prints for law enforcement to discover.

He reached down to move aside the leaves on a clump of lilies, and as his T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, Grace’s breath hitched.

Oh. My.

She leaned closer to the window.

Bulging biceps peeked below the edges of his sleeves, snug jeans molded his lean hips, and potent masculinity oozed from his pores.

Now that was a view.

Much more inspiring than the doe and frolicking twin fawns who paraded through her backyard each night on their foraging trek to the woods-rimmed open field behind her house.

But it was far less calming.

As her pulse accelerated, she fanned herself. Was her blood pressure spiking, or had the finicky air-conditioning in the house decided to—

Nate straightened up and turned toward her.

Drat.

She jerked away from the blinds, letting the slat snap back into place. Getting caught ogling the man would be almost as embarrassing for her as his upchucking had been for him this morning.

Footsteps sounded on the back porch, followed by a knock.

Wiping her palms on her jeans, she crossed the room and pulled the door open.

“All done, except for elimination prints.” He smiled, sending a faint fan of lines radiating from beside eyes as blue as the chicory that grew along the rural roadsides.

Focus, Grace.

“That’s, uh, not necessary. I did a forensic fellowship in New Mexico, and the state required a background check complete with fingerprints for licensing. I’m in the FBI database.”

“That will simplify the process.”

“Would you like to, uh, come in? I have coffee or soda or tea. I also have orange juice and, uh . . . milk.”

Milk? Really, Grace? You think a hot guy like this drinks milk?

She tried not to cringe.

If the sheriff thought her offerings odd, he gave no indication. “Thanks. I grabbed a soda while I was at the office picking up supplies. I had to get rid of the aftertaste from my Olympic-worthy hurling exhibition this morning.” He hitched up one side of his mouth.

A man who wasn’t afraid to admit his foibles—and joke about them.

Refreshing.

“I hear you. I lost my lunch at my first autopsy.”

“Maybe there’s hope for me yet.”

“How many have you attended?”

“Too many for my personal taste, too few for a law enforcement professional. I was a local patrol officer before I got elected sheriff, and I managed to finagle my way out of autopsy duty on most occasions. When I couldn’t sidestep it, the result was always the same. But now that I’m sheriff, my stomach needs to get with the program.”

“It will.”

“I hope so. Circling back to your situation, I did lift a few prints from the car and doorknob, but I expect most, if not all of them, are yours. I’ll let you know the results. And I didn’t find any evidence of your trespasser.” He pulled out his keys. “Feel free to call us if anyone shows up uninvited again, though.”