Thank goodness.
I met Roxy all of fifteen minutes ago. I’m not from Hollister or Rough & Ready Country, though the folks here seem to be nice. And I couldn’t think of a better charity to support.
Cedarville—my town—is only a little bigger. I was really starting to get settled. Feel good about the adjustments over the past year when I got word from the private investigator I hired six months ago thathewas on the move, and I was no longer safe.
Nothing like Las Vegas for one last hurrah. Or a rugged fireman to keep me safe… just in case.
I still don’t know what I’ll do after that. Despite the new life, the new identity, maybe I can’t outrun my past after all.
God, I wish this would all just go away.
“I hope I’ll do,” a deep voice grumbles, startling me.
I turn, coming face to face with the firefighter I bid on.
“Oh.” It comes out on a puff of air.
He grimaces. “Not famous or anything.” He looks down.
“I know,” I chuckle. “The quiet one.”
His gaze levels on me. “You okay with that?”
“You’ll do,” I repeat. “You okay with this?” I ask, holding up the envelope containing the vacation package. “Forty-eight hours in Sin City… all expenses paid.”
His Adam’s apple works, eyes narrowing.
“I know it’s not rescuing cats from trees or whatever the auctioneer said you do for a living, but it sounds like you could use a break, anyway.”
The big man steps closer—still polite, still controlled—but close enough that I can feel the heat of him. Pine and spice. That’s what he smells like, and I have to tilt my head up to see him.
Quiet but not shy.
“You’re tall,” I say.
“Six foot five,” he answers, cocking his head. “You’re short.” He flashes a lazy lopsided grin.
And I already like him. That’s all it takes.
“By a foot, but not especially short for a woman.”
He nods once. His eyes are the kind of blue the sky turns before a thunderstorm. Or the color of the ocean in the winter—dark, mysterious.
His face is broad, angular. Sharp cheek bones. Skin tanned, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. A short, almost buzzed layer of dark blond hair crowns his head, and his neck is thick and muscular like his corded arms, each one easily as thick as one of my ample thighs beneath a fitted black T-shirt and Wranglers with boots and a buckle.
But it’s mouth that gets me. Kissable lips, too many possibilities. The tickets in my hand suddenly feel like they’re burning, just waiting for us to leave.
His eyes dip to my wrist—to the small angel and devil inked there—and linger just a second too long.
Like he’s trying to figure out which one I am.
“That new?” he asks quietly.
My pulse stutters, and my voice comes out breathy. “Something like that.”
I suddenly feel frumpy in torn skinny jeans and a pale pink sweatshirt with matching sneakers. But then again, I never counted on any of this.
“Do we need to head backstage?” I ask. “Get escorted out by security like the last couple?”
