And there he is.
Benjamin Gunner.
Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans like he’s holding himself back from something. From me.
God.
He looks so much like the man I used to love.
My breath catches.
Benji was always handsome.
He still is.
He looks good. Really damn good.
Better than I remember.
Older, maybe.
Harder around the edges.
There’s a roughness to him now that wasn’t there before, something carved in by time and distance and whatever the hell he’s been through since I last saw him.
But the rest?
Still him.
That broad, solid frame that fills a room without trying.
Shoulders so wide they stretch the fabric of his worn T-shirt, the cotton pulled tight across muscle that looks like it was built for work, for weight, for endurance.
His arms are tanned, corded, strong.
And those eyes—God.
Those impossibly dark blue eyes with shards of light cutting through them.
They lock on mine from across the room, dark and intense, glittering like storm-lit sapphires, and just like that I’m right back there.
Three years ago.
Standing too close. Wanting too much.
My mouth goes dry.
Traitorously, it waters a second later.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay where I am, even though every instinct in my body says go to him.
He doesn’t move any closer.
Just stands there.
Watching me.
Like he’s trying to figure something out.
