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For the next twenty minutes, I work.

I smile.

I sell books.

I explain the new children’s reading program.

I am Clara Bennett, town librarian, dependable citizen and woman who absolutely did not lose her virginity to the black sheep of Devil’s Peak and then fall stupidly in love with him.

Everything is fine.

Then I hear it.

The rumble of a motorcycle.

My hands stop.

Lila’s head snaps up across the square.

The engine gets louder.

Several people turn toward Main Street.

A motorcycle rolls around the corner.

It’s black and red with chrome gleaming beneath the streetlights.

My heart stops.

The Indian.

Ryder rides it straight into the square.

Every conversation around me seems to fade.

He wears jeans, black boots and a black T-shirt beneath an open leather jacket.

No helmet.

His hair is windblown.

His tattoos show beneath his sleeves.

And the grin on his face when he sees me is pure Ryder Hale.

Cocky.

Filthy.

Certain.

Oh, God.

He pulls the Indian into a parking space beside the library and kills the engine.

Nobody says anything.

Ryder looks around at the town that has spent eighteen years talking about him.