Page 5
I’m too busy staring at the stranger to hear much of it.
He lowers his paddle and starts toward the stage.
The crowd parts for him.
Not because he’s pushing.
Because nobody seems particularly interested in standing in his way.
As he approaches, I notice more details. The thick silver ring on his right hand. The scarred knuckles. The way his left leg doesn’t move quite as smoothly as his right.
My mouth goes dry.
No.
It can’t be.
He stops at the bottom of the stage and looks up at me.
“Coming down, sweetheart?”
The word hits somewhere low in my stomach.
I lift my chin. “Depends. Are you planning to murder me?”
“Not tonight.”
“Comforting.”
“Got plans tomorrow?”
A startled laugh escapes before I can stop it.
His head tilts again.
“There’s that mouth.”
My breath catches.
I know that phrase.
I know it as surely as I know the smell of cinnamon rolls coming out of my oven.
I descend the steps slowly, refusing to acknowledge the sudden weakness in my knees.
Up close, he’s even bigger.
His shoulders block half the ballroom. His black shirt stretches across a broad chest, and dark ink curls over the side of his neck.
I recognize the tattoo.
A black raven.
He got it when he was twenty-two.
I was sixteen, sitting on the workbench in his father’s garage, teasing him about getting a bird permanently inked on his skin.
He told me ravens were smart.
