When I glance back, I notice the guy outside. Eyes right on me. “No need,” he says. I sweep his features. Light brown hair, short on either side, full on top. Decently toned body hidden beneath a pair of faded Dockers and a black crew-neck tee. Cheekbones that cut like ice and eyes like liquid scotch. Loren Hale is an alcoholic beverage and he doesn’t even know it. All six-foot-two of him fills the doorway.
