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All of it reminded Patrick of that courtyard girl—the one whose hand he’d held in Belavere City. The one whose cheek he’d kissed. The one he’d thought of every day since.
“I never had a hope in the world of forgetting you, Scurry girl.”
She was, to him, a walking contradiction. Crafter and Artisan. Soft and strong. Vulnerable, yet difficult to read. Wickedly smart and painfully beautiful. A headache to any man trying to divulge all the secrets she was made of.
He was nearing insanity. Lord, but being near her was a descent into madness.
