“You see, you forgot to get my name.” There go his eyes, roaming the length of me again, like he’s committing it to memory. He lays a hand over his heart like the saint he is. “And it would be heartless of me to let you walk away without it.” “Mmm. A considerate man, are we?” “Yup.” He slips large hands in his pockets, and Jesus, I don’t think the man has stopped smiling. He tips his head. “Emmett Brodie, at your service, my queen.”
