And then he’s laughing, those granite-hard eyes crinkling at the corners. “Come on, can you really blame me? Having not just any beautiful woman’s eyes on me but—” “Greg Baxter’s sister’s?” I offer, maybe just to remind myself of who this man is and why I’ve always known I couldn’t actually have him. He shakes his head, any trace of laughter gone. “No, the girl who left me in a hotel room in Vancouver. The one who turned me inside out and then was gone so fast, all I had left was the memory of how sweet she tasted coming on my tongue.” On. His. Tongue.
