The bell over the door chimes, and a deathly hush settles over the room as footsteps enter the diner. I don’t need to look around to know who it is because my body is already so attuned to Saint Lennox I can detect whenever he’s close. That crazy connection between us sparks to life when he’s near, lifting all the tiny hairs on my arms, making my heart beat faster, my skin heat, and my body ache with need. It freaks me the fuck out. Because I always thought it was a myth authors created to make readers believe in soul-mate love. I have zero desire to live in my own twisted romance novel.
