The guy with dark hair and intense brown eyes cocks a brow in amusement. He drums his fingers off the table, shooting a look at Saint. He’s built like a tank. Wide shoulders. Broad chest. Biceps bigger than my head. Muscular legs that snugly fit the dark jeans he’s wearing. His expression is the warmest. His gaze bounces from Saint to me to the door behind me. He must be Caz Evans—the muscle.
