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He laughs. “I’m saying I like them. Your style is like you—a sucker punch people don’t see coming.”
“She’s perfect,” I murmur. “I think so too,” he says softly. But he’s not looking at the picture of his dog. He’s looking at me.
The most genuine, soul-stirring smile forms and his entire aspect brightens when his eyes meet mine. My steps falter. No one’s ever looked at me like that before—like I’m the sunrise after a long winter’s night. Or the first present on Christmas morning. It’s a look you see in movies, and from Graeme, it’s devastating.
