I look out the big glass door at him, his short curls blowing in the Miami wind. His eyebrows are knit together, probably due to Nancy’s horrendous voice coming through. Then he lifts his eyes, and they meet mine. He smiles, and I blush. Aunt Gerri’s term “boy” almost makes me laugh. Upon just looking at him, there’s nothing “boy” about Dax Thatcher. He’s strong and sturdy and hard in all the right places. But I have a feeling that there might be a softer side to him. Half of me is dying to dig it out. And the other half knows I should keep it buried, before I bury myself.
