“Hello?” A deep, raspy male voice asks.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I round the corner, not looking up. “We’re not open today. I was just on my way out.”
The man, dressed in faded jeans and a well-worn black leather jacket, turns around, and my jaw drops. Tucked beneath one arm is a helmet. It’s him. The man from the motorcycle.
Mixed emotions—fear and intrigue—have me reeling.
“Sorry to intrude, but I’m new around here.” His dark blue eyes, like a pair of sexy suede shoes on a discount rack, draw me in.
Under his gaze, I feel naked and a little vulnerable. Although I can’t place the golden shoulder-length hair and handsome bearded face, there’s something familiar about this man. A glimmer of recognition dances in his eyes, and my breath catches. This isn’t right. He knows me.
What’s worse is that I know him. Somehow. Somewhere. We’ve met before. Deep down I think the last time we spent together was not an admirable one.
“The name’s Dwade.” A slow smile builds on his face. “Dwade Marks. And you are?”
Despite my tingling skin and my rapid heartbeat, I extend my hand, ignoring the warnings. “Twyla Vanpeer. I own this shop.”
Dwade takes my hand in his, and something electric passes between us. The jolt surprises me, and then something odd happens. Clarity descends on me, and my pulse calms. Part of me doesn’t want to be anywhere else but with this man while my practical side is nervous. I shouldn’t be anywhere near Dwade.
What the hell was that?
Dropping my hand, I search his darkening eyes for an answer. Surely he had to feel a sensation that strong.
He lifts a bushy eyebrow. “Do you remember me, notlasojtlalis?”
That word. I’ve heard it before, but where?
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