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And, God, I want to look at him.
I haven’t seen him in almost two years. It’s not like I think about him every day. But I do think about him. Sometimes.
Like every time someone asks me to dance.
That doesn’t happen very often. I don’t go out, much at all, and especially to places where people dance. But there’s a little bar in Sapphire Falls, the town where I’m currently living and working, and every once in a while the girls will talk me into coming out with them and sometimes a guy will ask me to dance.
And I always think of Torin.
And I always say no.
I tell myself it’s because I’m not very social and don’t really like dancing. Both of those things are true.
But if I was really honest, it would be because I know I won’t enjoy any dance as much as I did the one I had with Torin.
And now he’s here. Right here. Touching me.
The air around me heats, at least it feels like it does, with him right behind me and I have to finally let out the breath I’ve been holding.
I don’t want to turn around.
I’ll act like an idiot. I’ll blush. I’ll probably start sweating. I might even throw up on him. I might cry. That doesn’t happen as often, but if I puke on him, I’ll definitely cry.
He's tall and just seems to take up space with attitude, or confidence, or just presence.
He’s one of those people.
Like Charlie. My driven, can-do-anything-she-sets-her-mind-to sister.
Not like me.
“Abigail,” he says again, softer, gruffer, while touching me.
And now I have to turn around.
When I do, I’m struck with oh, that was a really bad idea.
I stare at him. The last time I saw him he had short, spiked up, blond-tipped hair and a big grin, and gorgeous blue eyes that freaking twinkled.
He looks different now. And amazing.
He’s hotter, bigger somehow, darker. More of…everything I remember.
He’d been wearing a light gray suit last time. I’d really liked that suit. He’d been polished, and clean-cut, and charming. The suit had been a light color. His hair had been a light color. His smile had been bright and easy.
Now he’s wearing dark jeans and a dark button-down shirt, rolled up on his forearms, and untucked. His hair is a deep brown, and it’s much longer now. I want to run my fingers through it. He also has a beard now. Yeah, my palms are itching to glide over that as well.
Until ten seconds ago I would have said I’m not a beard girl. I like clean-shaven, and short, well-styled hair.
I would have been lying, apparently.
At least when it comes to Torin. This longer dark hair and beard really work.
He's also not grinning at me like he did the first time we met. He’s watching me with an intensity that I swear I feel from my scalp to the bottoms of my feet. My body suddenly feels like it’s humming. Like it’s a tuning fork that’s been struck against something hard.
Hard.
Yes, he looks harder than the last time I saw him. Physically—either that suit was covering up some serious muscle, or the guy has been putting in some manual labor since June two years ago. And emotionally. There’s something in his eyes that seems less carefree and fun.
