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He needs to be pudgy. His jaw slack. His face uninteresting.
She turned around.
Her prayers were not answered.
Jesus. H. Christ.
He was not bald.
He was not fat.
His face was not jolly or uninteresting.
He looked like a freakin’ Adonis, and Darcy wanted to throw her drink in his face for being so insanely good-looking.
He was tall. Taller than she remembered. At least six-three. And broad. Much broader than she remembered. Even in black slacks, white button down, and a—she swallowed hard—a Christmas tie—he didn’t look to have an ounce of extra fat on him.
And he was looking at her in that way he had. His chocolate brown eyes all intense and direct.
She licked her lips. “Griffin.”
“Darcy.”
They stared at each other, not speaking as the air sparked and crackled between them, just like it had that first time way back in high school. When she’d agreed to come home, she’d fervently hoped the chemistry they’d had was a figment of her overactive teenage imagination.
But one look at him and she knew that was not the case.
His gaze skimmed down her body, his eyes taking a long, leisurely stroll she felt from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Her skin tingled in the wake of his perusal.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve come home.”
Throat dry, she swallowed. “Only for Christmas.”
He cocked a brown brow. “And to what do we owe the pleasure?”
At his question her reasons for stepping foot in this godforsaken little town came rushing back to her.
Griffin Strong was stealing her mother’s house.
Griffin Strong was the reason she had to come to Revival.
Griffin Strong was responsible for pulling her from her New York life where she was confident, and sophisticated, and awesome.
It didn’t matter if he was still hot. It didn’t matter that she’d sparked with him more in these thirty seconds than she had in . . . forever.
All that mattered was he was the reason she was here. That her mom was unhappy.
“You mean you don’t know, Mayor?” With a smirk, she planted her hands on her hips. “I’ll give you three guesses.”
