Page 3 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

Her mouth moved before her brain caught up. "Your charm."

"So you admit I'm charming?"

"Not the first line that comes to mind."

He leaned a fraction closer, voice dropping to a low gravel that stroked over her skin. The oxygen between then evaporated and her lungs caught. "I have this talent for leaving a lasting impression."

"I'm sure you do," she said, masking her quickened heartbeat with a laugh. She forced her shoulders loose, pretending her pulse was not sprinting toward her throat.

"Do you doubt me?" he teased. "I promise, I'm very persuasive when I want to be."

Her stomach tightened. Persuasive was exactly what had terrified her in theory, and even more in person. She stepped back, an instinctive half-retreat that gave her lungs space.

"I've met persuasive men before," she said, keeping her tone light. "Most don't last long."

He smirked, letting the air hum between them.

"Challenge accepted," he said. The confident tone was that of a man who could dominate even in silence—and it crawled right under her skin like warm static.

Her mouth went dry. She crossed her arms because she needed a barrier, however flimsy. "I don't play games."

"Oh, I wouldn't call this a game," he said, eyes darkening with mischief. His gaze was so direct it felt like a hand at her waist. "I'd call it strategic charm."

"Strategic, huh? That sounds exhausting."

"Not for me. But maybe for you. If you're not careful, you might find it irresistible." He glanced into her cart and his expression twisted into wicked appreciation. "Nice melons."

Her brain stalled before jerking to a halt. "Pardon?"

He nodded at the cantaloupes like he was offering medical documentation. "Just appreciating your cantaloupe."

She tossed the tampons into her cart. "You're unbelievable."

"Am I? Or just honest?"

She fought the visceral punch of embarrassment and refused to flinch. "Or you’re just an asshole."

"That's a bad word," a little girl said, then stuck out her hand with righteous confidence.

Lynlee Rose was four and barely reached Sutton's hip, but carried herself like a tiny judge, jury, and enforcement squad. Sunlit strawberry-blonde curls caught the light and were pulled into two pigtails that bounced around her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were wide, sea-glass, and unblinking, they also held this solemn authority of someone who took rules personally. In addition, she had the same stubborn chin Sutton saw every time she looked in the mirror.

Dressed in her favorite outfit—a glitter-slicked tutu, a purple T-shirt with a cartoon horse doing jazz hands, and plastic heels that clicked like power shoes with every step—Sutton's daughter was her whole world. And more.

Lynlee presented an unapologetic palm in demand of payment the way some kids demanded snacks—firm and absolutely certain the world would comply.

Sutton dug through her purse, cheeks still burning, and handed over a dollar. Lynlee dropped it into the little glittery coin pouch she carried like a tax collector.

Colter held out his hand.

Sutton stared incredulously. "What?"

"Where's my dollar?" he asked, two double-barreled dimples appearing out of nowhere.

"For what?"

"Calling me a bad name."

"It's only fair," Lynlee said, backing him like a tiny mafia boss.