Two dozen blood-red roses in his fist, the bicycle courier stood in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight and scanned the bar.
Alexa wondered what color his eyes were behind his visor.
“Look at him posing.” Thorne’s voice dripped scorn.
“An artist,” Alexa murmured, admiring denim-clad thighs. “Or a model.”
“How he carries himself—” Shit, he was walking toward her.
Alexa accepted the flowers, read the note.
Thorne drained his pint. “Who they from?”
The moment stretched out.
“I don’t know.”
“Secret admirer,” Thorne said, his voice flat, his eyes devoid of anything like a smile.
Don’t forget, there are tons of stories in the archive.