Six feet and at least three inches of tall, brooding blond man leaned against the counter of the Citibank and invited her over. For sex. Sarah remembered her last long, coherent conversation with Aunt Joan, near the end of her two-year battle with ovarian cancer. It’s not long now. Promise me, promise me when I’m gone, you’ll go back to the way you were. You’ve given up so much of your life to take care of me. It’s not the kind of challenge a twenty-five-year-old woman should take on. Do something just for you. Moving from San Francisco to New York was the first step. Opening the food truck with Trish was the second. The next thing she’d like to do, just for herself, had just invited her over for an afternoon delight. He looked like a surfer god but without the shaggy, salt-rough hair, and, okay, he was too tall to surf more than casually. She’d dated her share of professional surfers, so she knew all about the body type.
