We have a reservation.” Devlin froze at the familiar voice, one that sent prickles along his spine as he wove through the crowded restaurant back to his table. Through the chattering throng, the laughter, the clink of silverware, her voice called to him like a beacon. He scanned the room with a sharp gaze…and saw her. There at the podium, talking to the pompous Maitre ’D. His knees locked. Damn, she was gorgeous. She wore a short flippy skirt and make up and—his breath seized at this—her hair was down. It flowed over her shoulders like a silky river. He looked at the man next to her, a hipster with thick rimmed glasses and a shaggy cut. Wearing jeans with a suit jacket. Displeasure snarled in his belly. She was with him? He had no call to be annoyed. He’d said no to her proposition. He’d walked away. She could fuck anybody she wanted. The fact that he hadn’t been able to swallow the regret was his own problem.
