Aunt June had taught her better than to show weakness ever again, though the coldness in Luke’s gaze made her want to turn around and start running. This wasn’t the same boy she’d loved. There was a hardness to him—a bitterness in his eyes that made her want to flinch with guilt because she knew without a doubt she was the cause of the changes she saw in him. He was still as handsome as ever—dark blonde hair streaked with the sun and long enough that an unruly curl hung rakishly across his forehead. A day’s worth of beard stubbled his face and a white scar slashed diagonally across one eyebrow making him look dangerous. The scar was new, but the rest of him was so familiar it made her ache with the memories. His chest and shoulders were broader, and a light smattering of pale blonde hairs covered his chest. It was hard not to stare at the picture he made—his bare chest damp with tiny droplets of water and his cargo shorts sitting low on his hips, just below the muscular indents that made her mouth water.
