He’s shirtless, hot and sweaty, and has a towel wrapped around his neck. He looks like he just finished his morning workout. My first thought is that it’s Mr. Sexy, but that can’t be. He’d be back in—was it Seattle? I jog faster and watch as he walks up a set of stairs and goes into a house not far from mine. Then I realize whose house it is. That wasn’t Mr. Sexy, it was just Carter Crawford out for his morning run. Come to think of it, Sexy reminded me a bit of Carter—similar athletic build, great arms, pretty smile. I shake my head. I must be losing it. I’m obsessed with the guy. I look down at the ring still sparkling on my finger. Yep. I’m obsessed. But I can’t stop thinking about him. How hot it was. And how sweet. I just remembered this morning something he did when we were in bed, finally exhausted and falling to sleep. He kisses me on the forehead. “I Vegas love you,” he says, running his hand softly down my side. “Why did you kiss my forehead?”
