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The rain was hitting the roof like a bag of brass falling on concrete, and there was Chloe, looking entirely too steady for a woman who’d just downed three double-espressos.
The air in that shop was thick as warm honey, and he was standing there looking at me like I was a first edition he couldn't afford.
His thumb was hooked in the waistband of her trousers, pulling the fabric taut against the swell of her hip like a resistance band.
My psoas is screaming from the tension of being the perfect mother of the bride, but Elias is watching me with a hunger that makes my alignment feel like a lie.