I first laid eyes on him in a cemetery and if that wasn’t an ominous sign, I don’t know what is. My stalking, leering, checking out—whatever it was—disturbed me. But not enough to stop searching for him among the granite markers rising from the earth. I usually found him. Either we were on the same schedule or he visited so often it was unavoidable.

He wore a gray hoodie, dark jeans with rips at the knees and what looked like a vintage bomber jacket. His hair, thick and disheveled, covered his neck and curled at the ends, its color somewhere between sand and sun. Broad shoulders and a confident stride made watching him walk dangerously enticing. He paused for a brief moment. My skin prickled as his head turned my way with a stare that lingered a second too long to be coincidental. I dropped my head, rearranging the baby pink roses on Lorraine’s plot, sure they resembled the color on my cheeks. I gripped the stems, ashamed to be caught by Tall, Blond and Brooding, and at such an inappropriate place.

“Well, Lorraine, I got another rejection today.” I fished the crumpled letter from my jacket. I came to see her every time I got a letter—a habit I desperately wanted to break. “This one is personalized, at least, but it still tore my heart. ‘Dear Miss Price, While your work is enjoyable, I didn’t connect to your characters. I felt an overall lack of passion in your writing. As I’m sure you know, passion is the measure of a good romance’.”

I smoothed the paper with my hand before folding it into a neat square. “Then there are some other things about this being a subjective industry and all. How could she say I’m not passionate? And worse, is it true? A writer who isn’t passionate is like the cobbler with no shoes, or the dentist with no teeth.” I stared at the etched letters chiseled into the steely granite headstone. “I once read you wrote eighty stories that were rejected before your first break. I don’t know how you did it.”

The roar of a motorcycle interrupted the solitude. I allowed myself another glance toward the gravel road where he was speeding off into the horizon.

A few moments later, I stood, wiping the dirt from my jeans then taking the sufficiently decayed peach-colored flowers from last week’s visit.

“Until next time, Lorraine.”

I headed down the path myself as clouds curtained the sky, drowning out the sun with shades of bleak.

I made it to the Third Street stop, preparing myself for the three-hour bus ride that would take only an hour by automobile. I didn’t mind the public transportation, though. People carved out time as if it was made of boundless clay, filling every second until no white space remained. The time to think had become a peculiar pastime made for odd people like myself. That was what I did during the long commutes to visit Lorraine. The first drops of rain flicked against me, mocking my good intentions.

It wasn’t so bad. I turned my face toward it and closed my eyes in appreciation of the light mist. Unfortunately, the sky opened and doused me in retaliation.

Shit! Here I was at one of the only bus stops that didn’t have a covered seating area. I held my knapsack above my head as I surveyed my surroundings. My salvation lay in the shop across the street that boasted pictures of whimsical cups on its door and checkered curtains. The aroma of whipped cream, strong coffee and fresh baked pastries beckoned me with each step. If I wasn’t running toward it, I might have floated like a loony cartoon character.

I wrung out my wet tresses, twisting my blonde hair into a tight bun as I waited in line. I blotted myself with napkins in a lame attempt to dry off while I waited for my order. The tables overflowed with people who, like me, sought shelter. Only one vacant seat remained.

Where he was.

His hair was damp, not drenched like mine. A helmet sat on the seat across from him. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and was flipping pages of a newspaper. For a moment I lost myself in him, until someone bumped my shoulder, nearly spilling my drink.

The large-mouthed cup complete with saucer chattered as I walked around the tight space.

“May I sit here?” I asked timidly.

He tilted his head and smiled, pushing the vacant chair out with his foot. Observing him at close range was worse than viewing him from afar. His eyes had the same luminosity as melting chocolate. A noticeable white scar on the chiseled planes of his jaw made him look dangerous. The boyish smile that elicited the slightest dimple disarmed me. But it was the natural tan he sported that invoked my curiosity. It wasn’t orange enough to be fake, but the weather in Chicago hadn’t reached tanning levels yet.

I set down my tray and picked up his helmet. It was heavier than I’d imagined. He took it from me.

“Thank you. The other seats are taken,” I explained. Although a mere glance could have confirmed my statement, he just nodded.

He snapped his fingers and pointed to me. “Graveyard girl,” he said, a trace of a southern twang coloring his words.

I tilted my head, trying to keep my smile from reaching ridiculous heights. “Is that what you call me?”

“In my head, but now that I say it out loud, it sounds creepy.”

“Yeah, it does.” I chuckled, holding out my hand. “Billie Price.”

He leaned over slightly. The scent of soap and peppermint was even more pleasing than the coffee. His smile held the lure of temptation—the kind of expression that made ordinary girls feel exceptional.

“Billie?”

“I know it’s a strange name for a girl.”

“I like it. It sounds southern. Pleased to meet you, Billie Price. The name’s Evan Wright.” He tightened his grip on my hand. I always thought my hands were awkwardly large, but in that moment, my right hand looked tiny, almost dainty, clasped against his powerful one. He flipped my wrist, kissing the underside of it, causing a shiver that travelled down my spine straight to my toes.

“That doesn’t happen to me every day.” My voice sounded unnaturally squeaky. Did they pump helium through the vents? “Maybe it should.”

His trailed his thumb across my wrist before he released our connection. I shrugged off my jacket. His gaze lowered slightly, causing my skin to tingle as if his eyes were touching me.

I gulped my coffee, wishing I’d ordered it iced, because despite the chill in the air, steam rose from my pores.

“May I ask where you’re from, Evan?”

“Everywhere. Anywhere.”

“That’s cryptic.”

He nodded, his grin stretching. “There’s no mystery here. Just truth.”

I doubted that.

“If you want specifics—I was born in Alabama, but we moved to Chicago my freshman year of high school. The accent never swayed.”

Thank goodness for that. My sisters and I often argued the merits of a good inflection on a man. Marley preferred the British sound while Stevie insisted that an Aussie accent did it for her. Personally, I’d always loved the slow, sexy drawl of a southern man, especially when it hit the notes of rich and smoky—slow poured honey over hard whiskey.

“I just got back into town.” He closed the paper, running his finger along its edges.

“From where?”

“Miami.”

Well, that explained the tan.

He took out a glinting copper coin, rolling it between his fingers. “What are you drinking?” he asked, staring at my cup.

“Grande, Quad, Non-fat, One-Pump, No-Whip Mocha.”

“What’s a quad?”

“Four shots of espresso.”

“Shit, you’re an addict.”

“Yes, I’m waiting for an appropriate twelve-step program.”

“The first step is admitting you’ve got a problem, so you’ve got that covered.”

“True. What are you drinking?”

“Coffee. Black. I try to limit my order to a single adjective.”

I hummed along to the instrumental version of Drops of Jupiter that echoed softly from the speakers, thankful for the distracting comfort of a melody. “I have very specific tastes.”

“A girl who knows what she wants.”

“Yes.”

“And what is that?”

His question took me by surprise. He was a stranger asking me something very personal. But then again, I was the one who’d left the door open, hoping he’d step inside.

“Lots of things, but they’re even more complicated than my coffee order and require far more adjectives.”

“Fair enough,” he said, turning back to his newspaper.

I wondered if that would be the end of our conversation. He continued to flip the coin between his fingers. It was the color of a penny but the size of a quarter. “Don’t you usually drive?” Evan asked. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had been paying attention. Had he watched while I’d done my mad dash across the street?

“My car just died.” I winced. “A bad choice of words, considering where we just came from.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Too much to fix.” I busily wiped the invisible crumbs on the shiny tabletop. “I don’t mind the bus, though.”

“Why?” he asked, his voice dropping, as if we were sharing secrets. I had a feeling we were.

“It gives me time to think.”

“And what is it you like to think about?”

You. Pinpricks of guilt hit me like a dozen needles, but I swept them aside. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Actions were objectionable, whereas thoughts wandered carelessly of their own volition. “Just random things.” I looked across the street, where my bus was pulling up. His gaze turned there too. We both watched it pull away without comment. The sky darkened to a dark, smoky color that gave the false illusion of night in the middle of the day.

“You have a bike, right?” It was a dumb question, considering I’d watched him and even moved his helmet.

He pointed to the window where the gleaming piece of machinery with polished chrome and black leather sat like a lone soldier amidst the rain.

“A bike comes with training wheels. I have a Harley. I’m waiting out the rain too. It’s not a good idea to ride in a storm, much less a lightning storm.”

“There is no lightning.” My statement drowned with the harsh, raw crackle of a lightning strike. I gasped, but his expression never wavered as the brief flicker of brilliant blue-white light illuminated the chiseled planes of his face.

“I could smell it in the air.”

Well, that explained the spark I felt earlier…static electricity. I averted my eyes, forcing myself not to stare at the tattoo that started at the right side of his neck and dipped below his sweatshirt. I tried my damnedest not to imagine the black ink as it slid down his body.

“What do you do, Price?”

Did he just call me by my last name? And why did it turn me on? Perhaps in some ways, it created a sense of familiarity between us—one that didn’t exist.

“I’m a writer.”

“Have you written anything I might know?”

“No.”

He arched his eyebrow. “The next time someone asks you that question, you should reply, ‘not yet’.”

“Not yet.”

“That’s better.”

“Are you visiting your family while you’re in town?” I wanted to steer the conversation away from my own failings.

“Yes.” The copper coin rolled between his fingers faster. “I’ll be here for a while.”

“Do you have a lot of family here then?”

“I suppose. My mom, dad, a younger brother and sister.”

“And they all live around here?”

“Yes and no.” He took a deep breath and stared out of the window. We didn’t speak for a while, the silence taking over.

“I visit them at the cemetery.”

My mouth didn’t just gape. It snapped open and shut several times.

“It makes me sound like a walking tragedy, doesn’t it?” The comment would have been dark, if not for the lightness in his voice.

“I can’t imagine it. How do you not raise a white flag?” I asked, my voice cracking in process.

“I do raise one, but it’s a symbol of survival, not surrender.”

“I’m so sorry, Evan. I don’t know what else to say.”

“That’s plenty right there. It’s been ten years.”

“How?”

“A family vacation to Sri Lanka.”

I searched my mind using the references he provided until I figured it out. “The tsunami?” I blurted.

He drummed the coin against the table, but it wasn’t nerves. It actually sounded rhythmic, as if he was accompanying the piped music. “Correct.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t. It’s funny, most people shut down and quietly try to get away from me, like death is a disease and I’m a carrier. Don’t be afraid to ask. You can ask me anything.”

“It happened around Christmas, didn’t it?”

“The day after.”

“And you survived.”

“Only because I wasn’t there. I was here.”

The weight of those words was heavy. They carried with them a thick, palpable tension. I didn’t ask the question, but he provided the answer anyway.

He slid lower in his chair, his long legs extended. “I was eighteen, in my freshman year of college. I didn’t want to go. Plus, there was this girl.” He shook head, his eyes darkening slightly as his grin weakened. “Always a girl. My weakness.”