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tighter than necessary. But I also noticed the way his black shirt stretched across his shoulders and the way his broad back narrowed to a nipped athletic waist. Not because I’m an artist. Something else in me had wakened. A sleeping woman who now yawned and sat up to note the way La Croix’s powerful legs took the stairs. He was very tall, topping me by at least a foot. I had to rush to keep up with him though his stride was steady and slow.

      I tried not to stare, but I failed.

      The song in my blood had changed to, “Here he is. Here he is.” But when he turned to make sure I followed him down the long dark upstairs hall, there were shadows in his eyes I was no longer sure I should have been driven to find.

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