The tattoo shop comes into view, and I slow down.

Damage Control. What an odd name for a shop. I swallow hard as I cross the street and stand in front of its narrow facade with the colorful tattoo designs stuck inside the glass and the neon blue sign over the door.

I wipe my palms on my pants and suck in a deep breath. Letting it out, I push the door and enter. Bells jingle overhead, startling me. The door clicks behind me, shutting out the noise of the street.

Soft ambient music and the buzzing of tattoo guns fill the air. A thin Goth girl with long black hair sits in an orange armchair, flipping through a magazine. The chains on her boots clink as she swings her leg up and down.

There’s a tall desk, manned by a muscular, dark-haired guy. He looks up at me expectantly, his handsome face illuminated by the glow of his computer screen.

“How may I help you?” he asks, and I suddenly feel eyes on me from every direction. When I glance around, sure enough I see heads poking over booth walls to see who walked in.

Self-consciously I lean on my stick and wish I’d left it outside when the eyes swivel to focus on it.

“I, um.” I clear my throat. “I’m looking for Micah?”

The guy behind the desk lifts a dark brow. “Are you?”

“What?” I blink, confused.

“Are you asking me if you’re looking for Micah?”

I blink again. Is he serious?

Then a corner of the guy’s mouth lifts, and I relax. Right. Very funny.

“I think he works here.” I glance around again, searching for him, but the curious eyes have disappeared back inside the booths. “Or maybe you know where he might be?”

The guy clucks his tongue and chuckles. “Micah!” he calls. “A pretty girl here to see you.”

My mouth falls open. Fire licks my throat and cheeks. Now the guy is laughing out loud, a hand on his side. Why is he so keen on seeing me self-combust? Do I have ‘easy-to-tease’ stamped on my face?

But then Micah comes around the desk, his cheeks flushed, too, and I realize the teasing is probably meant for him. Typical guy thing.

“Cut it out, Tyler,” he says, then stops in his tracks, his blue eyes bright.

My mouth runs dry. My mind blanks out. God. My memory is faulty. I didn’t remember him quite so handsome. His smoothly-shaved jaw is strong and square, offset by a soft mouth and long-lashed eyes. His short hair glints like metal, and his thin gray T-shirt stretches over his muscled chest and broad shoulders. Faded jeans hang low on his narrow hips, and I can’t help but stare at his package. Impressive is the word that springs to mind.

He tilts his head to the side and hurriedly I look away. I think the skin on my cheeks must be blistering by now.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse. “Is everything okay?”

That makes me look up again. Now he looks concerned. He probably never saw a flush so dark before. “Yeah.” Funny he’s asking me that, though, because... “Are you okay?”

His brows draw together. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were coughing and then...” I grimace. And then what, you stopped stalking me? “I just wanted to check on you,” I finish lamely.

His blue eyes widen.

This was a bad idea. Scratch that, it was a terrible idea. I’m suddenly aware that the guy behind the desk is still observing us, curiosity lighting up his dark eyes.

“I should go,” I say. “I mean, I see you’re fine, so now I know. I’m glad you’re well. Really glad.” I tighten my grip on my walking stick. Stop blabbing, Ev. “It was good seeing you.” And I mean it.

“Wait.” He takes a step toward me, reaching out. “You came to check on me?”

“Yes.” Is that so weird?

He’s still staring at me as if I’m from another planet. Colors shift in his eyes, shades of blue, from the hue of a cloudless sky to the turquoise of the lakes and the dark blue of the ocean. Emotions—shock, doubt, anger, then a tiny flare of hope.

It’s as if he doesn’t trust my words. As if he doesn’t think I’d care enough to check on him, and the thought makes my heart ache.

Micah touches my cheek, his fingertips trailing on my jaw. A faint smile curves his lips. “Come with me.” He takes my hand and tugs me toward the exit.

The guy behind the desk whistles, and there are a few more catcalls from the booths. A fresh wave of heat goes through me—but it’s mostly from the feel of his strong hand around mine, the heat of his skin piercing me like a flash of lightning.

As we leave the carpeted area of the shop, my stick taps on the floor, and Micah turns to look at it.

His smile fades and he stops. “What the hell happened?”

I shrug. “Twisted my knee a little. It’s still not entirely healed from the accident, so...”

“My fault,” he whispers. “You ran to get away from me, and then this happened.”

“No.” God, no. “Not your fault.”

His jaw works. “We can talk another time. This—”

“Have coffee with me?” I didn’t plan this, and have no idea what makes me so bold—but I don’t want to leave, not yet. His closeness is like the summer sun, warming me.

He hesitates, his hand still around mine, strong but gentle. A strong emotion darkens his sky-blue gaze, but it’s one I can’t name. “But can you walk? Can you—

“I’ve been on my feet all day. The stick is just to help my knee heal faster.” Christ, Blake was right. Who will want a cripple like me?

His jaw clenches. “You’re not a cripple. Who’s Blake?”

Oh God, did I say that out loud? Crap. I did. “Nobody.” I want to clap a hand over my mouth, to keep any more words from spilling out, but Micah has my fingers gripped tightly in his and doesn’t let go when I try to pull away.

“Come.” He tugs on my hand again, and I follow him outside, not even looking up.

My stomach is like a stone. Only I could screw up like that with the hottest guy I’ve ever met up close.

And it shouldn’t matter. I didn’t know why he was watching me before, but now I think I have a good idea. That fleeting emotion in his eyes I couldn’t identify before?

I’m pretty sure it’s pity.

Chapter Five

Micah

Fury heats my chest and clogs my throat as I draw her out of Damage Control and onto the street. A cripple? Who’s this asshole who thinks he can tell her such a thing? As if it should matter to anyone that she limps. Besides, she’ll heal.

I’ll take care of her.

And whoa, where did that thought come from? I think I’m losing my mind with this girl, and I don’t even know her name yet for sure. Can’t even be certain it’s the one I dream about.

Well, at least that’s easy to fix.

I want to go faster, get off the street, find some place quiet and ask her. But she’s slow, hampered by her walking stick, and she seems lost in thought. I take the time to study her heart-shaped face, the long sweep of her lashes over her bright eyes, the elegant arc of her neck and her pouting upper lip...

Oh fuck. She’s so sexy. I try to look away, but my gaze is drawn to the swell of her breasts under the stretchy cloth of her hoodie, and my body tightens. What would her lips feel like, pressed on mine, and how would she taste? How would her naked body fit against mine?

I shiver and force my mind on other things, like the honking of the cars, the pigeons fluttering on a roof, the shape of her small hand in mine...

Fuck, why can’t I control myself? My jeans feel a size too small right now, my aching dick trapped sideways against the seam. I grit my teeth.

Thankfully, the cafe I have in mind is just around the corner. Then we can talk. Then I will know who she is, and then she will know who I am, as well.

Even if it’s her, she probably doesn’t remember me. We never spoke to each other. Except for that fateful night, I only watched her from afar, much as I did the past week, doing her rounds, checking on the homeless.