Chapter 35
Paisley believed in the power of optimism. She even believed in the power of manifesting. But when she'd wished for a rescue, as she'd done so long ago, she hadn't imagined she'd get one from him. And yet there he stood, champagne flutes in hand, as if she'd summoned him by will - or longing - alone. Tyson Brooks. The boy she'd loved and lost so many years ago.
He was no boy now. The years and the Army had honed that once lanky body into a weapon of strength and grace. She could see it in the way he moved, in how he held himself. So still, yet so clearly ready for action. And the muscles. Dear God in heaven, the muscles. Just the sight of those shoulders made her mouth water.
Had he known it was her when he came over here?
She searched his face, seeing the lines of the boy in the shape of it, despite the close-cropped beard and squarer jaw.
No. No, that stunned look of surprise in his hazel eyes made it absolutely clear that he hadn't.