8
VERENA LIFTED HER sunglasses, shocked by the sight of Lance. He wore faded shorts and his shirt was thrown over the handlebars. With brilliant eyes, muscular arms, and a well-defined chest, he looked more like a bronzed Hollywood star than a working chef. She caught herself relishing the sight of him. “What are you doing here in Redondo Beach?”
“I should ask you that question,” Lance said. “I live here.”
“Oh, well, I rode down from the marina.” Flustered, she swatted damp tendrils of hair from her hot face.
“I must have been just behind you. That’s too bad.” He knelt to tie a shoelace. “How about some breakfast? I’m cooking.”
“Well, I guess so.” He was inviting her to his place. Verena hardly knew him. But she’d built up an appetite on the bike. “Where do you live?”
He gestured to
