SELBY PARKED IN front of his bookstore and locked up his car. His mind was still foggy with images of his past that kept him tossing throughout the night. He was eager for a cup of coffee and a smile from a certain fiery redhead. However, as he turned to make his way across the street, he stopped dead, his heart a cold weight in his chest.
Against the beige concrete wall outside of Joe’s Bakery stood Tracey deep in conversation with a man Selby never saw before. He was tall, probably over six feet, with short black hair and an oblong face. He was clean-shaven and wore circular glasses. He wasn’t muscular, but he wasn’t scrawny, either. Fit is what went through Selby’s mind.
And he was more than a friend.
The man had his hands on Tracey’s upper arms as he spoke. He wasn’t arguing, but he
