Page 8 of Boulder's Weight

"I should go," she says finally, meeting my eyes in the reflection. "My roommate will wonder where I am."

"Can I see you again?" The question surprises me as much as it seems to surprise her.

Kelsey turns to face me, something unreadable in her expression. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because men like you are dangerous," she says simply.

"I wouldn't ever hurt you." The words come out more intense than I intend.

She gives me a sad smile. "Not intentionally, maybe. But you would. That's what people do—they hurt each other. And I've had enough hurt to last a lifetime."

With that, she unlocks the door and slips out, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and more questions than answers.

I wait a few minutes before following, but when I make it back to the bar, she's nowhere to be seen.

Vanished into thin air like she was never there at all.

As I walk to my bike, I tell myself it's for the best.

I'm leaving in a couple of days anyway.

Going back to Mexico, back to prospecting, back to my uncomplicated life.

I don't need the distraction of a woman with secrets and walls and eyes that seem to see right through me.

But even as I kick my Harley to life, I know I'm lying to myself.

Something tells me Kelsey from Tart isn't going to be easy to forget.

And for the first time in my life, I find myself wondering what it might be like to stick around longer than a night.

CHAPTERONE

Kelsey

Present Day…

The bare walls of my new apartment stare back at me, a blank canvas waiting to be filled.

Not that I have much to fill it with.

Everything I own fits into two suitcases and a backpack—the life of someone who's learned to travel light, to disappear at a moment's notice.

I unpack slowly, placing folded clothes into the rickety dresser, arranging my few toiletries in the bathroom.

The apartment is tiny, just a studio with a kitchenette and bathroom, but it's mine.

Safe. Anonymous.

Or at least, I hope it is.

My hands shake slightly as I pull out the small wooden box from the bottom of my bag.

Inside, wrapped in an old t-shirt, is the burner phone Tara gave me before I left Montana.

"Only for emergencies. If they find you, call this number. The club will help."

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