Page 8 of Ashes of Saints

I might not have been bawling my eyes out, but I’m definitely not as pulled together as any woman would want when faced with such a hot guy.

Even so, you don’t kick yourself later.

He glances at the doorway I just walked out of, then back at me while his warm hands continue to hold me. I breathe in the tiniest of breaths, taking in his musky aftershave.

It’s expensive.

Call it a sixth sense, but I know this man is extremely wealthy. It could be the cut of his hair or the perfect growth on his jaw. Or perhaps the pristine white of his shirt under the clearly tailored navy jacket which fits his broad shoulders like a glove.

Or is it the confidence in which he holds himself?

There are a lot of wealthy people in New York City, but when you are a native like me, you can pick the difference between assumed wealth and real wealth.

“My condolences.” He takes a step back, almost looking reluctant to release me.

The loss of his warmth is so palpable I want to reach out and pull him back. Clearly I don’t, as that would be weird.

“You don’t know that I lost someone.” I smile, amused by his comment.

His lip twitches. “Funeral home. Tissues. Red eyes.”

Damn it, I knew I looked like crap!

“Are you a detective?”

“Are you always this defensive?”

“I’m grieving.”

“Then I was right,” he replies without flinching. “And you simply could’ve said thank you.”

My eyes drop and I can’t help the smile that forms.

“Do you need a ride?” the man asks, surprising me.

My face lifts. “Are you a serial killer?”

“Jesus.” He laughs, rubbing his jaw. “No. I just don’t want you to sue me for almost knocking you unconscious when I walked into you.”

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. He might be one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, but I’m not hopping in a car with a stranger. You don’t grow up in NYC without getting street smart real fast.

“You aren’t that buff,” I tease.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” He tugs on his jacket sleeves looking offended, then smirks at me and holds out a hand. “Parker Stone. Buff guy.”

This time I laugh. God, he’s funny. Buff, hot, and funny.

Someone pinch me!

Did I just meet the perfect guy walking out of the funeral home while planning to bury my mother? That seems something a Scorpio would do—my star sign.

I glance around, wondering what someone like him is doing in this area. Clearly I’m going to decline, but I don’t have to be rude.

“Aurora.” I hold out my hand. “I live just down the street so I can walk. Thank you, though.”

My head nods in the direction of my apartment while I hope he asks for my number. Parker Stone is way out of my league, but a girl can dream.

Parker shakes my hand, and when those blue eyes meet mine, with a mysterious twinkle in them, I feel a strange familiarity.

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