Patch stood over me, and a drop of rain slid from his hair, landing like ice on my collarbone. I felt it slide along my skin, disappearing beneath the neckline of my shirt. His eyes followed the raindrop, and I began to quiver on the inside.

Before I could stop myself, I punched his arm. “Careful,” he said in a low voice. “They might think we’re flirting.

I can't imagine why you're so interested." He shook his head. "Interested? We're talking about you. I'm fascinated.

Wow. Nice bike,” I said. Which was a lie. It looked like a glossy black death trap.

Hang on, did you just call me Angel?” I asked. “If I did?” “I don’t like it.” He grinned. “It stays. Angel.” He leaned across the table, raised his hand to my face, and brushed his thumb along one corner of my mouth. I pulled away, too late.

Patch? Whatever happens, I love you." I wanted to say more, those three words painfully inadequate for the way I felt about him. And at the same time, so simple and accurate, nothing else would do.

That was a good fight back in the gym,” he said. “But I think you could benefit from a few more boxing lessons.