I could get you to smile like that, and without sales tax." I whirled around to find the real Patch standing in the fitting room behind me. He was wearing jeans and a snug white tee. His arms were folded loosely over his chest, and his black eyes smiled down at me. Heat that wasn't entirely uncomfortable flushed through my body. "I could make all kinds of pervert jokes right now," I quipped.

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.

Does Patch have a restraining order against him?' he read. 'Is Patch a felon?' 'Give-me-that!' I hissed furiously. Patch gave a soft laugh, and I knew he'd seen the next question. 'Does Patch have a girlfriend?

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

You're mine, Angel," he murmured, brushing the words across my jawbone as I arched my neck higher, inviting him to kiss everywhere. "You have me forever.

Try it on." "It's probably a little snug," I said, suddenly feeling conspicuous. "Marcie tends to buy down when it comes to sizing." He merely smiled. "It has a slit up the thigh." His smile deepened.

Patch smiled. “You come by your red hair naturally?” I stared at him. “I don’t have red hair.” “I hate to break it to you, but it’s red. I could light it on fire and it wouldn’t turn any redder.