Excerpt from Conceal by Ava Harrison

Reluctantly, I look up, and I’m met with the clearest green eyes I have ever seen. They are a color I imagine is only present in the tropics.

Endless depths. 

But it’s the whole picture that does me in. This man is gorgeous and dangerously so. With tousled dark brown hair and a sharp jaw that looks like it was molded from granite, he could have stepped off the cover of a magazine. 

“Like what you see?” a voice asks, and I shake my head and right myself.

That’s when I realize I was not just staring at this stranger but gawking. And not only did he notice, but he called me out on it, too.

Ass.

Who does that?

If someone is caught staring—maybe drooling is more like it—you say nothing. You pretend you didn’t notice.

Jeez.

Common courtesy.

My cheeks begin to warm, and I know they are turning crimson.

I lower my gaze, but before I can fully pull away from him, I notice the smirk. A damn smirk with a dimple and all. This guy’s head is so big, it probably has its own zip code.

My back goes ramrod straight.

Old Willow would have told him she’d seen better. A lie, but she never passed up an opportunity for a good comeback.

New Willow mutters a comeback under her breath. “Not particularly.”

I turn away from him. I’d rather walk home from the city than ask this prick for money for gas.

“Shame,” I hear, but I refuse to look. I peer down at the ground and watch his footsteps. Staring awkwardly at the asphalt has my other senses heightened.

I can smell the faint waft of cologne as he passes. I can hear him rummaging in his pocket.

Then I hear him answer his phone. He’s distracted as he walks toward the convenience store attached to the gas station. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t even realize he dropped his wallet while he was fumbling in his pocket for his phone.

I open my mouth to speak, to get his attention and tell him what happened, but I don’t say anything.

Fuck that.