Louisa’s hand was halfway to her pearls before she stopped it in front of her chest. Conor reached over and took her hand in his. They’d shaken hands before, but this felt different. This felt possessive, almost intimate. She tensed, her instincts urging her to break his grip, not because the contact was unpleasant, but because she liked it. Their gazes met. His was brazen, as if daring her to admit the attraction between them.

She took the challenge. Old habits needed to be broken. New city, new life. Heat soaked into her cold fingers and made her forget all about her fidgeting. And about letting go. “So . . . the group Zoe was with. Which one of them wanted to come here last night?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. We’re not part of the hip and happening club scene, and we’re too far from University City for overflow.” He steered her around a large crack in the sidewalk. “But her date was a Flyers fan, and we get plenty of postgame traffic. Still feels like too much of a coincidence, though.”

“Coincidences do happen.”

“True.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m sad your intern is missing, but I’m happy to see you.”

Nerve endings prickled over her skin at the genuine warmth in his words. Why did he have this effect on her? It wasn’t in her nature to simmer under a man’s attention. She dated and had had several short-term relationships. None had been serious. But then, none of her former boyfriends had been as intense or demanding as Conor.

He stopped in front of a white-brick building. The words VETERINARY CLINIC were stamped on the glass. “This is it.”

When he let go of her hand to open the door, she missed the contact. When was the last time a man had held her hand?

Never?

The men she usually dated didn’t lend themselves to intimate romantic gestures. They sent her expensive roses and bought her jewelry, all lovely but impersonal. None of those gifts had made her feel raw and edgy and hot. Even her silk blouse felt scratchy.

A bell mounted on the door jingled as they went into the clinic. The air smelled of animals and antiseptic. The scrub-clad technician at the reception counter greeted them with a smile. Her hair was braided in small cornrows that lay flat against her scalp, setting off sharp, exotic cheekbones.

“I’m here for my dog.” Conor gave his name.

“I’m glad you’re here. She won’t eat for us. I hate to see such a sweet dog scared.” The tech grabbed a file and presented Conor with a bill. “I know it’s a lot, but you wanted her up-to-date on her shots. On the bright side, her injuries are superficial.”

“It’s OK.” He winced at the total and paid with a credit card.