“I need help. I’m in trouble, man.” The voice startled me, almost causing a catastrophe of epic proportions because I had a dozen card-set boxes precariously balanced. No way could I turn around without toppling my last half hour of work, but I also wasn’t in too much of a hurry. The voice was vaguely familiar, probably one of our regulars, and their definition of urgent issues differed greatly from the general population. Whoever it was could hold their dice.

“Give me a sec.” Even as I shoved boxes in place, I kept my voice as cheerful as possible. A customer was a customer, and God knew that the little game store where I worked needed more of those.

“Here. Let me help.” A large hand peeking out of a black winter coat landed next to mine, steadying the stack, and we made fast work of stabilizing the display.

“Thanks. Though I think I’m the one who’s supposed to be assisting…” My voice trailed off as I finally moved away from the display and turned to the customer. And it was trouble all right. Six feet and a couple hundred pounds of solid muscle of the worst kind of trouble. “Milo?”

Milo Lionetti did not belong in any game shop ever. I couldn’t even picture him reading a comic book or shuffling trading cards. And I didn’t care what the problem was—no way would he let himself be seen at the “Nerd Superstore” as he and his jock crowd had dubbed the place in high school. Nothing good could come of him being here.

“Yeah. I need—”

“To involve me in your latest stunt. Or are you here to gawk at the gamers?” I stared him down, all chipperness erased from my tone. Luckily, the shop was pretty slow for a Sunday in winter. There were a few random games going on at the tables in back, but no one was milling about the front part of the store to witness whatever the heck Milo had planned.

“I’m not here as a joke.” Milo stepped close enough to the counter that I could smell his sporty aftershave. Even his body products were strictly jocks-only, and damn whatever part of me that found the scent appealing.

“Oh? Our restrooms are customers only. Need a gag gift?” It was the only other reasons I could think of for why he’d even set foot in here.

“No. I need you.”

“For what?” I demanded. Even as some rogue electrical pulse zoomed up my spine, the words bounced right off my rigid torso. He was about eight years too late—four of them a miserable high-school eternity—and college hadn’t softened my stance toward all things Milo one bit.

His eyes narrowed. “You do work here, right?”