She glanced around, eyes widening. The expression on her face made Mick smile. Clearly she hadn’t noticed the rain until now. “Lunch is on me. We’ll sit down, chat inside, where it’s nice and warm and most importantly . . . dry.” She smiled then, and he felt like a king because it was a real smile that lit her up from the inside, and the beauty of it, of her, hit Mick hard, like a blow to the solar plexus.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she drawled, the shadows momentarily banished from her eyes. “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s raining out here.” And the impish expression on her face caused laughter to come for the second time that day. Unexpected, it rumbled upward from his belly, a stew of laughter and joy. The rain was now thundering down. Running was pointless because they were already soaked, but he snagged her hand in his and they ran anyway, hand in hand. And Mick felt young, like how he’d imagined love would be before he grew up and realized love was for fairy tales and fools. They ducked into the first restaurant they came to and dripped on the rubber mat by the front door.

“Hope Mexican’s okay with you?” he said, wiping the rain from his face, taking in the decor and the smells of cooking that had permeated the premises.

“It’s the perfect food for a rainy day,” Sarah replied. The waitress bustled over, guided them to a booth, and placed worn menus on the Formica tabletop. The seats were red pleather. A strip of black gaffers tape covered a tear in the material, but the food coming out of the kitchen smelled good, as if it were made with care. They slid into the booth facing each other. Sarah shoved her hands in her rain-plastered hair and ruffled it in an attempt to corral her hideous haircut into some kind of shape. The movement of lifting her arms above her head stretched her shirt taut across her chest. The rain had rendered the cream-colored fabric see-through. Holy crap. He whipped off his WWII worn leather flight jacket, his arm getting tangled in his haste, and thrust it across the table. She’s your fucking employee.

She jumped, startled.

“You were . . . uh . . .” He croaked, his mouth and throat suddenly parched. A few droplets of rain fell from his jacket and splattered on the tabletop. He was reluctant to tell her that her blouse was see-through. She would be embarrassed and was vulnerable enough as it was. “You were shivering,” he growled. “Put it on.”

“Are you sure? You aren’t cold?”