When he lunged for the front door of the boutique, my stomach dropped. He yanked on the door handle, but it didn’t give.

Thank God it’s locked.

“Open it.” The glass wasn’t thick enough to muffle his words completely.

I jerked my chin over my shoulder, but Aunt Jackie was gone—probably to empty the trash outside in the dumpster because we were almost done.

Thank the Lord. It was Sunday, so that meant I was using up my collateral with the Almighty pretty damn fast because it had been a long time since I’d been to church.

I shook my head and pointed to my ears and said the first thing I could think of. “No hablo Español.”

His dark brows swooped together in a deep V, and I realized what just came out of my mouth. What the hell is wrong with you, Whitney?

His lips quirked as a smile spread over his face. “Open the door. I’m not done with you.”

“I can’t hear you.”

He moved his face closer to the glass and said two words, enunciating carefully. “Bull. Shit.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, but the rest of my body froze in place. My tongue swept out over my dry-as-dust lips before I spoke. “I can’t.”

Lincoln glanced up at the sign above the door and gave me a chin jerk before turning and walking away. My entire body relaxed, and I spun around to slide down the glass until my butt hit the floor.

“Whit, I gotta make a phone call. Can’t wait. Be back in ten. I’m locking you in,” Aunt Jackie yelled from the back before the door shut and the bolt slid.

Thank you, Jackie.

I dropped my head into my hands and thought about the mess I’d just avoided.

Lincoln. Riscoff.

What was I thinking?

Oh, that’s right. I wasn’t thinking with my brain. Nope, just my neglected girl parts that got way too caught up in the moment when a guy stood up for me in a bar. I raised my head and whacked it against the glass to stare at the ceiling.

Dammit. I’m going to have to rewash this spot.

I was debating with myself about finding the will to stand again when the jangle of keys interrupted my self-ridiculing thoughts about what happened last night.

My head swiveled toward the door. He was back. With keys.

You have got to be kidding me. Clearly, my favors with God had run out.

The door swung open and a gust of wind hit me at the same time I realized I had zero protection from Lincoln Riscoff. He was inside.

My mouth moved but no words came out.

“My family owns this building. Property manager lives above the store at the end of the block. I ran.”

My gaze locked on the hint of tanned throat and broad chest peeking out from his shirt collar, and my dumb ass couldn’t stop wondering why he wasn’t sweaty if he just ran. I was sweating like a pig and swearing like a trucker by the time I hit the main road this morning and flagged down Ginger Baskins on her way to church and told her my car broke down. Her side-eye was impressive and her disbelief apparent, but she gave me a ride home anyway—and told me I need Jesus.