“Hello?” Someone knocked on the door, even though the sign outside clearly marked the hours as nine to five, and it was now almost five-twenty. The door creaked open, and a man she didn’t recognize stood in the doorway.
This is a joke. Or a dream. We don’t have men like that in Lindsey Point.
Shannon leaned on the table to steady herself. At first glance, he looked like something from a television show, dressed all in black with a motorcycle helmet under one arm and a deep pair of dimples beneath blazing blue eyes. He stood well over six feet tall, with a body chiseled in muscle. Good God. This man either worked in construction or moved mountains or spent hours in the gym each day.
He smiled and rested one arm on the door frame, and his biceps flexed. “I’m guessing you’re not open, but I’m not exactly a visitor.” Deep voice, a little rough and low. Sexy voice. Bedroom voice, for sure.
Oh dear God I’m having a hallucination. Shannon wiped a hand across her forehead. That was it. The glass of wine was exacting a toll, and now she was having some kind of alcohol-fueled trip. Though as far as trips went, this one was pretty damn good. She didn't want to speak or even breathe, for fear this perfect specimen of man would turn to smoke and vanish.
“Are you by any chance Shannon O’ Brien?”
He knows my name. Why does he know my name? She nodded, unable to speak. Something in the shape of his face made her feel as though she’d known him her entire life. “I am, yes,” she mumbled. Or, hell, anyone else you want me to be. “And you are?” She walked toward him on feet that didn't belong to her. A second passed, and her hand was inside his. He placed his helmet on the table.
“Chase Reardon. I’m a city planner who’s going to help Lindsey Point spend its new grant. I hope, in the right ways.” He grinned as he shook her hand, and his gaze pierced her with its intensity. Searing blue eyes. Symmetrical facial features broken only by a slight bend in his nose. Chestnut hair that fell over his eyes, mussed from the helmet.
She blinked, trying to ground herself. This was the planner, the guy from New York? Chase. A noun. A verb. A single syllable turning her legs to jelly. No. This was definitely a dream, because city planners didn’t look like this man did. City planners were tall and thin and pale from spending all their time inside, bent over drafting tables or staring into computer screens. Weren't they? Shannon tried to find words, but the smooth skin of his palm against hers made it impossible to think straight...
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