Shauney dropped her menu—the big heavy kind that looked like a fancy, leather-bound book—onto the table with a crash that broke the fine porcelain bread plate and upset her water goblet.

There he stood. Right there. Ten feet away, no more.

Black motorcycle boots, skintight jeans, a deep red shirt that had been left unbuttoned to reveal a scrawny, hairless chest. The hair on his head more than made up for it, though: dirt brown and boringly straight, it reached his waist.

“Trevor Wolff…” Shauney breathed, wondering how she could get his attention and if he’d choose HER for his evening companion. Who cared if her husband sat at the table across from her and was reaching with a linen napkin to wipe away her drool? That was Trevor Wolff, and this was the only chance she’d ever get at him.

She was going for it.