I can’t believe my eyes.

Sure, everything looks blurry because my tears won’t stop, and neither will the rain.

But . . . it’s him.

Mark.

I can’t possibly forget that gorgeous face and those broad shoulders. But most of all, when those gray eyes meet mine, they felt so familiar my chest clenches in agony and yearning.

I watch as he turns his back on me until all I can see is his favorite leather jacket, the hood covering his dark hair.

More tears stream down my face, the warmth blending in with the cold rain.

I shiver as he ignores me to shake hands with mourners in black. Maybe I’m cold. Or maybe I’m terrified. Or maybe I’m both.

Is this a ghost I’m seeing?

Ghosts aren’t solid, right? And yet, there he is, making skin-on-skin contact with a dozen people.

If I take one step closer and reach out my hand, I’ll touch him too.

A part of me wants to wrap my arms around him and lean my head on his back. I want to tell him to never leave me again. Hold him tight and physically keep him from walking away, even though I know he’s much stronger than me.

And yet, another part of me feels like that would be inappropriate. Just as it was at the office, he seems different. He looks like Mark, but he doesn’t feel like Mark.

So, I wait. And I watch. I can’t decide on anything else I should do.

My heart pounds as he finally turns around. Relief floods my body when I realize he won’t just walk away without acknowledging me. The thought of talking to him and learning about the truth—whatever it is—terrifies me. But now, as much as the idea of never seeing him again.

“What do you want?” he asks.

He sounds gruff. Unfriendly.

Mark used to talk to me so sweetly. He sounds completely different.

But, at the same time, he sounds exactly the same. He speaks with the same voice.

What is happening?

“Mark?” I hear my own voice shaking.

“Who the fuck is that?”

How do I even answer that question?

Mark was the love of my life. Mark was the man I thought I was going to spend my whole life with. Mark looked exactly like he does, if he’d had the opportunity to grow five years older.

If he’s not Mark, then . . .

“Who are you?” I ask.

The man rests his hands on his waist and lets out a deep, exhausted sigh. “Look, this hasn’t been my best day. I don’t have time to play games. Who are you and what do you want from me?’

“I . . .” I look up into his steel-gray eyes, searching for a sign of recognition. Just the tiniest bit of a flicker.

But, I find none.

Does he really not know me? Is that possible?

“I’m Harper,” I tell him even though it makes me feel ridiculous. “What’s your name?”

“What’s my . . . Seriously? You came here just to ask me that?” He unzips his jacket and reaches for something inside. Taking out a wallet, he asks, “How much do you want? You need to get out of the rain and I’m feeling generous.”

“You think I want your money?” I ask, suddenly angry. Mark would never ask me that. “Just tell me what your name is.”

“I don’t know what you want. I don’t even know you,” he says, exasperated.

“I just told you my name. Just tell me who you are. That’s all I need from you.”

The man heaves a deep sigh. “The name’s Logan Hill. I’m a doctor, and I just buried one of my patients. I don't need to feel like I failed yet another person today.”

“Logan . . .?” I stare at him.

His voice. His body. His face. Even the leather jacket and the way he unzipped it.

“For fuck’s sake,” he curses.

Then, he grabs my hand and pulls me.

The way his fingers intertwine with mine . . .

“What’s wrong now?” he asks, stopping.

As he looks over his shoulder at me, I realize I’ve been sobbing. My shoulders go up and down as I gasp for air.

“Fuck. I’m not trying to kidnap you or anything like that, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” He lets go of my hand. “I just want to get you out of the rain now because you’re shivering, you seem confused, and it looks like you have trouble speaking. You may be hypothermic.”

I have no idea who he is, but the fact that he’s looking after me breaks the dam that’s been keeping me sane. Without a second thought, I throw my hands around him.

He pats my back and lets his hands hang awkwardly by his side. I don’t care if he doesn’t want to hug me back.

I breathe him in. I don’t know what I expected, but I’m not surprised anymore at this point. Even his scent feels familiar.

He’s a smoker, I can tell. The smell of tobacco clings to the black, button-down shirt he’s wearing underneath his leather jacket.

I don’t mind it. Just like I didn’t mind it on Mark, either.

Looking up at his face, I let the rain bathe me. I reach up and place my palm on his cheek.

My head spins. Maybe he’s right—maybe I am hypothermic.

But if this is just an illusion my sick brain is feeding me, I don’t want to go back to reality. I want to stay here with Mark.

“I’ve missed you.” I put my fingers on the back of his neck and stroke his thick, dark hair.

When he looks back down at me, the hood of his jacket shields me from the rain. A pair of gray eyes study me, boring deep into my soul. God, I’ve missed those eyes.

“I’ve really missed you, Mark.” Sadness pushes up my throat and fills my eyes with more tears. “I’ve been so lonely on my own.”

A frown forms on the gorgeous face only inches away from mine. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

I shake my head.

I don’t care. Even if this is just a cruel mirage, I don’t care.

Every night, my tears soak my pillowcase as I imagine Mark’s warmth beside me.

But I can feel the memories slipping away from me. I forget the sound of his deep breaths. I can’t recall his snoring either, which breaks my heart even though I used to wish it away.

Right now, though, in this moment, my memories of Mark are refreshed as I look into his eyes, hear his voice, and breathe in his scent.

Maybe I’m going crazy. Who cares, though?

Mr. Dawson would probably disapprove, and this Logan guy doesn’t exactly seem happy, but I’d do anything to make this moment last forever.

A pair of strong arms embrace me, and they make me feel like I’m about to die of happiness. I press my ear against his broad chest and listen to his regular heartbeat. He’s alive.

“You’re shivering,” Mark’s voice says, coaxing me. “Let me take you to my car. Where do you live? I’ll take you home.”

I shake my head.

“Jesus, would you stop being so stubborn?” He pulls away from me and grabs my hand from behind his back, keeping his head down so his hood shields my face from the rain. Pressing his fingers on my wrist, he says, “Your pulse is weakening. I can’t let you stay out here.”

“Kiss me,” I hear myself say.

“What?”

“I said kiss me.”

I know I sound like a petulant child. But I’d do anything to feel Mark’s lips on mine again—or anything that feels close to them. It kills me that I’m starting to forget them.

And this guy’s lips—just like everything else about him—look exactly like Mark’s. I can’t help but wonder if he kisses the same way. I hope he does.

“We should really get you inside,” he says in Mark’s voice. “You’ve stopped shivering. That’s not a good sign.”

“Kiss me, and I’ll go wherever you want me to.”

“Fuck,” he curses again. Evidently, he doesn’t care about my self-esteem.

But I don’t care about coming on to him in a sexy way either.

If he’s Mark, he wouldn’t care how I approach him.

If he isn’t Mark and this is just a product of my imagination, I don’t care what he thinks of me. As soon as I regain my senses, I probably will see this guy the way he actually looks, and I won’t want to have anything to do with him.

“Are you going to kiss me or are we just going to keep standing here in the rain?” I ask.

He stares into my eyes. “After I kiss you, you’ll go home?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

He sighs audibly. Not exactly the kind of romantic kiss I’ve seen in the movies. But, coming from this guy, I’ll take it.

I look up into his eyes and place one hand on the back of his neck, my fingers brushing against his hair.

He hesitates, but then he leans down and presses his lips against mine.

They’re hot. Firm. And I can almost taste the tobacco on his breath.

He feels exactly like Mark did.

I part my mouth and kiss him, wanting more. I trace his lips with my tongue and lightly bite down on his bottom lip. My heartbeat speeds up and, to my surprise, I feel wetness between my legs.

He kisses me back, gently at first. Barely a brush against my lips. But then, unexpectedly, he grabs my arm and yanks me to him.

He lights a flame in my body. Clamping my fingers on his muscular arm, I hold on for dear life as he forcefully crushes his lips against mine in a bruising kiss.

I nearly fall apart when he puts his hand on the back of my skull and pulls on my hair, taking full possession of my mouth. Our tongues twist together as I do my best to remain standing, fighting to catch my breath.

Every cell in my body pulsates. I don’t even care that we’re in a cemetery anymore. I haven’t felt this way in a long, long while.

Sure, my friends and coworkers have set me up with some guys, and I’ve kissed them. But those kisses have never felt quite like this, and they’ve never led to anything more.

I mewl in disappointment as he pulls back from the kiss. But when I look up at him, I realize he’s not done yet. He’s staring at me with eyes full of surprise, his pupils so dilated I can barely see the gray in them and his lips red from my nibbles.

“Who are you?” he whispers, his breath hot on my lips.

He doesn’t give me a chance to answer, though.

He sweeps in again, my wet hair twisted in his hands. Then, he bites me, hard, and parts my lips with his tongue.

I release a deep sigh and open up for him as he pulls me against him, our bodies flush. We’re both panting, our inhales frantic and our exhales heavy.

He thrusts his body against mine, and I feel his dick growing hard against my thigh. Before I know what I’m doing, I grind against his length as I thrust my hands in his hair, my skin brushing against the hood of his jacket.

I’m getting dizzy. I don’t know if it’s because of the kiss or the cold, and I don’t care.

All that matters is him. His hot body. The taste of him. The throbbing thickness tenting out his jeans.

It’s insane. It’s sheer madness. And it’s nothing like any kiss I’ve ever experienced—including the ones from Mark.

And with that thought, the world goes dark. Pitch black.

* * *

End of preview.

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